Outside, the clouds of last night’s storm were making a hasty exodus, scudding away on a fresh, cold wind. The artillery captain clapped a hand to his hat, and jerked his head toward a pothouse down the street.

“A bit of warmth, Major?”

Gathering that the village was in no danger of imminent invasion, Grey nodded, and accompanied his new companion into a dark, smoky womb smelling of pigs’ feet and fermented cabbage.

“Benjamin Hiltern,” the captain said, putting back his cloak and holding up two fingers to the barman. “You’ll take a drink, Major?”

“John Grey. I thank you. I collect we shall have time to drink it, before we are quite overrun?”

Hiltern laughed, and sat down across from Grey, rubbing a knuckle under a cold-reddened nose.

“We should have time for our gracious host”—he nodded at the wizened creature fumbling with a jug—“to hunt a boar, roast it, and serve it up with an apple in its mouth, if you should be so inclined.”

“I am obliged, Captain,” Grey said, with a glance at the barman, who upon closer inspection appeared to have only one leg, the other being supported by a stout peg of battered aspect. “Alas, I have breakfasted but recently.”

“Too bad. I haven’t. Bratkartoffeln mit Ruhrei,” Hiltern said to the barman, who nodded and disappeared into some still-more-squalid den to the rear of the house. “Potatoes, fried with eggs and ham,” he explained, taking out a kerchief and tucking it into the neck of his shirt. “Delicious.”

“Quite,” Grey said politely. “One would hope that your troops are fed as well, after the effort I saw being expended.”

“Oh, that.” Hiltern’s cherubic countenance lost a little of its cheerfulness, but not much. “Poor sods. At least it’s stopped raining.”

In answer to Grey’s raised brows, he explained.

“Punishment. There was a game of bowls yesterday, between a party of men from Colonel Bampton-Howard’s lot and our lads—local form of skittles. Ruysdale had a heavy wager on with Bampton-Howard, see?”

“And your lot lost. Yes, I see. So your lads are—”

“Ten mile run to the river and back, in full kit. Keep them fit and out of trouble, at least,” Hiltern said, half-closing his eyes and lifting his nose at the scent of frying potatoes that had begun to waft through the air.

“I see. One assumes that the French have moved, then? Our last intelligence reported them as being a few miles north of the river.”

“Yes, gave us a bit of excitement for a day or two; thought they might come this way. They seem to have sheered off, though—gone round to the west.”

“Why?” Grey felt a prickle of unease go down his spine. There was a bridge at Aschenwald, a logical crossing point—but there was another several miles west, at Gruneberg. The eastern bridge was defended by a company of Prussian artillery; a detachment of grenadiers, under Colonel Bampton-Howard, presumably held the western crossing.

“There’s a mass of Frenchies beyond the river,” Hiltern replied. “We think they have it in mind to join up with that lot.”

That was interesting. It was also information that should have been shared with the Hanoverian and Prussian commanders by official dispatch—not acquired accidentally by the random visit of a liaison officer. Sir Peter Hicks was scrupulous in maintaining communications with the allies; Ruysdale evidently saw no such need.

“Oh!” Hiltern said, divining his thought. “I’m sure we would have let you know, only for things here being in a bit of confusion. And truly, it didn’t seem urgent; scouts just said the French were shining their gear, biffing up the supplies, that sort of thing. After all, they’ve got to go somewherebefore the snow comes down.”

He raised one dark brow, smiling in apology—an apology that Grey accepted, with no more than a second’s hesitation. If Ruysdale was going to be erratic about dispatches, it would be as well for Grey to keep himself informed by other means—and Hiltern was obviously well-placed to know what was going on.

They chatted casually until the host came out with Hiltern’s breakfast, but Grey learned no more of interest—save that Hiltern was remarkably uninterested in the death of Private Bodger. He was also vague about the “confusion” to which he had referred, dismissing it with a wave of the hand as a “bit of a muddle in the commissary—damned bore.”

The sound of hooves and wheels, moving slowly, came from the street outside, and Grey heard a loud voice with a distinctly Hanoverian accent, requesting direction “ Zum Englanderlager.”

“What is that?” Hiltern asked, turning on his stool.

“I expect that will be Private Bodger coming home,” Grey replied, rising. “I’m obliged to you, sir. Is Sergeant-Major Sapp still in camp, do you know?”

“Mmm…no.” Hiltern spoke thickly, through a mouthful of potatoes and eggs. “Gone to the river.”

That was inconvenient; Grey had no desire to hang about all day, waiting for Sapp’s return in order to hand over the corpse and responsibility for it. Another idea occurred to him, though.

“And the regimental surgeon?”

“Dead. Flux.” Hiltern spooned in more egg, concentrating. “Mmp. Try Keegan. He’s the surgeon’s assistant.”

With most of the men emptying out of camp, it took some time to locate the surgeon’s tent. Once there, Grey had the body deposited on a bench, and at once sent the wagon back to the Schloss. He was taking no chances on being left in custody of Private Bodger.

Keegan proved to be a scrappy Welshman, equipped with rimless spectacles and an incongruous mop of reddish ringlets. Blinking through the spectacles, he bent close to the corpse and poked at it with a smudgy exploratory finger.

“No blood.”

“No.”

“Fever?”

“Probably not. I saw the man several hours before his death, and he seemed in reasonable health then.”

“Hmmm.” Keegan bent and peered keenly up Bodger’s nostrils, as though suspecting the answer to the private’s untimely death might be lurking there.

Grey frowned at the fellow’s grubby knuckles and the thin crust of blood that rimmed his cuff. Nothing out of the way for a surgeon, but the dirt bothered him.

Keegan tried to thumb up one of the eyelids, but it resisted him. Bodger had stiffened during the night, and while the hands and arms had gone limp again, the face, body, and legs were all hard as wood. Keegan sighed and began tugging off the corpse’s stockings. These were greatly the worse for wear, the soles stained with mud; the left one had a hole worn through and Bodger’s great toe poked out like the head of an inquisitive worm.

Keegan rubbed a hand on the skirt of his already grubby coat, leaving further streaks, then rubbed it under his nose, sniffing loudly. Grey had an urge to step away from the man. Then he realized, with a small sense of startlement mingled with annoyance, that he was thinking of the Woman. Fraser’s wife. Fraser had spoken of her very little—but that reticence only added to the significance of what he didsay.

One late night, in the governor’s quarters at Ardsmuir Prison, they had sat longer than usual over their chess game—a hard-fought draw, in which Grey took more pleasure than he might have taken in victory over a lesser opponent. They usually drank sherry, but not that night; he had a special claret, a present from his mother, and had insisted that Fraser must help him to finish it, as the wine would not last once opened.

It was a strong wine, and between the headiness of it and the stimulation of the game, even Fraser had lost a little of his formidable reserve.

Past midnight, Grey’s orderly had come to take away the dishes from their repast, and stumbling sleepily on the threshold in his leaving, had sprawled full-length, cutting himself badly on a shard of glass. Fraser had leapt up like a cat, snatched the boy up, and pressed a fold of his shirt to the wound to stop the bleeding. But then, when Grey would have sent for a surgeon, Fraser had stopped him, saying tersely that Grey could do so if he wished to kill the lad, but if not, had best allow Fraser to tend him.