The Coterel Gang rode north in high spirits, a great deal richer after their recent adventures, and with high hopes for the future. They were buoyed by the mood of their chief, who had departed from London with the gratitude of Eustace Folville, a sackful of gold, and the promise of further employment.
This was just a beginning. James Coterel was a subtle and ambitious man, and did not intend to spend the rest of his career as Folville’s right-hand man. Recent events had been intriguing and exciting, and he had never thought to witness the capture of a King, but ultimately a means to an end.
When he first took his men south from Derbyshire, they were little more than cut-purses and thugs for hire, earning pennies via petty acts of robbery and extortion. Now they had earned a reputation as soldiers and outriders in the service of great men like Roger Mortimer and the Earl of Lancaster. With credentials like that to boast, the gentry of Derbyshire would come begging for their services. And James Coterel could name his price.
The future was set fair, then, but not all was to his liking. As the stark hills and sweeping forests of the High Peak rose before him, James raised a finger to his cheek and touched the scar, a jagged pink line that ran the length of his cheek-bone. It burned still, often keeping him awake at nights, and would never fade. Well aware of his resemblance to a certain Roman Emperor, James was proud of his looks and deeply resented such a disfigurement.
“Sir John Swale, knight of Cumberland,” he said under his breath. This was a name to be remembered, until he had the opportunity to cross swords again with its owner.
Somehow, though he could not have explained why, James felt certain that the opportunity would come.
EXILE
Swale watched the chalk cliffs of Dover until they were a hazy white line on the horizon, and even then shaded his eyes to get a last glimpse of his homeland until the sea mists completely shrouded them from view.
He stood and stared at the churning grey waters of the Channel for a while. He felt empty, washed-out, all the meaning and purpose of his life stripped away until he was like the empty wine-barrel he saw floating in the distance, jettisoned from some passing merchant vessel. Abandoned by God and man, and tossed onto the seas of fate.
Not, however, abandoned by Elizabeth Clinton, who was leaning against a hogshead on the deck below. She had never undertaken a sea journey before, and was finding it a difficult experience. Nor had Swale, but he was blessed with a strong stomach.
Elizabeth had hired a tiny cog to take her and Swale into exile, accompanied by two die-hard servants. One of these was Edward Parker, the grim-faced old man having declared that he had served her for nigh on thirty years, and would not abandon her now.
Swale carefully descended the ladder from the raised stern to the deck, and walked towards her, swaying clumsily with the motion of the boat.
He could think of nothing to say. Instead he reached out and tentatively laid his hand on Elizabeth’s forearm. He had done so once before, back in Cheapside, and she had brushed him off.
This time, she did not.