Elizabeth was just the first of three to visit Swale. On the second night, at about the same time, his door swung open and someone he had thought never to see again stepped lightly into the room.
Richard Elm had grown taller and beefier, and radiated a boisterous, swaggering confidence. His old hangdog air was quite banished, along with his physical awkwardness, and he was no longer afraid to look his old master in the eye.
“Sir John!” he cried, planting his fists on his hips. “It is good to see you, very good indeed. How do you like your new home?”
His tone was insolent, and he had never dared to address Swale by his name before. Swale suppressed his anger, and his astonishment at the boy’s sudden appearance.
“I am glad to see you too, Richard,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “I feared that Eustace had served you as he did Rhys and Tom, God rest them. You have been treated well, then?”
The boy threw back his tawny head and laughed, rather too loud and long for Swale’s liking. There was more than a hint of triumph in it, not to mention alcohol.
“Well?” he barked. “I have been treated splendidly, Sir John – my apologies if I no longer call you master. You see, I have a new master now, and a rather better one. Though I am sure you tried to do your poor best by me.”
A sick feeling swept through Swale. “You have joined with the outlaws?”
Richard nodded, laughing again, his blue eyes full of mirth. “Look!” he said, pointing at the handsome sword at his hip. “After we were taken, Eustace gave me the choice of joining his Brotherhood or joining you in prison. I am sorry to say, my dear old master, it was no choice at all. Eustace raised me up, clapped me on the shoulder, and spoke to me like a man, not a servant he could cuff about the head whenever I disappointed him. And how I have prospered! I have this fine sword, which once belonged to a knight, and a fine horse, and I am allowed to keep most of what I earn.”
“That is a strange word to describe the fruits of highway robbery,” Swale said heavily. “So you have chosen the easy path, and turned bandit. How I have failed your father. He charged me with making a man of you, and instead you are…what you are.”
Richard’s beardless face flushed. “What do I care for my father, that selfish old bastard? He never gave me anything, or spoke a single kind word to me. Listen. I have two older brothers, so what do I stand to inherit when the old man is gone? Nothing! I would have to live on the charity of my family, or live as a hedge-knight and a mercenary, selling my sword to the highest bidder.”
“These are the choices we have to make, Richard. For most of us, life is very hard work, and virtues are difficult to retain. God knows, I have lost most of mine. I implore you not to throw away your honour so young.”
“Honour will not buy me a warm bed at night, food on the table, women to share my bed,” said Richard, “I have chosen my path, and I will stick to it. If you had any wit at all, you would join me.”
“Is that why you came?” Swale smiled mirthlessly. “Ah, now, did Eustace send you to break me? He is a subtle man, but has guessed wrong this time. You disgust me, Richard Elm, and I would rather cut my sword hand off than ride with the likes of you and James Coterel.”
“So you are too good for us, are you? You, who committed all manner of evils and felonies in the service of Hugh Despenser? At least the outlaws are honest men, in that they do not hide behind their lord's skirts, pretending that the work they do is lawful.”
Swale was in no mood for argument. “I know what I have done,” he said, “and do not pretend to be a good man, but there may be a spark of decency left in me yet. Tell Eustace that I thank him for his offer, but will not join his company.”
His former squire looked angry for a moment, and then threw up his hands. “You are a tiresome fool,” he said, “and you will stay here until Sir Robert tires of feeding you. I was tempted to pay you back for some of the beatings you gave me in the past, but there is no joy in thrashing such a poor, spiritless creature.”
With a last contemptuous glance, Richard turned and strode out of the room, humming cheerfully to himself. The door slammed and locked behind him.
Swale's third visitor was Eustace Folville. He had half-expected it, and spent much of the day following Richard’s visit preparing himself, but was caught unawares when the door flew open and a trio of hard-faced brigands rushed in. Two of them pinned his arms as he sprang up from the bed where he had been lying, staring at the ceiling, and the third drove a fist into his belly.
Gasping and winded, he could do nothing as they manhandled him onto the room's only chair, forced him to sit and strapped his hands behind his back with a strip of leather.
When he was safely bound, Eustace stepped into the room. He was flourishing, well-fed and watered after an excellent supper, and was dressed in a dark green tunic and hose, belted at the waist with a silver buckle in the shape of a stag's head, and a dark green cloak of expensive velvet.
“My apologies for the rough treatment, Sir John,” he said, bowing, “but I had to take some precautions. I know you are not well-disposed towards me.”
Swale fought for breath to speak. “If you came close enough,” he said, panting, “I would rend you with my teeth. So keep your distance, murderer.”
The outlaw smiled in pure pleasure, and sat down on the edge of Swale's bed. “Young Richard told me you had lost your spirit, but I am happy to find that is not the case. You are a stubborn creature. I imagine you sitting in this little room for months on end, nursing your grievances. Let them go, sir, they will not avail you. I cannot be hurt.”
“Chop words if you will. I am not listening, and will not join you.”
Eustace leaned against the wall and hitched his thumbs into his belt. “Loyalty to your master is a fine thing, Sir John, but I can tell you have not been kept abreast of events. Ships are massing in the Channel, and the entire country is in a state of alarm. Mortimer and Isabella have massed their forces at last and are poised to sail. The only question is where they will strike, and when they come, your master, I fear, is doomed. There is no reason why you should go down with him.”
“How do I know you speak the truth? Even if my lord is fated to die at the hands of traitors, that is no reason to abandon him. I do not swear oaths lightly.”
“That much I am learning. Let me try another tack. Why do you keep to your oath?”
The pain had eased in Swale's stomach now, and he could sit straighter. “Because of my honour. Not something I would expect you to understand.”
“On the contrary, I value loyalty and honour very highly indeed, and insist on both. Your honour is a puzzle to me. How can you serve a man like Hugh Despenser and claim to be any sort of honourable man? Richard has told me stories of your misdeeds in Despenser’s service, a fearful catalogue of house-breaking, bribery, intimidation, and assault. So do not stare down at me from your lofty height, sir, for you are every bit as tarnished.”
“I merely did my duty,” replied Swale. “I could not swear an oath of loyalty, and then refuse to do my master's bidding just because it scraped against my conscience.”
This was a stubborn, weary old falsehood, and he doubted a shrewd man like Eustace would believe it. The truth was that Swale had taken leave of his conscience, along with much of the finer side of his personality, after the slaughter of his family. The horror of it had stayed with him for years. For a long time he had believed that men were no more civilised than beasts, and so was a beast himself.
Recently, almost without noticing, the wounds in his soul had begun to mend, allowing him to surface from the nightmare. His true character was slowly returning to him, a piece at a time, often at the most inconvenient moments.
Eustace studied him intently. “No, you are not that type of man,” he said. “I have many such in my employ, mindless lumps of muscle that do anything I tell them. Is that not so, Matthew?”
He nodded at one of the heavy-set thugs standing behind Swale's chair. Matthew grinned back at him, twisting the scars on his face into horrible shapes.
“I am much more than just another gang leader, Sir John,” Eustace went on, “and if you joined my Brotherhood you would be riding in some distinguished company. I count knights and gentlemen among my followers.”
“I care not. Gentlemen or commoners, you are all criminals and live outside the law.”
Mention of the law seemed to excite Eustace, and he slammed his fist into his palm. “That's it! You have hit on the problem. What is the law in this kingdom, but a petty and ineffective vehicle administered by arrogant, corrupt officials, from the lowliest clerk to the King himself?”
Swale struggled to see what the other man was driving at. “The law, whether corrupt or not, has to exist,” he said, “or there is no justice.”
Now Eustace was visibly thrilled, as if Swale had expressed some incredible revelation. “Justice! There is no justice in the land. Those who have the care of it look after their own interests, and twist the law to that end. The old system is useless, Sir John, and must be overturned.”
Swale wondered if the man was drunk. There was a faint odour of spiced ale on his breath, but his eyes were clear and his speech as crisp and precise as ever. “Overturned by what?”
“By those who are willing to chastise the corrupt, and do not believe in the hypocrisy of justice as it stands. True justice, real justice, can only be administered by those who have suffered at the hands of the law, and know how foolish it is. Sir John, the future of England is sitting before you. I am offering you a chance to be part of that future.”
Swale looked into the outlaw's eyes, and realised that he meant every word. The man was insane, or so puffed up with his successes that he truly believed his ludicrous ambition might become reality, that he really could turn the existing order upside down.
“If I ever believed that the future of England lay with you, or one like you,” he said, speaking slowly for emphasis, “I would leave these shores, never to return. That is my final answer, Eustace Folville.”
Eustace sighed. “Disappointing,” he said, “but I will leave you here to think on my offer. I am not usually in the habit of giving second chances, Sir John, so consider yourself privileged.”
“Do not bother, on my account. My answer will not change, even if you leave me here for ten years.”
“That will not happen. You are of no financial value to me, and if you will not join my Brotherhood, of no value at all. I give you a month's grace to reconsider my offer. If you insist on being stubborn, then I will regretfully be forced to kill you.”
Swale almost threw back another defiant answer, but was too aware of the armed men behind him. They would, he was sure, happily stick a knife in him if Eustace gave them the nod, and Swale's rediscovered courage had its limits. Instead he remained silent and studied the floor.
“One month,” said Eustace, gathering his cloak around him and leaving before Swale's wrists could be untied.
“That was foolish,” said Matthew in a thick northern burr. “Not many men say no to our master, and those that do soon regret it. He must like you.”
Swale was left alone to massage some life back into his numb wrists and reflected on what had probably been a lucky escape.