There were still a fair few hours of darkness to get through, though, and a lot of sharpened steel about.

‘By the dead.’ Hardbread sat still as the Heroes themselves, but his mind was no doubt doing a sprint. ‘’Less I’m much mistaken, Curnden Craw just wandered out o’ the night.’

‘You ain’t.’ Craw took a few slow paces forwards, hands still high, doing his best to look light-hearted with eight sets of unfriendly eyes weighing him down.

‘You’re looking a little greyer, Craw.’

‘So are you, Hardbread.’

‘Well, you know. There’s a war on.’ The old warrior patted his stomach. ‘Plays havoc with my nerves.’

‘All honesty, mine too.’

‘Who’d be a soldier?’

‘Hell of a job. But they say old horses can’t jump new fences.’

‘I try not to jump at all these days,’ said Hardbread. ‘Heard you was fighting for Black Dow. You and your dozen.’

‘Trying to keep the fighting to a minimum, but as far as who I’m doing it for, you’re right. Dow buys my porridge.’

‘I love porridge.’ Hardbread’s eyes rolled down to the fire and he poked thoughtfully at it with a twig. ‘The Union pays for mine now.’ His lads were twitchy – tongues licking at lips, fingers tickling at weapons, eyes shining in the firelight. Like the audience at a duel, watching the opening moves, trying to suss who had the upper hand. Hardbread’s eyes came up again. ‘That seems to put us on opposite sides.’

‘We going to let a little thing like sides spoil a polite conversation?’ asked Craw.

As though the very word ‘polite’ was an insult, Redcrow had another rush of blood. ‘Let’s just kill this fucker!’