For a space Sir Aymer rode alone at the head of the column without even casting a glance behind or addressing a word to his squire. Presently the road forked and turning half around in his saddle, he inquired: "Which leads to Kirkstall Abbey?"
"The straightaway one, my lord; the other would carry you back to Wakefield," said the elderly under-officer, whose hair, where it had strayed from under his casquetel, was silvered, and across whose weather-beaten face, from chin to temple, ran a bright red scar.
"The battlefield?"
"The same, sir."
"Ride beside me," said De Lacy. "Did you fight at Wakefield?"
"I did, fair sir—it was a bloody field."
"The Duke of York died that day."
"Aye, sir—I stood not ten feet from him when he fell. He was a brave knight, and our own Gloucester much resembles him in countenance."
"You have seen many battles, my man?"
"Since the first St. Albans I have missed scarce one. It is a trade that came into the family with my grandsire's sire."
"And do your children follow it, as well?"
"Not so, my lord. Raynor Royk has none to succeed him. And by your leave it is small matter. In a few years there will be but scant work for my calling in this land. England has seen her last warrior King—unless———"
"Unless what?" said De Lacy.
The old retainer glanced shrewdly at his young leader; then answered with apparent carelessness.
"Unless Richard of Gloucester should wear the crown."
De Lacy looked at him sharply.
"Small likelihood of that, my man," said he. "Edward left a goodly family."
"In truth yes, my lord," was the answer. "Yet there would be more joy among the soldiers in the North if Gloucester were our King."
Doubtless the speech merited rebuke,—it was over near to treason,—but the man was honest in his devotion to the Duke, and likely meant no particular disrespect to the young Edward. So De Lacy let it pass, but straightway changed the subject.
"Do you know Craigston Castle?" he asked.
"Most thoroughly."
"Where is it?"
"On the North bank of the Wharfe, a short three leagues beyond Kirkstall Abbey."
"And the Abbey?"
"Five leagues or more from Pontefract."
"A proper distance—we can taste the good monks' hospitality and still make Craigston before night. Is this the Aire I see shining ahead?"
"The same; the ford is easy."
De Lacy nodded; and the veteran taking that as his dismissal drew back and resumed his place in the column.
The nones bell had already sounded some little time when they drew rein before the lodge of the great Cistercian Abbey. The gates were closed, but the wicket was open and at it was the rotund face of the brother who served as porter.
"Be so kind, worthy monk, as to say to your superior that a Knight and his attendants crave refreshment ere they travel further," said De Lacy.
"Enter, fair lord," returned the porter, swinging back the gates. "Bid your men repair to the buttery yonder, while I conduct your worship to the holy father."
They found the Abbot pacing the gravel path between the cloister and the church, with his chancellor at his side. His cowl was thrown back and the white gown of his Order, which hung full to his feet, was fastened close to the throat. His face was pale, and the well-cut features and the small hands betokened his gentle birth. He was, possibly, about fifty years of age, but his step and bearing were as easy as De Lacy's own.
"Benedicite, my son," said he, as the Knight bent head to the uplifted hand, "you are welcome, and just in time to join us at the noonday meal."
"It was to ask refreshment for myself and my men that I halted, and your reverence has in kindness anticipated me," said De Lacy.
The Abbot turned to the porter: "Brother James," he said, "see that all are provided for and that the horses have a full allowance of grain.—And now, there sounds the horn for us. Sir———"
"Aymer de Lacy," filled in the Knight.
"A goodly name, my son; and one dear to Yorkshire hereabouts, although, now, near forgotten. Have you seen Pontefract?"
"I quit it but this morning."
"In sooth!" said the Abbot, with sudden interest. "And is His Grace of Gloucester still in presence there?"
"He left shortly before I did."
"For London?"
"Nay, methinks I heard he rode to York," replied De Lacy, who had learned enough on the Continent of the ways of churchmen not to tell them all he knew.
"To York!" said the Abbot in some surprise. "How many men did he take with him?"
"I was not present when the Duke departed and I did not see his following," returned Aymer.
The Abbot's keen eyes tried to read behind the answer, but evidently without success, for his next remark was: "I do not recall your face, Sir Aymer, among the many Knights who have traversed these parts."
"Your memory is entirely trustworthy," said De Lacy. "I came from France but lately, and have never seen this section until to-day."
"Fare you not to the coronation?"
"In truth, yes, your reverence; Deo volente."
"Then must you soon turn bridle; London lies to the South, my son," said the Abbot, with a smile.
De Lacy laughed. "Never fear—I shall be there—Deo volente."
"You have learned the Christian virtue of humility, at all events," said the priest, as they entered the hall, where the monks were already seated around the long tables, awaiting the coming of the Abbot. Upon his appearance they all arose and remained standing while the Chancellor droned a Latin blessing. Then he took his carved chair at the smaller table on the dais, with the Knight beside him, and the repast began. During the meal, the Abbot made no effort to obtain his guest's destination or mission, but discussed matters of general import. He, himself, contrary to the usual habits of the monks of his day, ate but little, and when De Lacy had finished he withdrew with him.
"You are anxious to be on your way," he said, "and I will not detain you. These roads are scarce pleasant after night-fall."
In the courtyard the men-at-arms were drawn up awaiting the order to mount.
"Verily, you ride well attended, my son. The roads need not bother you," said the Abbot, as he ran his eyes over the array… "Methinks I have seen your face before," looking hard at Raynor Royk.
"Like as not, your reverence," said the old retainer calmly; "I am no stranger in Yorkshire."
At that moment Dauvrey led the Knight's horse forward, and Aymer turned to the monk before he could address another question to Raynor.
"I am much beholden, my lord Abbot, for your kindly entertainment and I hope some day I may requite it. Farewell."
"Farewell, my son," returned the monk. "May the peace of the Holy Benedict rest upon you."
He watched them until the last horseman had clattered through the gateway, then turned away.
"My mitre on it, they are Gloucester's men," he muttered.
When they had quit the Abbey, De Lacy again summoned Raynor Royk and questioned him regarding the Abbot of Kirkstall. The old soldier, like the majority of his fellows who made fighting a business, had a contemptuous indifference to the clerical class. A blessing or a curse was alike of little consequence to men who feared neither God, man, nor Devil, and who would as readily strip a sleek priest as a good, fat merchant. Raynor's words were blunt and to the point. He knew nothing of the Abbot except through the gossip of the camp and guard-room, and that made him a cadet of a noble family of the South of England, who for some unknown reason had, in early manhood, suddenly laid aside his sword and shield and assumed Holy Orders. He had been the Abbot of Kirkstall for many years, and it was understood had great power and influence in the Church; though he, himself, rarely went beyond the limits of his own domain. He was, however, regarded as an intriguing, political priest, of Lancastrian inclination, but shrewd enough to trim successfully to whatever faction might be in power.
Two of the remaining leagues had been covered, and they were within a mile or so of the Wharfe when, rounding a sharp turn, they came upon a scene that brought every man's sword from its sheath. The narrow road, at this point, was through a dense forest of oaks and beeches that crowded to the very edge of the track and formed an arch over it. The trees grew close together, and the branches were so interlocked that the sunlight penetrated with difficulty; and though the day was still far from spent, yet, here, the shadows had already begun to lengthen into an early twilight. Some two hundred yards down this road was a group of figures that swayed, now this way, now that, in the broil of conflict, while from it came the clash of steel. In the road was the dead body of a horse, and, upon either side of it, lay two men who would never draw weapon again. The one had been split almost to the nose by a single downright blow, and the other had been pierced through the throat by a thrust of the point.
At a little distance, with his back against a tree and defending himself vigorously from the assault of half a dozen men, stood a tall and elderly Knight. He was not in armor, except for a light corselet of steel, and already he had been more than once slightly wounded. His bonnet had been lost in the melée, and his grey hair was smudged with blood along the temple. Two more men were dead at his feet, and for the moment the others hesitated to press in and end the fight. That huge sword could make short work of at least another pair of them before the hands that held it would relax, and the uncertainty as to which would be the victims stayed their rush. Suddenly the Knight leaped forward, cut down the one nearest him, and was back to the tree before the others had recovered from their surprise. Then with a roar of anger they flung themselves upon him, and the struggle began anew. In their rage and impetuosity, however, they fought without method, and the Knight was able for a short interval, by skilful play, to sweep aside their points and to parry their blows. But it forced him to fight wholly on the defensive, and his age and wounds left no doubt as to the ultimate result. His arm grew tired, and the grip on his sword hilt weakened… His enemies pressed him closer and closer… A blow got past his guard and pierced his thigh. He had strength for only one more stroke; and he gathered it for a final rush and balanced himself for the opportunity. So fierce was the conflict that no one noticed the approach of De Lacy until, with a shout of "Au secours!" he rode down upon them. He had out-stripped all his escort, except his squire, and even he was several lengths behind. Taken by surprise, the assailants hesitated a moment, and so lost their only opportunity for escape. With a sweep of his long sword he shore a head clean from its shoulders, another man went down before his horse's rush; and then, swinging in a demi-volte, he split a third through collar-bone and deep into the breast. Meanwhile, the old Knight had slain one and Giles Dauvrey had stopped the flight of another. But one escaped, and he, in the confusion, had darted into the forest and was quickly lost amid its shadows.
"By St. Luke, sir!" said the old Knight, as he leaned heavily on his sword, "your coming was most opportune. My strength was almost spent."
"It was a gallant fight," said Aymer. "I feared every instant they would close ere I could reach you… But you are wounded!"
"Nay, they are only scratches and will heal shortly—yet the leg grows heavy and I would best rest it," and he seated himself on the turf at the foot of the tree. "This comes of riding in silk instead of steel—certes, I am old enough to know better."
De Lacy dismounted and aided him to examine his wounds. The only one of any consequence was in the leg; it had been made by a sword thrust; and the point having penetrated only the fleshy part of the thigh, no material damage was inflicted.
"Were you alone when assaulted?" asked De Lacy, the while he was binding a scarf around the injury.
"Yes—and another piece of childishness. I had despatched my squire on a sudden errand, a short ways back, and had no notion of danger, when these rogues suddenly set upon me. I made short work of two of them and would have got through, without difficulty, but for the death of my horse. They stabbed him, as you see. Then I got my back against the tree and managed to keep them off for a period. The rest you know. And to whom am I so heavily indebted?"
"My name is Aymer de Lacy."
"By St. Luke! John de Bury is glad that it is to a De Lacy he owes his life."
"Are you Sir John de Bury of Craigston Castle?"
"The same—although, but for you I would be of the Kingdom of Spirits instead."
"It would appear that my coming was very timely for us both," said De Lacy, "for my mission in these parts is with you."
"With me?" Sir John de Bury exclaimed, struggling to his feet. "Then, if you will let me have a horse, I will ride beside you to the castle—it is less than half a league distant."
"One moment, Sir John," said Aymer. "Did you recognize any of your assailants?"
"Not one, by St. Luke," said De Bury. "Some rascally robbers, I fancy; there are enough of them in these parts."
De Lacy motioned to Raynor.
"Do you know this carrion?" he asked.
The veteran dismounted and examined the bodies; turning with his foot those that had fallen face downward.
"They are strangers to me, my lord," he said. "I never saw hair of them before. But, perchance, this fellow can give you some information," and suddenly stooping, he seized one of the seeming dead men by the neck and jerked him to his feet. "Answer the Knight, rogue," he said. "Raynor Royk has seen too many dead bodies to be fooled by one that has not a scratch upon it."
"By St, Denis!" said Do Lacy, "he is the one my good horse knocked over. I clean forgot him. How now, fellow," he continued sternly, "what mean you by assaulting a Knight upon the King's highway; and who set you up to such work?"
The man, who had been simulating death, hoping so to escape, regarded De Lacy with a frown and in sullen silence.
"Speak," said Raynor, giving him a shake that made his teeth rattle.
For answer he suddenly plucked a small dagger from a concealed sheath and, twisting around, struck full and hard at the old soldier's face, which was unprotected by the steel cap. Raynor sprang back and avoided the blow, but in so doing he released his hold, and the rogue dashed instantly for cover. No one was in his way and his escape seemed certain, for the heavily armed men of De Lacy would have no chance in a foot race with one lightly clad. With two bounds he had reached the line of trees and was almost secure when, like a flash, Giles Dauvrey drew his heavy dagger and hurled it after him. The point struck full in the centre of the neck and sank deep into flesh and bone. With a gurgling cry he plunged forward and lay still—dead before his body touched the turf.
"By St. Peter! a neat throw, Sir Squire," said Raynor, as he jerked out the weapon and handed it to Dauvrey. "I mind never to have seen a better."
"Toss the other carrion by the roadside," said De Lacy; "we tarry here no longer."
When De Lacy, armed for the road, sought his host the following morning to say farewell, he found him in an easy chair near the fireplace in the hall, with his wounded leg resting on a stool, and the answer to Gloucester's letter in his hand. The old Knight made as though to arise, but the younger quickly placed his hand upon his shoulder and held him firm in his seat.
"Not so, Sir John," he insisted. "Do you remain quiet; I know the way to the courtyard."
"It grieves me sore that you cannot stay with me longer," said De Bury, allowing himself to be persuaded. "Yet I hope that we shall soon meet again. Craigston Castle is ever ready to receive you."
"And it shall have the chance, I assure you, when I am again in these parts—though our next meeting is likely to be in London; His Grace will scarce soon return to the North."
"Mayhap," replied Sir John; "but for the present, my wound and my duties keep me here. And, to speak truly, I am not unwilling; when you have reached my age, Sir Aymer, you will care little for the empty splendor of the Court—and that reminds me: you may meet there my niece, the Countess of Clare, and if you do—verily, you have met her," as De Lacy smiled, "and have been stricken like the rest. Beware, my son, your corselet is no protection against the shafts of a woman's eyes."
"In truth, I know it," De Lacy laughed. "I have met the Countess and … it is needless to say more. Yet it was at Pontefract and not at Windsor that I saw her. She is with the Duchess of Gloucester."
"In sooth! … And you are with the Duke of Gloucester," said De Bury, with a shrewd smile. "It is either fortune most rare or fate most drear. By St. Luke! I believe the debt has shifted and that you should thank me for having had the opportunity to save her uncle's life. Nay, I did but jest," he added hastily. "You have seen many a face, doubtless, in sunny France fairer far than hers; yet is she very dear to me and winning to my old eyes. Should you see her as you pass Pontefract—if you return that way—say to her that I am here, and that a short visit from her would be very welcome."
"It may be that the Duchess has left the castle," replied Aymer, "but your message shall reach the Countess."
"Best deliver it in person," said Sir John, kindly.
"Trust me for that," De Lacy answered—"and now farewell."
"A most gallant youth," said De Bury, when Sir Aymer was gone, "and of the right fighting stock; yet, if I mistake not, that sweet niece of mine is likely to make trouble for him."
The shorter route to London was by Sheffield, but De Lacy chose to go by way of Pontefract. It would, of course, bring him upon the main highway between York and London further North than by the Sheffield road; yet he took the chance of the Duke being delayed an extra day at York, in which event he would be able to await him at Doncaster, and join him at that place instead of at Nottingham.
It was still wanting something of noon when the low white walls of Kirkstall glinted before them. De Lacy rode steadily on, however, nodding pleasantly to the porter, who was standing in the gateway, but declining his invitation to enter. It was better, he thought, that Abbot Aldam should have no opportunity to question his men as to their destination of yesterday. When they reached the banks of Aire, he ordered a short halt; then swinging again into saddle, they splashed through the clear waters and breasting the opposite bank resumed the march at a rapid walk. Presently a body of horsemen hove in sight and, as they approached, De Lacy eyed them carefully. They were less than a dozen in number, and though they displayed no banner, yet the sun gleamed from steel head-pieces and chamfrons. The man in front, however, was plainly not in armor and his horse was strangely small. Then, as the distance was reduced, the horse became an ass and the rider the Abbot of Kirkstall.
"You travel early, Lord Abbot," said Aymer, as they met and halted.
"It is of our calling, my son. Religion knows no night. But you also must have risen early—on your way to the Coronation—Deo volente?" with a quizzical smile.
"As fast as horse will carry me."
"Perchance you may overtake the Duke of Gloucester; he left York to-day, I believe."
"He has rather a long start, methinks, for a stern chase," replied Aymer.
"Six hundred men move not so quickly as twelve, my son," said the monk. "Indeed, you might come up with him at Nottingham," he added carelessly.
"Peradventure, yes—Deo volente," wondering how much the Abbot knew of the matter and how much was shrewd conjecture. "But will not your reverence attend the Coronation? There is sure to be a brave array of churchmen there."
"No doubt," returned the Abbot; "but I care little for such gay scenes or for the intrigues of the Court. A country priest has no training for such traps. However, I trust we shall soon meet again; and, meanwhile, Kirkstall's gates are always open to you.Pax vobiscum."
"Hypocritical liar," muttered De Lacy, when the two troops had passed. "I would think twice ere I trusted myself in your power if I chanced to be an obstacle to your schemes. Giles, what think you of yon Abbot?"
"He is much of his kind and I like not the breed," replied Dauvrey. "Methinks he resembles rather his brethren of Italy than those I have seen in this land of mist and fog. He has been meddling with us, I warrant."
The Knight laughed.
"He has shown a most Christian solicitude for us, at all events," he said.
When De Lacy drew rein before the barbican of Pontefract, there was no need to wind horn to gain entrance, for the drawbridge was down and Lord Darby, with a score of attendants, was just departing.
"Now what in Satan's name brought him back?" Aymer muttered—though he knew the answer well enough. Then he raised his hand in salute. "I give you greeting, my lord," he said.
And Darby was even less pleased, for he was going and De Lacy was coming; but he, too, masked his face, and gave the welcome back in kind.
"Methought you would be with the Duke," he observed, drawing aside to let his men pass.
"And methought you were by now in London," De Lacy returned.
Darby smiled at the evasion. "Are you not for the Coronation?" he asked bluntly.
De Lacy nodded. "Indeed, yes—unless I am untowardly prevented."
"If you fare further to-day," said Darby, "I will wait and we can ride together to Doncaster—a short delay will be well repaid by your company."
It was but a play to know if De Lacy intended to stay the night at Pontefract, and it got its answer instantly.
"Your Lordship tempts me sorely," said Sir Aymer, "but I am obliged to remain here until the morrow." Then he smiled blandly at him; "it is unfortunate you have already started," he added.
Darby's black eyes brightened.
"Yes," said he, "it is."
He glanced quickly toward his escort, which was now at the foot of the hill, and laid his hand upon his bugle, as though to sound the recall—then he gave a mocking laugh.
"The luck is yours, this toss," he said; and with a wave of his hand, that might have been as much a menace as a farewell, he spurred away.
There were no faces at the windows as De Lacy crossed the courtyard, and he despatched a page to acquaint the Countess of Clare of his arrival and of his desire for a short interview. Presently the boy returned with the information that the Countess was with the Duchess, and that she could not see him before evening.
He sought the presence chamber at the usual hour, but it was deserted; and after waiting a short while he was on the point of leaving when the arras suddenly parted and the Countess entered.
"I am glad to see you," she said, giving him her hand, "even though you are a laggard and a thief."
"Why laggard?" De Lacy asked.
"Because you should be with the Duke and not here."
"Granted," said he. "Did you call Lord Darby laggard, too?"
"You will have to ask him; I do not now remember."
"I passed him at the gate, and from his temper I might guess you called him even worse."
"At least I know I did not dub him thief." Then she held out her hand. "The kerchief," she said peremptorily.
De Lacy slowly drew forth the bit of lace.
"Rather would I lose a quartering," he said very gently, "yet, in honor, I may not keep it against your will."
"And honor," said she seriously, as she took the kerchief, "is dearer far than all our quarterings… What brings you back to Pontefract?"
"You," said De Lacy, smilingly.
"Of course! but what else?—be serious."
"I am serious. But for you I would be riding fast and hard after the Duke. I stopped at Pontefract for two purposes; of which, one was to deliver to you a message from that gallant Knight, Sir John de Bury."
"My uncle!" she exclaimed. "He is in Scotland."
De Lacy shook his head. "He is now at Craigston Castle, whence I have just come, and bring you his loving greetings."
"The dear old man! How is he?"
"As strong as an oak, save for a slight wound."
"Wounded! How—where?" she demanded, with sharp concern.
"Only a sword thrust in the thigh, got in a skirmish with some brigands about this hour yesterday," said De Lacy; and told her the story of the fray in detail.
At the end the Countess arose.
"I must go now," she said. "The Duchess will need me; but first, tell me the other purpose that halted you here."
"The other," replied De Lacy slowly, "has been accomplished."
She looked at him questioningly.
"How so, if it were on my account you tarried?"
Aymer smiled.
"That I shall leave for you to guess," he said.
To his amazement the Countess did not reprove him, but blushed and looked away.
He bent eagerly toward her.
"My lady," he said, "in all the years I have worn spurs, I have yet to ask gage of woman. To-morrow I fare where there may be fightings enough, as you well know. Grant me, I pray, some token, and let my first sword stroke in England be as your Knight."
"Did you strike no blow yesterday?" she asked.
"None of which a soldier may be proud—it was but a lot ofcanaille."
For a moment the Countess looked him steadily in the eyes—then answered in those tones of finality from which he knew there lay no appeal.
"Sir Aymer, you ask for that which no man has ever had from me. Many times—and I say it without pride—has it been sought by Knights most worthy; yet to them all have I ever given nay. Beatrix de Beaumont bestows nor gage nor favor until she plight her troth."
With a smile, whose sweetness De Lacy long remembered in after days, she gave him her hand, and he bent low over it and touched it to his lips. Then suddenly she whisked it from him and was gone behind the arras.
When De Lacy—now in ordinary riding dress, his armor having been relegated to the baggage beasts—reached the main highway the following morning, he looked in vain for the dust of Gloucester's column or the glimmer of sun on steel. The road was deserted. Not a traveler was in sight, and there being no means of ascertaining if the Duke had passed, he adopted the only safe course and took up the march for London. Presently, upon cresting a hill, they met a pair of Black Friars trudging slowly along towards York; but little information was obtained from them, for they had not been on the road yesterday, having spent the last week at a neighboring monastery, which they had quit only that morning. It was rumored there, however, that the Duke of Gloucester had passed southward the prior day with a great train of attendants. This, at least, was some slight indication, and thanking them courteously De Lacy jogged on; but it was not until they reached Doncaster, about noon, that accurate knowledge of the Duke was obtained.
Halting before the inn of the "Silver Sun," a ramshackle old house, from over whose door, as proclaiming the character of the place, projected a long pole with a bunch of furze on the end, De Lacy called, "Ho, within!"
The landlord, a big, blear-eyed rogue, much the worse for wear and ale, came shambling out at the summons. His listlessness vanished quickly enough, however, at sight of the Knight and his following; and bowing to the ground he asked how he might serve them.
"With food and drink, good fellow," said De Lacy; "and that right quickly."
"Your worship shall be accommodated immediately with what I have," said the man with another bow that almost overbalanced him, "but if it is meagre, blame the Duke of Gloucester and his men."
"His Grace has passed?" asked Aymer.
"God's truth! he has," said the fellow. "He precedes you by a day. And, saving your lordship, if you travel to the Coronation, methinks you will have but scant fare along the road. They eat things clean as they go—but pay good silver for it."
"How many has the Duke in his train?"
"At least six hundred, I should say."
"He has doubled his force since he left Pontefract," observed Aymer to his squire, as the inn-keeper retired. "And there may be truth in what the rogue says—we may find slender provision in the wake of such a column."
"If there be enough for the horses, we can soon overtake them," said the squire; "for the men, it matters little: we all are soldiers."
De Lacy nodded. "We will push on steadily, and though I know little of this country, I fancy we will come up with the Duke by to-morrow night."
"By your lordship's permission," said old Raynor Royk respectfully, who had overheard the conversation, "we shall not see the White Boar banner this side Leicester town, and we shall scarce reach there before the evening of the second day from now."
And the old veteran, as events proved, was correct in his calculation.
When De Lacy entered Leicester, he hailed the first soldier he chanced upon and was informed that Gloucester lodged at the "White Boar," near the center of the town. It was a large and handsome stone house, with the second floor of timber overhanging the street; and before it swung the painted sign: a white boar and a thorn bush, indicating that the place was named in honor of the Duke. And De Lacy smiled as he thought how, to his own knowledge, at least half a dozen inns on the Continent had been hastily compelled to rechristen themselves when, from some cause or other, the particular individual whose name or arms they bore fell suddenly into disgrace. That such might happen in this case, however, never crossed his mind.
Passing the guards, who knew him and saluted, he entered the house, but was stopped at once by two strange squires, who informed him that the Duke was at present engaged. But even as they spoke, the inner door opened and Sir Richard Ratcliffe came out.
"Welcome back, Sir Aymer," he exclaimed. "The Duke has inquired for you. Why were you not announced?"
"I was told he was engaged," said Aymer.
"That was because they did not know you were of the Household. Come—" and himself admitted him.
The Duke was alone, seated before a rough table with his head upon his hand, and he did not stir until De Lacy stood directly before him. Then raising his eyes he fastened them intently upon the young Knight's face, though without sternness.
The Duke fastened his eyes upon the young knight's face.[Illustration: The Duke fastened his eyes upon the young knight's face.]
The Duke fastened his eyes upon the young knight's face.[Illustration: The Duke fastened his eyes upon the young knight's face.]
"You stopped at Pontefract," he said.
"I did, so please you," replied Aymer promptly. "I could gain but little by going farther that evening."
"And might gain much by staying," said Gloucester, sententiously. "However, I am glad, since you can give me word of the Duchess. How fares she?"
"As when you left, my lord. She sent her loving wishes to you."
Then drawing out De Bury's letter, he presented it without remark.
Richard read it carefully, and inquired regarding the journey to Craigston Castle. De Lacy narrated briefly the incident of the attack upon Sir John, but detailed at length the conduct of the Abbot of Kirkstall. The Duke, however, seemed more interested in the assault than in the priest, and asked particularly concerning the assailants. But on learning that neither De Bury nor the veteran Royk had recognized any of them, he dropped the matter with the remark:
"You have profited by your experience on the Continent. Not many would have thought to investigate these seeming outlaws."
De Lacy thanked the Duke for his words, and after being informed that he was to lodge at the inn with the rest of the suite, and that the march would be resumed an hour after daybreak, he withdrew, and having dismissed the squire with the horses went in search of Dacre or De Wilton.
It was a brave array that passed out of Leicester that Tuesday morning behind the royal Duke, and in soldiery fitness, man for man, its like was not in England. But it was a peculiar march, withal. No flourish of trumpets heralded the advance; no gaudy costumes clothed the attending Knights. The bugles were hushed, save where necessary to convey an order; the banners were bound in sable; upon every man was the badge of mourning; Richard himself was clad in black, and the trappings of his horse were raven-hued. Not since the great Henry died at Vincennes, sixty and more years before, had England mourned for a King; and as they passed along the highway and through the straggling villages, the people wondered at the soberly garbed and quiet column, forgetting, for the moment, that Edward the Fourth was sleeping in the chapel of St. George at Windsor and that his successor was not yet crowned.
All morning Gloucester rode steadily onward, halting near noon at a wayside hostelry for refreshment. The keeper, unnerved at the sudden advent of such a guest, could only stand and stare at the Duke, forgetting in his amazement even the accustomed bow with which he would have greeted an ordinary wayfarer, until a sharp word from Catesby brought him to his wits.
When the meal was almost finished, a sudden commotion arose outside, and the door was opened to admit one whose appearance showed every evidence of a rapid ride.
"Speak," said Richard.
The messenger saluted. "So please you, my lord, His Majesty will reach Northampton by four o'clock this afternoon."
Gloucester nodded; then arose and drew on his gauntlets.
"Gentlemen," said he, "we may not dally longer. Order up the horses, Ratcliffe, and let the route be sounded; we must be at Northampton ere the vespers chime."
"There will be some shrewd tongue play, methinks, and perchance sharp action this night," remarked De Wilton to De Lacy as, late in the afternoon, the towers of Northampton lifted before them. "Rivers and Grey are with young Edward—it will be Woodville against Plantagenet, and England for the stakes."
"A royal game, indeed," said De Lacy; "yet, surely, Edward's kingdom is secure."
"Pasque Dieu!" exclaimed De Wilton, "I can answer that better after he is crowned. All that I think now is that the situation is very grave. This meeting in yonder town is big with fate."
"I fear I am too new to my native land to appreciate the present situation," replied De Lacy; "yet I hope that war may be averted. There has been bloodshed enough in this fair land since the Roses were plucked."
"By St. George! my heart is with yours," returned De Wilton instantly; "yet, mark me, this night will make history for England. If not, then I mistake the Duke of Gloucester. It is obvious now that, to him, this meeting is no accident—it was timed for most adroitly. Why did he tarry so long at Pontefract, unless because it were easier to prick the Woodville bubble at Northampton than in London?"
"You know the Prince far better than I," said De Lacy, "but perchance you do not know that with Rivers ride two thousand men. If Gloucester intended such a course, why did he not bring a larger following? He was fully advised of the number of the King's escort."
"Because it would have aroused instant suspicion and left him no recourse but to force. He has some other plan, I warrant. Yet, should it come to blows, Richard himself is equal to a thousand men."
"Scarce so much as that, I fancy," said De Lacy, with a laugh. "Nathless, sooner will I ride behind the Boar of Gloucester with six hundred swords than under the Woodville banner with thrice the number."
"Well said, by St. George!" De Wilton exclaimed. "No Lancastrian upstart for me."
"Be not so energetic, Sir Ralph," said De Lacy, as Ratcliffe, hearing the words, looked back. "But tell me, I pray, who are these that approach?"
"Your eyes are keener than mine," returned De Wilton, "for I can scarce discern them at all. Is there any banner displayed?"
"Aye, but I cannot yet distinguish the device. … There are at least fifty of them, and they are riding most marvellously fast. By St. Denis! they cannot travel far at such a pace. When the sun next falls athwart the banner, I will try to make it out… There … Pardieu! it is a queer bearing:argent, à la fasce-canton à desire de gueules. Do you know it, or have I not read it aright?"
"Nay, your heraldry is not amiss," said De Wilton. "It is the red fess and canton of the Woodvilles. Yonder comes Lord Anthony of Scales and Rivers."
"Then the struggle is on, I ween," remarked De Lacy. "Let us move closer to the Duke. I would not miss this meeting."
When the horsemen were a short distance away, they broke from a hand gallop into a walk, and then all halted except the two who were in front. Of these, one was a man nearing middle age, of most courtly bearing and noble countenance; while his companion, who resembled him somewhat, was considerably younger. Meanwhile, Gloucester had kept steadily on; but when the others dismounted and advanced on foot, he instantly drew rein, and as Ratcliffe threw himself from the saddle and held the stirrup he stepped to the ground.
"Welcome, noble Rivers and Grey!" he exclaimed. "How fares His Majesty?"
The two men bent over the Duke's hands, and the elder replied: "Fit as a King, and most anxious to greet his great and noble uncle."
"Not more than is his uncle to greet him," said Gloucester; and Rivers read two meanings in the words. "Therefore, let us proceed; and do you and Sir Richard ride beside me; I have questions by the score to ask."
Presently, as they neared the gate of the town, Gloucester turned to the Earl.
"Where does the King lodge—at the castle?" he asked.
"His Majesty," replied Rivers, with a quick glance at the Duke, "has a boy's eagerness to reach London, and insisted upon pushing on as far as Stoney Stratford—this afternoon. He had already left Northampton when we learned of your approach. A moment more and we also would have been gone, for it found us with foot in stirrup."
There was a smile on the Duke's lips as he listened to this unexpected news.
"I do not wonder at Edward's haste," he answered lightly. "Who would not be impatient when a crown is waiting for him?—though I regret that it postpones our meeting till the morrow."
"You will not follow the King to-night?" asked Rivers quickly.
"No, I shall lie here if you and Sir Richard will bear me company. But if you rejoin him, I must perforce go, too—for me now to remain here alone would be discourteous."
"Your Grace honors us overmuch; we shall stay and gladly," replied Rivers readily. "Edward has the others of his Household, and can spare us for one night."
"Marry, yes!" said Richard. "Vaughan and Croft and Worcester's Bishop can hold him tight enough, else has the Welsh air changed them greatly."
At the large inn near the market-place the party halted, and Gloucester, after a few words aside with Ratcliffe, summoned Catesby and retired to his room. An hour later he descended and requested Rivers and Grey to join him at the evening meal.
Scarcely had it begun when down the street came the rattle of bridle-rings and the click of many hoofs. Rivers glanced apprehensively at the Duke, and then at Grey, and then back again at the Duke, who was sipping his wine apparently quite oblivious of the approaching noise. In another moment, at the outer door an imperious voice demanded:
"Is His Grace of Gloucester within?"
At the tones, Rivers started and dropped his knife upon his plate; his brows contracted slightly and a troubled look dawned in his eyes.
"Ha, De Lacy, well met!" came the voice again.
"By St. Denis! my lord, I am glad to see you," was the response. "It is a pleasure I had not counted on this side of London. Have you seen the Duke?"
"I arrived but this moment. Will you take me to him?"
"Assuredly—he is now at supper, but I shall venture to admit you."
They crossed the outer room, the door opened, and De Lacy stepped within and announced:
"The Duke of Buckingham!"
The man who entered was full six feet in height and slender, and bore himself with the easy assurance of one accustomed to respect and deference. His face was handsome in general outline and effect, though the features were not accordant with one another. Beneath a mass of ruddy hair, a broad, high forehead arched a pair of shifty grey eyes and a large, full nose overhung a mouth of indifferent strength, while the whole was gripped by a chin that was a fit complement to the forehead. He paused for an instant, as his glance fell on Gloucester's companions, and his surprise was very evident—then he doffed bonnet and came forward.
"By St. Paul!" exclaimed Richard, rising and extending his hand, "it is so long since I have seen the Duke of Buckingham that it was well to announce him formally."
"It is only those with the fame of a Gloucester that require no introduction," replied Stafford, with a graceful bow that included also Rivers and Grey.
"Come, come, Sir Duke!" said Richard, "this is too much of a family gathering for the turning of compliments."
"In truth, yes," returned Buckingham—"a half-brother and three uncles of our King—but, pardieu! where is His Majesty? Methought you traveled with him, fair brother-in-law."
"Edward lies to-night at Stoney Stratford," replied Rivers.
"Aye, it is unexpected all around, this meeting, it seems," said Richard suavely. "And, by St. Paul! a happy chance indeed. Come, Buckingham, the gross chare grow cold; take place and fall to… Catesby, tell the cook to sauce another capon and unbrace a mallard."
In all history there scarce had been a supper party such as this. There, about that table in this humble hostelry, were gathered four noblemen—three of them the most powerful in all England—who were arrayed against each other as leaders of the two factions that were playing for the highest stakes a mortal knows. Every one knew the relative positions of the others (for Rivers naturally judged Gloucester to be against the Woodvilles); that, within a few short days, the final move must be made; and that all their gayety and jocosity were hollow, and assumed but as a mask. At that very moment, while they smiled and played at friendship, Rivers and Grey were consumed with anxiety at this sudden appearance of Buckingham, their arch-enemy, and were hating him and Richard with fierce intensity; Buckingham was regarding them with all the fervid resentment the old Nobility had for this upstart family; while Gloucester, with neither hatred nor resentment in his mind, but with the cool, calm judgment that ever rose above the pettiness of personal feeling, was viewing them only as pawns that hampered his game of statecraft and therefore must be swept from the board.
It was near midnight when they quit the table and retired to their rooms above. Richard dismissed Catesby, who as Chamberlain was waiting for him, and drawing the rude chair to the many-paned window he opened it, and sat looking out upon the street below. Comparative quiet had settled over the town, broken now and then by a noise from the camp, or the shouts of some roistering soldiers far down the road. Around the inn there was only the tramp of the guards, the rattle of their arms, or the low word of greeting as they met. Presently there came an easy knock upon the door and Buckingham entered and shot the bolt behind him. Gloucester had turned his head at the first sound, but said nothing until the Duke was beside him. Then, pointing toward the heavens, he remarked, as he closed the casement:
"It will be a fair day to-morrow."
"All days are fair for some purposes," said Buckingham quickly; "and the sooner the day the fairer to my mind."
Richard smiled. "Patience, my dear Stafford, patience. It will come soon enough even for your eagerness, I fancy. Did I not say to-morrow would be fair?"
"You are pleased to speak in riddles."
"Not so; you used the riddle and I but spoke in kind. However, trifles aside. Your arrival was well timed; you should have seen Rivers' face when he heard your voice; it was worth a Knight's good fee. For the first time he began to see how he had blundered. By St. Paul! a child could have done better. The game is easy now."
Buckingham looked puzzled.
"What do you mean, my lord?" he said. "I have been following blindly your direction in this affair, and I must admit that the point is very hazy to me."
"Do you not see," said the Duke, "that by remaining here and sending young Edward ahead at my approach, Rivers and Grey have overreached themselves completely? In their desire to keep me from the King—for plainly they did not know of your coming—they have separated themselves from Edward and his two thousand men; and in so doing have lost both Edward and themselves."
"Yet the two thousand men are still with Edward, are they not?" Buckingham insisted. "I have three hundred, but methinks even though you ride with twice that number we would be utterly outmatched."
"Nay, you do not perceive my plan," said Richard. "It will not be necessary to fight. I could win now with but a hundred men. We will———"
At that moment a clear voice came up from the street. Richard listened an instant and then opened the casement.
"De Lacy," he called, "come hither… I want you," he said when the young Knight entered, wrapped in his long cloak, "with all possible secrecy, to secure all the doors of the inn and bring the keys to me. At any that cannot be locked, post two of my personal retainers with orders to permit no one to depart the place. That done, take fifty men and station them along the road to where it joins the Roman highway this side the Ouse. Bid them allow no one to travel southward ere sunrise without express authority from me. Act instantly."