She makes a show of being impressed. “Oh! A moat…” She draws smirks from the soldiers around her (and I notice for the first time how tired and beaten looking many of them are, as some gather round us, some carry away the body of the young soldier and others start to usher the people behind us round our carriage and onwards down the road. Many of them seem wounded; some are limping, some have arms in frayed slings, some dirty bandages on their heads like grey bandanas.)

“The gate is not very strong,” I say, and feel that my words sound as lame as some of these grubby, motley soldiers. “We were worried it would be sacked if we stayed and tried to hold out,” I continue. “There were soldiers there; trying to take it, yesterday,” I conclude.

Her eyes narrow. “What soldiers?”

“I don't know who they were.”

“Uniforms?” she asks. She looks slyly around. “Any better than ours?”

“We didn't really see them.”

“What sort of heavy equipment did they have?” she asks, then when I hesitate waves one hand and suggests, “Tanks, armoured cars, field guns…?”

I shrug. “I don't know. They had guns; machine guns, grenades…”

“Mortar,” you say, gulping, startled eyes looking from me to her.

I put my hand on yours. “I'm not sure about that,” I tell our lieutenant. “I think it was… a rifle grenade?”

Our lieutenant nods wisely, seems to think for a moment, then says, “Let's take a look at your castle, Abel, shall we?”

“It's easy enough to find,” I tell her. I glance back the way we've come. “Just “

“No,” she says, opening the carriage door and swinging her short frame up and in to sit across from you. She levers some bags aside to get more comfortable and places the long gun across her knees. “You take us back,” she tells me. “I always wanted to ride in a carriage like this.” She pats the plush surface of the seat. “And a little local knowledge can be useful.” She fishes inside her jacket some sort of dark, ceremonial thing, torn in a few places, stained and smudged with dirt then pulls out a gleaming silver case, opening it and offering it to you and me. “Cigarette?”

We each refuse; she takes out a cigarette then puts the silver case away.

“I don't think going back is a good idea,” I say, trying to sound reasonable. She is taking off her cap, pushing a hand through her short, mouse brown curls. “Well, too bad,” she says, frowning to inspect something inside her cap and running one finger round the inside rim. “Consider yourself requisitioned.” She puts her cap back on and glances up at me with a small cold smile. “Turn the carriage round and head back there.” She pulls a lighter from a breast pocket.

“But it took us since dawn,” I protest. “And that was with the flow. It'll be after dark “

She shakes her head quickly. “We'll put the trucks in front.” She flicks the skip of her cap. “People get out the way for a truck with a machine gun; you'd be amazed. It won't take too long.” She makes a delicate twirling motion with one finger as she lights her cigarette with her other hand. “Turn around, Abel,” she says through a cloud of exhaled smoke.

The tall truck ahead of us has been driven into the field; its diesel fuel is being siphoned off. We turn round in the gateway and a couple of jeeps and two six wheel trucks with camouflaged canopies drive out of hiding in the forest track opposite. The soldiers who investigated the remains of the burning van load petrol cans and plastic drums into the back of one of the trucks, which go ahead of us back up the road, into the stream of refugees, horns blaring, a soldier standing proud of the leading truck's cab where a machine gun points out. The people part and scatter before the trucks like water round the bows of a ship; it is all I can do to keep up. The mares break into a canter for the first time that day.

One of their jeeps follows immediately behind us. It too has a machine gun, mounted on a post behind the front seats. The second jeep remains behind; two of the soldiers and our servants will bury the young soldier and then follow us.

The carriage rattles, sways and shakes; the damp wind courses round my face, cold and quick. The carriage's shadow, wheels flickering, is thrown long and spindly across the verge by the watery sun. The lieutenant looks pleased, and sits cross legged with the gun balanced against one thigh, her cap on a bag beside her, her hand absently pushing through her short char brown hair. She smiles at us both in turn. You look up at me, put one gloved hand up to mine.

Behind us, the refugees close up again and continue on their way. The burning van in the ditch makes a noise like a distant cough and a dark blister of smoke rolls upward into the greying sky, joining the smoke from all the other burning vehicles, farms and houses across the plain.

And so we are delivered to the castle. I had not thought to see it again so soon; in fact I half expected never to see it again. I feel foolish, like somebody who has bidden a long and heartfelt farewell to a dear friend at a station, only to discover that through some misunderstanding they are on the same train. Still, as the trucks turn off the main road, leaving the line of refugees behind, I wonder what welcome awaits us. I have been watching for smoke as we approach, apprehensive that the soldiers who appeared yesterday might have sacked our home and set it on fire. So far, however, the sky above the trees where the castle is shows only the grey clouds moving down from the north.

The lieutenant investigates the interior of the carriage while we drive, finding much that fascinates her. I look round as she discovers your jewel box, behind your feet; you bend and hold it to your breast but she prises it from your hands with a deal of soft clucking and gentle admonishment that breaks your grip, I believe, as certainly as her greater strength. She inspects each piece in turn, admiring a few against her breast, around her wrist or on her fingers, before laughing and giving them back to you, save for one small ring of white gold and ruby.

“May I keep this?” she asks you. The carriage jolts, clattering over a pothole and I have to look forward again; your head is pressed up against the small of my back as I pull on the reins, keeping the mares away from a line of holes along the road. I feel you nod to her.

“Thank you, Morgan,” the lieutenant says, and sounds well satisfied.

She seems to doze for the last few minutes (you touch me on the back', to get me to look, and there is a smile on your face as you nod at her, head bobbing slackly). I am not so sure; our lieutenant's face does not appear completely relaxed to me, the way people really look when they are genuinely asleep. Perhaps she is still watching us, tempting us, waiting to see what we shall do.

However that may be, now she rouses herself, looks around, asks where we are and pulls a small radio from her tunic. She talks briefly into it and the trucks ahead of us growl to a stop on the driveway. I pull the carriage up just behind; the jeep idles to our rear. We are perhaps a half kilometre from the entrance to the castle's drive, hidden round a bend beneath the damp dark skeletons of the trees.

“Is there a gatehouse?” she asks me quietly. I nod.

“Any other road or track avoiding the gatehouse?”

“Not for the trucks,” I tell her.

“The jeep?”

“I'd think so.”

She stands quickly, rocking the carriage, tips her cap at you then nods to me. “You lead us. We'll take a jeep.” You glance fearfully at me and put your hand out to me. “Kneecap,” our lieutenant says to one of the men in the jeep. “You look after the horses.”

The lieutenant gives orders I do not hear to the men in the trucks, then swings into the jeep, taking the wheel herself. The fellow sitting in the passenger seat holds a drainpipe diameter olive tube about a metre and a half long. I take it to be a rocket launcher. I am squeezed in the back between the metal post supporting the machine gun and a fat, pale soldier who smells like a week dead fox. Behind us, sitting on the rear lip of the vehicle, crouches a fourth soldier who holds the heavy machinegun.