Four days on the road later, Swale was no longer a proud knight in arms but a desperate, wild-eyed fugitive, bearded and filthy and barefoot, mounted on a tough little pony that was fitter for a common hobelar than a gentleman of coat armour.
Swale cared little for his appearance. All that mattered was reaching London and reporting to his master the scale of the treachery and corruption in the Midlands. He was also anxious to discover the truth of the political situation, and if Mortimer and Isabella really had landed in Suffolk.
The few pennies he had stolen from Matthew were quickly spent on a flask of wine and a couple of loaves of bread, bought from a merchant he met on the road just outside St Alban’s. The merchant, like many fugitives Swale passed during his frantic ride, had piled all his goods and possession onto some wagons and was heading away from London, as fast as his drivers could persuade their oxen to lumber.
“The city is on edge,” the merchant told him as he handed over the bread and wine. “There are grim tidings from the East, though not so grim if you have no love for the King. The Queen has returned, with a great army of foreigners at her back, and they are tearing a bloody path through the land.”
“What is the King doing?” Swale asked, pocketing the bread and taking a grateful pull at the wine. The merchant looked at him in distaste, scarcely able to believe that this scarecrow figure was the knight he claimed to be.
“Shitting himself,” he said frankly. “When I left, he was still shut up in the Tower with the Despensers, but he won’t stay for long. The City has hated Edward for years thanks to his taxes, and no-one is prepared to fight for him.”
The merchant paused to count the money Swale had put into his grimy hand. Satisfied, he pocketed it. “Are you for the King?”
Swale drew himself up. “I am,” he said stoutly, and was dismayed when the merchant brayed with laughter, echoed by some of his teamsters.
“Reinforcements for His Majesty!” he chuckled, looking Swale up and down. “Perhaps his throne will be saved after all. I wish you well, sir. Off you go and die a hero’s death.”
Swale boiled at his insolence, but knew it would be stupid to obey his impulse to box the man’s ears. He had too many burly servants for that, and Swale had no wish to add to his recent catalogue of humiliations by suffering a beating at the hands of commoners.
He galloped away with their laughter ringing shamefully in his ears.
To London.