Two archers stepped out into the path,—shafts notched and bows up.
"A word with your worship," said one.
The Knight whirled around.
"A word with your worship," greeted him from the rear.
He glanced quickly to each side.
"A word with your worship," met him there.
He shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the limb of a fallen tree. Resistance was quite useless, with no weapon save a dagger, and no armor but silk and velvet.
"The unanimity of your desires does me much honor," he said; "pray proceed."
The leader lowered his bow.
"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Sir Aymer de Lacy," said he, "and particularly to be received so graciously."
"You know me?"
"We saw you arrive yesterday—but there were so many with you we hesitated to ask a quiet word aside."
The Knight smiled. "It is unfortunate—I assure you my talk would have been much more interesting then."
"In that case it is we who are the losers."
De Lacy looked him over carefully.
"Pardieu, man," said he, "your language shames your business."
The outlaw bowed with sweeping grace.
"My thanks, my lord, my deepest thanks." He unstrung his bow and leaned upon the stave; a fine figure in forest green and velvet bonnet, a black mask over eyes and nose, a generous mouth and strong chin below it. "Will your worship favor me with your dagger?" he said.
The Knight tossed it to him.
"Thank you… a handsome bit of craftsmanship… these stones are true ones, n'est ce pas?"
"If they are not, I was cheated in the price," De Lacy laughed.
The other examined it critically.
"Methinks you were not cheated," he said, and drew it through his belt. "And would your lordship also permit me a closer view of the fine gold chain that hangs around your neck?"
De Lacy took it off and flung it over.
"It I will warrant true," he said.
The outlaw weighed the links in his hand, then bit one testingly.
"So will I," said he, and dropped the chain in his pouch.
"And the ring with the ruby—it is a ruby, is it not?—may I also examine it?… I am very fond of rubies… Thank you; you are most obliging… It seems to be an especially fine stone—and worth… how many rose nobles would you say, my lord?"
"I am truly sorry I cannot aid you there," De Lacy answered; "being neither a merchant nor a robber, I have never reckoned its value."
The other smiled. "Of course, by 'merchant,' your worship has no reference to my good comrades nor myself."
"None whatever, I assure you."
"Thank you; I did not think you would be so discourteous… But touching money reminds me that doubtless there is some such about you—perhaps you will permit me to count it for you."
The Knight drew out a handful of coins. "Will you have them one by one or all together?" he asked.
"All together; on the turf beside you, if you please… Thank you… And do you know, Sir Aymer, I am vastly taken with the short gown of velvet and sable—you brought it from France, I assume; the fashion smacks of the Continent. I would like much to have your opinion as to how it looks on me—we are rather of a size, I take it—though I shall have to forego the pleasure of the opinion until another day… And now that I can see your doublet, I am enamoured also of it—will you lend it to me for a little while? Truly, my lord, I mind never to have seen a handsomer, or one that caught my fancy more."
De Lacy looked again at the archers and their ready bows.
"St. Denis, fellow," he said, "leave me enough clothes to return to the castle."
"God forbid," exclaimed the bandit, "that I should put a gallant gentleman to any such embarrassment—but you must admit it were a shame to have gown and doublet and yet no bonnet to match them…"
The Knight took it off and sent it spinning toward him.
"Note the feather," he said. "It is rarely long and heavy."
"I observed that yesterday," was the merry response.
"Is there anything else about me you care for?" De Lacy asked.
"Nothing—unless you could give me your rarely generous disposition. Methinks I never met a more obliging gentleman."
The Knight arose. "Then, as I am already overdue at Windsor, I shall give you good morning."
The archer raised his hand.
"I am sorry, my lord, but we must impose a trifle further on your good nature and ask you to remain here a while," and he nodded to the man beside him, who drew a thin rope from his pouch and came forward.
De Lacy started back—the leveled arrows met him on every side.
"You would not bind me!" he exclaimed.
The outlaw bowed again.
"It grieves me to the heart to do it, but we have pressing business elsewhere and must provide against pursuit. Some one will, I hope, chance upon you before night… Proceed, James—yonder beech will answer."
The Knight laughed.
"I thank you for the hope," he said—and, throwing his body into the blow, smashed the rogue with the rope straight on the chin-point, and leaping over him closed with the leader.
It was done so quickly and in such positions that the others dared not shoot lest they strike either James or their chief—but the struggle was only for a moment; for they sprang in and dragged the Knight away, and whipped the rope about his arms.
"Marry," exclaimed the leader, brushing the dirt from his clothes, "I am sorry they did not let us have the wrestle out—though you are a quick hitter, my lord, and powerful strong in the arms. I wager you showed James more stars than he ever knew existed."
James, still dazed, was struggling to get up, and one of the others gave him a hand.
"By St. Hubert," he growled, rubbing his head in pain and scowling at De Lacy, "if there be more I have no wish to see them."
In the fight De Lacy's forearm had struck the point of his own dagger, where it protruded below the brigand's belt, and the blood was scarleting the white sleeve of his tunic.
The leader came over and bared the wound.
"It is a clean gash, my lord," he said, "but will need a bandage." He drew a bow-cord around the arm above the elbow; then, "With your permission," carefully cut away the sleeve and deftly bound up the hurt.
De Lacy watched him curiously.
"You are a charming outlaw," he observed; "a skillful surgeon—and I fancy, if you so cared, you could claim a gentle birth."
The man stepped back and looked him in the eyes a moment.
"If I remove the bonds, will you give me your Knightly word to remain here, speaking to no one until… the sun has passed the topmost branch of yonder oak?"
The Knight bowed.
"That I will, and thank you for the courtesy."
At a nod the rope was loosed, and the next instant the outlaws had vanished in the forest—but De Lacy's cloak lay at his feet, flung there by the chief himself.
"St. Denis!" De Lacy marveled, "has Robin Hood returned to the flesh?"
Then he looked at the sun, and resumed his seat on the fallen tree.
"A pretty mess," he mused—"a stranger in England—my first day at Windsor and the jest of the castle… Stripped like a jowly tradesman… taken like a cooing babe… purseless… daggerless… bonnetless… doubletless—aye, naked, but for an outlaw's generosity… cut by my own weapon"—he held up his hand and looked at the abraded knuckles—"and that is all the credit I have to show—the mark of a caitiff's chin… Methinks I am fit only for the company of children."
He glanced again at the sun—it seemed not to have moved at all—then sat in moody silence; the wound was smarting now, and he frowned at it every time it gave an extra twinge… Would the sun never move?… He got up and paced back and forth, his eyes on the oak at every turn—truly that tree was growing higher every minute—or the sun was sinking… Not that he was in haste to return to Windsor… There would be a fine tale to tell there—no need to speed to it—it would speed to him quite soon enough.… But to get away from the accursed place—anywhere… back to Windsor even… what if some one found him here in this plight—and he not allowed to speak—unable to explain—dumb as that oak… Would the sun never move! The wound was stinging sharply, and the arm above the cord was turning black and swelling fast—the pressure must come off. He felt for his dagger; then flung out an imprecation, and tried to tear the cord asunder with his teeth. It was quite futile; it was sunk now so deep in the flesh he could not seize it—and the knots were drawn too tight to loose… Would the sun never move!
He fell to searching for a stone—a small one with an edge that could reach in and rasp the deer-hide cord apart—but vainly; though he tried many, only to leave his arm torn and bleeding… Yet at last the sun had moved—it was up among the thinner branches.
Of a sudden, back in the forest rose the deep bay of a mastiff… and presently again—and nearer… and a third time—and still nearer… and then down the path came the great tawny dog, tail arched forward, head up—and behind him a bay horse, a woman in the saddle.
"Down, Rollo, down!" she cried, as the mastiff sprang ahead… "Beside me, sir!" and the dog whirled instantly and obeyed.
De Lacy bethought himself of his cloak, and hurrying to where it lay he tried to fling it around his shoulders, but with only one hand and his haste he managed badly and it slipped off and fell to the ground. As he seized it again the horse halted behind him.
"You are wounded, sir," she said; "permit me to aid you."
He turned slowly, bowing as he did so—he dared not speak—then glanced up, and almost spoke in sheer amazement, as he beheld the slender figure in green velvet—the sweet, bow-shaped mouth, the high-bred, sensitive nose, the rounded chin, the tiny ear, the soft, deep grey eyes, and, crowning all, the great rolls of the auburn hair that sunbeams spin to gold.
"Come, sir," said she, "I stopped to aid you, not to be stared at."
De Lacy flushed and made to speak, then checked himself, and with another bow held up his arm and motioned for her to cut the cord.
"Merciful Mother!" she exclaimed, and severed it with a touch of her bodkin.
The blood flooded fiercely forward and the wound began to bleed afresh.
"The bandage needs adjusting—come," and slipping from saddle she tossed the rein to the dog and went over to the fallen tree. "Sit down," she ordered.
With a smile De Lacy obeyed; as yet she did not seem to note his silence. And it was very pleasant indeed—the touch of her slim fingers on his bare arm—the perfume of her hair as she bent over the work—the quick upward glance at times of her grey eyes questioning if she hurt him. He was sorry now there were not a dozen wounds for her to dress.
"There, that will suffice until you get proper attendance," she said, tying the last knot and tucking under the ends.
He took her hand and bowing would have kissed it; but she drew it away sharply and turned to her horse. Then she stopped and looked at him in sudden recollection.
"Parbleu, man, where is your tongue?" she demanded. "You had one last night."
Where she had seen him he did not know; he had not seen her—and it only tangled the matter the more, for now she would know he was not dumb. But how to explain?
He smiled and bowed.
"That is the sixth time I have got a bow when a word was due," she said. "There may be a language of genuflections, but I do not know it."
He bowed again.
"Seven," she counted; "the perfect number—stop with it."
He put his hand to his lips and shook his head in negation—then pointed to the sun and the tree, and shook his head again—then once more to the sun and slowly upward to the top of the tree, and nodded in affirmation.
She watched him with a puzzled frown.
"Are you trying to tell me why you do not speak?" she asked.
He nodded eagerly.
"Tell me again"… and she studied his motions carefully… "The sun and the tree—and the sun and the tree again… is that your meaning?… Ah!… the top of the tree… I think I am beginning to understand.… Where is your doublet?"
De Lacy pointed into the forest.
"And your bonnet?… with your doublet?… and your dagger?… gone with the others?… you mean your ring? and it went with them, too?… yes, yes—I see now—outlaws, and your wound got in the struggle."… She turned toward the tree… "Ah! I have it:—you are paroled to silence until the sun has risen above the highest branch… what?… and also must remain here until then?… I see—it was that or die… no?… Oh! that or be bound?… well, truly the knaves were wondrous courteous!"… She studied De Lacy's face a moment—then sat down. "Would you like company?" she asked.
Would he like company! Her company!
She laughed gayly—though a bit of color touched her cheek.
"Thank you," she said, "I can read your countenance better than your bows."
Then suddenly his face grew grave and he motioned no.
"Yes, and I can understand that, too," she smiled, "and thank you for it. It may be a trifle uncommon to sit here in the depths of Windsor forest with a man I never met… never even saw until last night… and who has never spoken a single word to me… yet" (glancing at the sun) "the time is not long and… the path is rarely traveled."
He smiled—but the concern lingered in his eyes and he shook his head questioningly.
"Nay, sir, do you not see your very urging me to go proves me safe in staying?"
He hesitated, still doubtful—then threw himself on the turf at her feet.
"I suppose it is for me to do the talking," she observed.
And as she talked he fell to watching the sun in her hair—the play of her lips—the light in her eyes.… Never before would he have believed that grey could be so deep and tender; or that a mouth could be so tantalizing; or the curve of a cheek so sweet; or ruddy tresses so alluring.… And her voice—was there ever such another!—soft, low, clear, like silver bells at twilight out at sea.
And in the watching he lost her words, nor nodded when he should—until, at length, she sprang up and went over to her horse. And when in sharp contrition he followed after to apologize, she met him with a laugh and gracious gesture—then pointed to the sun.
"The parole is lifted," she said. "Will you put me up?"
With his sound arm he swung her into saddle—and with Rollo in advance and him beside her they went slowly back to Windsor. And now he did the talking—telling first the story of the outlaws.
When the towers of the huge castle showed afar through the trees, De Lacy halted.
"Would you deem me rude if I went no further with you?" he asked.
She smiled kindly. "On the contrary, I would deem you very wise."
"I care not to proclaim my adventure with the outlaws. It would make me a merry jest in the hall."
"I understand—and yet, wounded and without bonnet or doublet, you will not pass unnoted; an explanation will be obligatory."
"The wound is easy," he said; "my own dagger made it, you remember—but the doublet and bonnet, particularly the doublet, are bothersome."
She looked at him with quick decision.
"I will manage that," she said; "your squire shall bring both to you here."
De Lacy's face lighted with sudden pleasure, and he put out his hand toward hers—then drew it sharply back and bowed.
"Still bowing?" she said naively.
"I have no words to speak my gratitude," he said.
"And I no ears that wish to hear them, if you had," she laughed. "This morning you have had much trouble—I much pleasure—the scales are balanced—the accounts canceled. We will forget it all. Never will I mention it to you—nor you to me—nor either to another. When we meet again it will be as though to-day had never been… Nay, sir, it must be so. You have been unfortunate, I unconventional—it is best for both we start afresh."
"But am I not even to know your name?" he protested.
She shook her head. "Not even that, now, and I ask your word not to seek to know it—until we meet again."
"You have it," said he, "until we meet again—to-morrow."
She smiled vaguely. "It will be a far to-morrow… good-bye, my lord," and rode away—then turned. "Wait for your squire," she called.
"And for to-morrow," he cried.
But she made no answer, and with a wave of her hand was gone, the dog leaping in front of her and baying loud with joy.
But the morrow brought no maid, nor a fortnight of morrows—she had vanished; and seek as he might at Windsor or through the Tower he could not find her. Had he been privileged to inquire the quest would have been ended by a word—but she herself had closed his lips to questions.
Then the mighty Edward died, and all was confusion in the Court; and what with the funeral, the goings and the comings, the plottings and the intrigues, De Lacy was in a maze. The boy King was at Ludlow with Rivers, and it was Nobility against Queen and Woodville until he came for his crowning. And in the turmoil De Lacy was forced to cease, for the nonce, the pursuit of ruddy tresses and grey eyes, and choose where he would stand. And presently that choice sent him riding into the North—bearing a message to the man in distant Pontefract, upon whom, at that moment, all England was waiting and who, as yet, had made no move, Richard of Gloucester.
The day was far spent, and before a fireplace in his private apartments Richard sat alone, in heavy meditation. The pale, clean-shaven, youthful face, with its beautiful mouth and straight Norman nose, and the short, slender figure in its mantle and doublet of black velvet furred with ermine, rich under tunic of white satin, tight-fitting hose of silk, and dark brown hair hanging bushy to the shoulders, would have been almost effeminate but for the massively majestic forehead and the fierce black eyes—brilliant, compelling, stern, proud—that flashed forth the mighty soul within.
Although he had just passed his thirtieth year, yet his fame was as wide as the domain of chivalry, and his name a thing to conjure with in England. Born in an age when almost as children men of rank and station were called upon to take their sires' place, Richard had been famed for his wisdom and statecraft before the years when the period of youth is now presumed to begin. At the age of eighteen he had led the flower of the Yorkist army at the great battles of Barnet and Tewkesbury, and not the dauntless Edward himself, then in the heyday of his prowess, was more to be feared than the slight boy who swept with inconceivable fury through the Lancastrian line, carrying death on his lance-point and making the Boar of Gloucester forever famous in English heraldry. And since then his hauberk had scarce been off his back, and while his royal brother was dallying in a life of indulgence amid the dissipations of his Court, the brave and resolute Richard was leading his armies, administering his governments, and preserving order on the Marches of the Border.
Presently there was a sharp knock on the door and a page entered.
"Well?" demanded the Duke abruptly.
"May it please you, my lord," said the boy; "a messenger of importance who desires immediate audience."
Richard frowned slightly.
"Whose badge does he wear?" he asked.
"No one's, my lord, but the fashion of his armor savors of the Court. He bade me announce him as Sir Aymer de Lacy."
"The name, boy, is better recommendation than any fashion. Admit him."
De Lacy crossed to the center of the apartment with easy grace, and after a deep obeisance stood erect and silent facing the Duke, who eyed him critically. A trifle over the average height and rather slender, and clad in complete mail except for the bascinet which he carried in his hand, there was something in his appearance and bearing that impressed even the warlike Richard. His dark hair hung in curls to his gorget. His hauberk of polished steel was but partially concealed by the jupon of azure silk emblazoned with a silver stag trippant; his cuissarts and greaves glistened in the firelight, and his long sollerets bore on their heels the golden spurs of his rank. Around his waist was a broad belt wrought in gold, and from it, almost in front, hung a great two-handed sword whose point reached to within a few inches of the floor.
"You are welcome," said Gloucester. "A De Lacy should ever find a ready greeting at Pontefract. Of what branch of the family are you?"
"One far removed from that which built this fortress, most noble Duke," returned the Knight, with a peculiarly soft accent. "My own ancestor was but distantly connected with the last great Earl of Lincoln whom the First Edward loved so well."
"I do not recall your name among those who fought for either York or Lancaster. Did your family wear the White Rose or the Red?"
"Neither," said De Lacy. "Providence removed my sire ere the fray began aright and when I was but a child in arms. When Your Grace won fame at Tewkesbury I had but turned my thirteenth year."
"Where is your family seat?"
"At Gaillard Castle in the shire of Leicester, close by the River Weak—or at least it stood there when last I saw it. It is ten long years since I crossed its drawbridge and not twelve months of my life have been spent within its walls."
"Your accent smacks of a Southern sun," said the Duke.
"My mother was of a French house, and to her own land she took me when my father died;" and, observing the Duke glance at his spurs, he added: "It was from France's Constable that I received the accolade."
"Then right well did you deserve it; St. Pol gave no unearned honors."
"I was favored much beyond my deserts," De Lacy replied, although his face flushed at a compliment from the renowned Gloucester.
"Your modesty but proves your merit," returned the Duke… "And now your message. From whom come you?"
"From the Duke of Buckingham, my lord," said De Lacy; and the keen look that accompanied the words did not escape the Prince. But De Lacy did not know the man before whom he stood, else would he have wasted no energy in any such attempt. As well try to read the visage of a granite cliff as to discover the thoughts of Richard Plantagenet from the expression of his face. And if the royal Duke were in aught concerned as to the communication of the powerful Buckingham, there was no evidence of it in his voice or in the eminently courteous and appropriate question as he instantly responded:
"How did you leave His Grace and where?"
"He was most hearty when we parted at Gloucester; he for his castle of Brecknock and I for Pontefract."
"He had been in London?"
"Yes, my lord, since before King Edward's demise."
"Then are his letters very welcome."
"Your pardon, sir," said De Lacy, "but I bear no letters;" and as Richard regarded him in sharp interrogation he added: "My message is by word of mouth."
"And why," said the Duke in the same calm tone he had employed throughout the conversation, "should I credit your story, seeing that I neither know you nor recall your silver trippant stag among the present devices of our land."
"My bearing," returned De Lacy tranquilly, "comes to me from my mother's family, of which she was the heiress, and on English battlefield it has never shone. And unless this ring attest the authority of my message it must be unsaid," and drawing from his finger a broad gold band, in which was set a great flat emerald with a swan exquisitely cut on its face, he handed it to the Duke.
Richard examined it for a moment, then returned it with a smile.
"You are sufficiently accredited," he said. "I will hear your message. What said Stafford?"
"The Duke of Buckingham," replied Aymer, "sends to the Duke of Gloucester his most humble greeting and his very sincere condolence upon the death of Your Grace's great brother and sire."
"Pass over the formalities, Sir Aymer," interrupted the Duke curtly. "It was scarce for them you rode from London to Pontefract."
Aymer bowed. "Buckingham's message was in these words: 'Tell the Duke of Gloucester to hasten to London without delay. I have conferred with the Lords Howard, Hastings, and Stanley, and we are of the one mind that he must be Lord Protector. Tell him we pledge to him our whole support if he will give us his countenance in this crucial struggle against the Woodvilles.'"
"Did he say nothing as to the present status of the situation?" inquired Gloucester quietly. "I am far from Court and know little of its happenings."
"With them, my lord, I am fully acquainted," said De Lacy, "both from my own observation and by the Duke himself."
"How stands the matter, then?"
"Rather favorable to the Queen's faction than otherwise. The King's coronation has been fixed for the first Lord's Day of the coming month and His Majesty is to be escorted from Ludlow by two thousand men. The Marquis of Dorset has seized the treasure in the Tower and Sir Edward Woodville has been tampering with the navy, and methinks not without result. The Queen and the whole family are catering to the populace and spare no effort to win their favor. Only action sharp and sudden will enable the Barons to prevail."
For a moment Gloucester made no response, but sat with his head bent upon his bosom, as was his habit when in thought. Presently he said:
"How do you know that the King's escort will number two thousand?"
"The Council so fixed it, and very much against the wishes of the Queen."
"She wanted more, I doubt not," said the Duke meditatively.
"She long held that less than five thousand would not be fitting the dignity of a King."
Gloucester looked up with a trace of a smile around his eyes.
"Will the Earl of Rivers accompany his nephew?" he asked.
"It was so reported to His Grace of Buckingham; and further, also, that they would not start from Ludlow until the feast of St. George had passed."
"Did Stafford advise no plan in case I fell in with his desires?"
"None. The lords will follow whatever course you fix. All that they urge is haste."
"How long does Buckingham remain at Brecknock?"
"Until he receive word from you—or failing in that, until there be but time sufficient to reach London for the coronation."
"Was it his purpose that you should carry my answer?"
"Nay, my lord Duke," said De Lacy. "Here ends my mission for Buckingham. It was but as friend for friend that I bore this message. I am not of his household nor was it his business that brought me here."
"What brought you to Pontefract then, Sir Knight?" said Richard sternly. "As Buckingham's messenger you have received due honor; that aside, your name alone commends you."
"I sought Pontefract," De Lacy replied, "for the single purpose of tendering my sword to the Duke of Gloucester, hoping in his service to brighten the dimmed lustre of my House."
Not for an instant did the searching eyes of Richard leave the young Knight's face.
"Why do you prefer the Boar of Gloucester to the Stafford Knot? Buckingham is most puissant."
"A De Lacy, my lord," answered Aymer proudly, "follows none but Plantagenet."
"Bravely spoken," said Gloucester, suddenly dropping his stern air, "and worthy of the great name you bear. I accept your sword. Nay, kneel not, sir; Richard Plantagenet deems himself most fortunate to have you at his side."
At that moment the arras was drawn aside and a young and slender woman entered. Her gown was black, unrelieved by any color, save the girdle of gold; her face was almost flawless in its symmetry; her complexion was of a wondrous whiteness; and her eyes, of the deepest blue, soft and melting, and shaded by lashes long and heavy, were of the sort that bespeak the utmost confidence and know no guile. She hesitated as she saw De Lacy and was about to withdraw when the Duke glanced around.
"Nay, sweetheart," said he, rising and going toward her; "do not retire.… Sir Aymer de Lacy, I present you to the Duchess of Gloucester."
De Lacy advanced and sinking upon one knee touched his lips to the hand she extended to him.
"Surely, Sir Knight," she said, in a voice whose sweetness struck even his Southern-bred ear, "a De Lacy should ever be welcome in the halls of Pontefract."
"Your words, most gracious lady," answered Aymer, "are almost those used by my lord, the Duke, and to a wanderer's heart they are very grateful."
"You are an errant, then; a Sir Guy or Sir Lancelot," said the Duchess.
"Nay. Only a poor and simple Knight whose highest honor is that he may henceforth follow the banner of your great husband."
"Then must hauberk sit easy as velvet doublet or I know not my lord," and she smiled at Richard.
"Do not," said he, "give to Sir Aymer the notion that he has nothing but hard blows before him—although, indeed, he rode hither on scarce a peaceful mission, since he bears from Stafford and the Nobility the tender of the Protectorship and the insistence that I proceed to London without delay."
As he spoke the face of the Duchess suddenly became grave, and stepping swiftly to his side she put her hand upon his arm.
"You will not go, Richard?" she begged.
"Why, sweetheart, what ails you? Why should a journey to London and a possible exchange of blows alarm you?"
"It is not the journey, dear," she answered. "Many a time have you taken it; and, for the blows, did I not speed you to the Scottish war? Yet I have a foreboding—nay, smile not, my lord!—that upon your course in this matter hangs not only your own fate, but the fate of Plantagenet as well. Accept it not," taking his hand and speaking with deep entreaty; "the Protectorship can add nothing to Richard of Gloucester, and it may work not only your doom but that of the great House of Anjou."
"Nay, Anne, you are ill, surely," said Richard, putting his arm around her. "What has put such uncanny notions into your mind?"
"I do not know; yet I implore you to humor me in this.… You have not already despatched an answer to Buckingham?" she suddenly demanded.
"No—not yet," then turned sharply to De Lacy. "It seems, Sir Aymer, that you are to be admitted to my confidence as well as to Stafford's. So be it, for I trust you. Yet, believe me, it is well sometimes to forget."
De Lacy bowed low, saying simply, "I have forgotten."
"Forgive me, Richard," said the Duchess. "My heart so ruled my head that I quite lost myself."
The Duke took her hand and pressed it affectionately. "Think no more now of the matter; we will consider it to-morrow."
"And you will make no decision until then?"
"None, by St. Paul!" and striking the bell he ordered the page to summon the Duchess' lady-in-waiting.
In a moment she appeared: a slender figure in dark blue velvet, with ruddy tresses and deep grey eyes—the maid of Windsor Forest.
De Lacy caught his breath and stood staring, like one bereft of sense, until the dropping of the arras hid her from his sight. Then he saw Gloucester regarding him with a smile.
"You are not the first," he observed, "nor, I warrant, will you be the last."
"Her name?" said the Knight so eagerly the Duke smiled again.
"She is Beatrix de Beaumont, in her own right Countess of Clare, and save our own dear spouse no sweeter woman lives."
"In truth do I believe it; else has God sent a plague upon the Nobles of England.'"
"If disappointed love and blasted hopes can be so reckoned," said Richard with a shrug, "then does many a fair lord suffer from the disease. See that you do not become affected also."
"Nay, my lord Duke," replied De Lacy; "I know better than to allow a poor Knight's mind to dwell upon the charms of a great heiress—and she the Countess of Clare."
"Pardieu!" said Gloucester; "be not so humble. Your birth is equal to her own; it was only for your peace of mind I cautioned you."
On quitting the Duke, De Lacy dispatched a page for his squire and was then conducted to his quarters on the floor above.
Tossing his gauntlets and bascinet upon the high bed that stood in the corner near the door, he crossed to the small deep window and swung back the sash. Below him lay the broad bailey, that at this hour was alive with the servitors and retainers of the Duke. Before the dwellings against the inner wall children were playing, and through the fading light of the April afternoon rose a medley of sounds. From the direction of the distant gateway sounded the ring of steel-shod hoofs, and presently a body of horsemen cantered across the stone pavement and drew rein before the keep. A gruff command followed, and just as the rank was broken and the soldiery dispersed the sweet tones of the bell of All Saints' Chapel came floating over the walls.
The Knight crossed himself instinctively, and then, leaning on the ledge, his thoughts turned to his family's past and to why he, though of the blood of one of the Conqueror's favorite Barons, was a stranger in England.
The main branch of the House of Lacy, once so powerful in Britain, had become extinct almost two centuries before; and although Sir Aymer's ancestor had borne an honorable part in the wars of the Third Edward yet, like Chandos, he was content to remain a simple banneret. When the Second Richard went down before his usurping cousin, the then head of the family had stood, to the last, true to his rightful King; and hence it was small wonder that to Sir Richard de Lacy the atmosphere of the Court of the new Monarch was not agreeable. When Henry of Monmouth brought France again under English rule, Sir Richard rode no more to the wars; and the heir being but an infant, his retainers were mustered under a stranger's banner. During the later struggles of Bedford and of Warwick to retain the fast relaxing hold of England upon the domains beyond the Channel, the then Baron had done his devoir full knightly, but it is not in a losing struggle that families win advancement, and, to the last Lancastrian King, Sir Edward de Lacy was not known. Then came the Wars of the Roses and, ere Aymer's sire could bind the White Rose to his helmet, a sudden illness stilled his hand in death; and thus, again, had the House lost an opportunity to rise in fame and power. Much honor had Sir Aymer won in the recent small wars and constant fightings of the Continent, and in the right of his mother's family he might have aspired to high rank at the French Court; but Louis, "the Fell," was not a warrior's King, nor had long residence in a foreign clime bred in Sir Aymer forgetfulness of the land of his birth.
And so, at length, he had furled his pennon, and followed by his faithful squire and a few of his retainers he sought the English Court. And with him went the solemn purpose either to restore the once great name he bore to its place among the chivalry of England or to let it perish utterly with him. Within a few weeks of his arrival, Edward's sudden death occurred, and he had been quick to appreciate that his opportunity lay with Gloucester in the North. A friendship formed with the Duke of Buckingham some years previous in Paris, and which had been renewed in London, had stood him in good stead; for being acquainted with De Lacy's purpose of seeking Pontefract, Stafford had to his great satisfaction made him his confidential messenger in the very matter which was then so near to Richard's heart.
The entry of the squire broke in on the Knight's thoughts, and he turned from the window.
"Make haste, Giles," said he, "and get me out of this steel."
With the skill of long practice it was quickly done; and removing the suit of thin yellow leather worn under the harness, De Lacy donned a doublet and short gown of black velvet, and then, throwing himself upon the bed, he awaited the summons to the evening meal.
Meanwhile, the squire had laid aside his own armor and stood forth in his leather suit that was creased and soiled by the iron weight.
Giles Dauvrey was no fledgling whose apprenticeship had begun among the dainty pages of my lady's bower. A Gascon, and lowly born, he was a simple man-at-arms when, in a small affray on the Italian border, he had chanced to ward from Sir Aymer de Lacy's head the battle-axe that, falling on him from behind, must else have cleft him to the gorget. The young Knight had thereupon obtained the man's transfer to his own following and—becoming assured of his bravery and martial fitness—he had made him his squire when, a few months later, an Italian cross-bolt had wrought a vacancy in the post. Stocky in build, wonderfully quick and thoroughly trained in arms, he also had the rare faculty of executing an order without the slightest evasion, and could be trusted in any emergency either of discretion or valor. Right often had the two stood side by side in the press of skirmish and the rush of battle,—for they had ever sought the locality of strife—and there had come to be little choice for the foeman between the accomplished axe-play of the master and the sweeping blows of the sturdy squire. And as among the veteran soldiery of the French-Italian borders no name stood higher than De Lacy, so also was no wearer of the silver spurs more respected than he who bore the banner of the Trippant Stag.
"It is a great fortress, Giles," said the Knight. "Never have I seen a stronger."
"Marry, no; nor one, I ween, wherein the discipline was sterner. Are all castles in this land of yours, my lord, so conducted?"
"All wherein the Duke of Gloucester holds command."
"Of a truth, then," said Dauvrey, "the tales I have heard of this Prince are not so wide of the clout."
"What were the tales?"
"They were many and various, yet I gathered that he was a great warrior and fit to be a ruler of men."
"And you gathered truly," returned De Lacy. "He is the best soldier and shrewdest man in all this island Kingdom."
"How looks he to the eye, my lord?"
"You may judge that for yourself; observe him at the evening meal. Here comes the summons."
A step came rapidly up the stairs and a page halted at the half-opened doorway.
"His Grace requests that Sir Aymer de Lacy join him in the great hall," he said.
The Knight arose and flung his short cloak about him.
"Lead on," he ordered; "we follow."
When they entered the hall the Duke was already seated on the dais, surrounded by the officers of his household. On the right, De Lacy recognized Sir Robert Wallingford, to whom, as Constable of Pontefract, he had been conducted upon his arrival; but the others he was not able to identify, although, of course, he knew by reputation several who should be among them. The chair on Richard's left was unoccupied, and he motioned for De Lacy to take it.
"Sit you here," he said.… "Gentlemen, I present Sir Aymer de Lacy. He is fresh from London and, I doubt not, can give you much news of the Court and Capital."
All arose and bowed to De Lacy, who bowed back at them.
"My knowledge, such as it is," said he, "is freely yours. Yet as I was only a few weeks in London my budget may be very meagre. But if you will ask, I will gladly tell you what I know."
And they did not hesitate to ask, and he was kept busy answering questions upon every conceivable subject, from the details of the funeral of the dead King to the fashion of the latest gown. Indeed it was not until the meal was almost over that he had an opportunity for a word aside to the Duke.
"May I ask Your Grace the name of the fair-haired man yonder?" he said.
"I cry pardon," Richard exclaimed. "I forgot you were a stranger in England. He is my Chamberlain, Sir William Catesby… The black-moustached Knight with the scar on his forehead, who has just put down his wine glass, is Sir Richard Ratcliffe… The elderly man beside him with the gray hair and ruddy countenance is Sir Robert Brackenbury… The one with the thin, dark face and broad shoulders is Lord Darby of Roxford.—The rest are younger men and of less prominence… The one beside Darby is Sir Ralph de Wilton, next to him is Sir James Dacre, and on Dacre's left is Sir Henry de Vivonne."
He pushed back his chair and arose.
"Gentlemen," said he, "you are excused from further attendance." Then he called to De Wilton.
"Sir Ralph," he said, "Sir Aymer de Lacy is of the Household. Give him some idea of his duties, and then sponsor him in Her Grace's presence chamber."
And Aymer liked De Wilton on the instant, with his courteous manner and frank, gracious smile, and for an hour or more they sat in pleasant conversation. Then Sir Ralph was summoned to the Duke, and De Lacy, postponing, perforce, his presentation to the Duchess' household until the morrow, went for a stroll on the ramparts.
Night had settled down; the sky was clear and through the cool, crisp air the stars were shining brightly. The turmoil in the bailey had subsided, but from the quarters of the soldiery rose the hum of voices that now and then swelled out into the chorus of some drinking or fighting song. There were lights in many of the dwellings where lived the married members of the permanent garrison, and from them ever and anon came the shrill tones of some shrewish, woman scolding her children or berating her lord and master. For a while Sir Aymer paced the great wide wall, reflecting upon what had occurred since he came to Pontefract and the matters he had learned from De Wilton. But through it all a woman's face kept with him and led his thoughts awry, and presently he turned aside and leaned upon the parapet.
He had found her—and by accident; and had lost her the same instant. Beatrix of Clare, the greatest heiress in England, was not for him—a wanderer and a stranger. She had warned him plainly that day in Windsor Forest—though he, not knowing her, had missed the point till now. He might not presume to speak to her until properly presented—nor even then to refer to what had passed or so much as intimate that they had met before… And yet had not Gloucester himself bade him be not so humble—that his birth was equal to her own? Why should he not aspire… why not seek her favor… what more favorable conditions would he ever know than now? How extraordinary it was that she should be in Pontefract—the length of England from where he saw her last. Surely the Fates were kind to him! And had she recognized him? No, for she had not even given him a glance. He had thought to meet her in the presence chamber this very night; and now—he must wait until the morrow. Yet the morrow was sure… and then he would see again that sweet face, those ruddy tresses and grey eyes… would hear that silvery voice…
Hark! he heard it now.
"Why so abstracted, sir?" it seemed to say.
He stood quite still—would it come again?
St. Denis! there it was!
"Is she so far away, Sir Ralph?" it asked.
Sir Ralph! What had Sir Ralph to do with this music?
There came a soft laugh and a touch of a hand on his shoulder.
He whirled around—and stared in wonder at the woman of his dream.
"Oh!" she said. "Oh! I thought you were Sir Ralph de Wilton… the night is dark—pray, forgive me."
De Lacy bowed low.
"I am Sir Ralph de Wilton," he said.
The Countess smiled.
"You are very good," she said, and moved away.
"May not Sir Ralph walk with you?" De Lacy asked.
She stopped and with head half turned looked at him thoughtfully.
"Yes, if he wish," she answered.
For a space they walked in silence; she with head averted… Presently she laughed.
"Silence is new in Sir Ralph," she said.
"He was waiting leave to speak."
"And that is newer still."
"You like the new?" he asked audaciously.
"Oh! it is variety for the moment"—with the faintest lift of the chin—"though doubtless it would get tiresome in time."