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of a gnarled tree, his hat slanted over his eyes as he slept. His stout legs were thrust out, one ankle crossed over the other. Stryker kicked them hard.
    ‘Get up,’ Stryker ordered.
    The German scrambled to his feet, chest heaving frantically as he held up shielding palms. ‘Lieutenant? Is everything in order?’
    Stryker stared into the older man’s face. ‘Before the parlay, Herr Buchwald, you told me to give Matthias to the cavalrymen.’
    Buchwald’s withered jaw worked like that of a landed fish. ‘What of it?’
    Forrester moved up to Stryker’s left side. ‘What made you say that? How did you know he was the quarry the Poles hunt?’
    The man who had guided them to Moczyly tried to brandish a calm smile, but the strain was etched into every line at his mouth and eyes. ‘I . . . I simply meant that they were clearly looking for something . The drink perhaps. Soldiers love palinka. It is so strong and . . .’
    ‘Sykes,’ Stryker cut in. ‘Take him.’
    Out of the shadows came the stocky frame of Corporal Praise-God Sykes. His face was grim as he took the German by the shoulders.
    ‘What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?’ Buchwald protested, though he could not move in Sykes’s vice-like grip.
    ‘The meaning, Herr Buchwald,’ Stryker said, ‘is that they were not after strong liquor. They were chasing Matthias. And you knew it as soon as they came out of the trees. How could you have known, unless you were aware of their plans? Of their presence in these woods?’
    ‘He knew?’ another voice joined the group. It was the spy himself, eyes flickering between each of the men.
    Stryker looked at him. ‘This man betrayed you, Matthias. He works for the Habsburgs or the Liga or one of the damned Catholic states.’ He shrugged in exasperation and turned to Buchwald. ‘I care not which, sir. But you knew our purpose here, and you somehow sent word to Antczak’s masters, who, in turn, sent him.’
    ‘The first thing we do,’ Forrester muttered softly, ‘let’s kill all the lawyers.’
    Buchwald’s shoulders suddenly sagged and his face drooped like an empty sack. ‘The Swedes,’ he muttered in a low voice. ‘They would have Pomerania part of their villainous northern empire.’ He shook his head. ‘I will not allow it. I will never allow it.’
    Matthias stepped towards him, bald head glowing in the wan firelight. ‘Traitor.’
    ‘You are the traitor,’ Buchwald spat in acid retort, ‘working with these dogs. They kill and rape and steal.’ He spat at Stryker with sudden venom. ‘That poor boy you hanged. You are evil men.’
    ‘Truss him up, Corporal,’ the lieutenant said to Sykes, but his focus seemed elsewhere.
    Forrester followed Stryker’s gaze. ‘What is it, sir?’
    ‘The palinka,’ Stryker said.
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘It is strong,’ Buchwald said. He glanced in the lawyer’s direction. The man was already being bound to one of the stouter trunks by leather straps.
    Matthias came to stand beside Stryker. ‘ Ja , Lieutenant. That is true.’
    Stryker looked at the spy. ‘How strong?’
     
    Rotmistrz Lujan Antczak sniffed the wind. Dawn had come, and with it the light mist that obscured the surface of the River Oder each morning. He stared through it, noting the current, measuring the width of the accidental causeway in his mind’s eye. It would do, despite the wagon that had been dragged into the shallows at its far end. It was a final gesture of defiance from the Englishmen, and he inwardly saluted it. At least they were intending to fight. Slaughtering an enemy in cold blood was never as satisfying as hunting him down.
    Antczak clambered on to his black stallion as the sun climbed higher. It was time. He shook his shoulders to check that the wooden frame was securely fixed, its large white feathers almost glowing in the new light, and crammed on his helmet. He held out his right hand to take the lance that was duly proffered. It felt perfect in his grip.
    He