From this moment Gloucester moved with no uncertain nor halting steps toward the object of his ambition. With the death of Hastings was removed the only man in England who might have blocked his purpose through either power or ability; and he and Buckingham were left free to play out to its end the wonderful game that won a kingdom without a single disturbance or the drawing of a sword. The moves followed one another in bewildering rapidity, yet with such consummate skill, that when in the great chamber of Baynard's Castle the final offer of the Crown was made, and the Lord Protector with seeming diffidence accepted it on Stafford's urging, it appeared but a natural consequence of spontaneous events, brought about only by the force of circumstances and through no deliberate human agency.
In some of these events Sir Aymer de Lacy was an actor, while in others he was but a spectator or bore no part at all. From the grim death-scene in the Tower he had gone back to Crosby Hall and a long talk with Sir John de Bury, wherein he learned what had brought the old Knight so hastily to London and the Lord Chamberlain to the block; and which, ere nightfall, was to send Sir Ralph de Wilton galloping back to Pontefract, bearing an order constituting the Earl of Northumberland Lord High Steward, and directing the trial of Rivers, Grey and Vaughan for the same crime that had proven Hastings' doom: conspiracy against the Lord Protector. He had chanced to ride by St. Paul's Cross while Dr. Shaw was in the midst of his sermon on "Bastard slips shall not take deep root." He had gone with Buckingham to the Guild Hall two days later; had listened with strong approval to the speech wherein Stafford boldly advocated the setting aside of the young Edward in favor of his uncle; and had lent his own voice to the cry: "King Richard! King Richard!" He had witnessed the tender at Baynard's Castle and the halting acceptance by the Duke—had heard the heralds proclaim the new King in the streets of London—and had seen him ascend the marble seat at Westminster and begin the reign that promised so bright a future. He had ridden in the cavalcade that accompanied the King from the Tower on the Saturday preceding the formal coronation, and had formed one of the throng that participated in the gorgeous ceremony of that July Sunday, when all the power of England's nobility passed from the Palace to the Abbey to honor him who was to be the last of his Line.
Never for generations was England to see such a gathering of her Peers and Barons and Churchmen as walked in that procession. There, was the huge Northumberland, fresh from Pontefract—where but a week aback he had sent Rivers and his friends to the headsman—now bearing Mercy's pointless sword; Stanley (his peace made by empty words) with the Mace; Suffolk with the Sceptre; Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the Realm, with the Crown; and Richard himself, in purple gown and crimson surcoat; the Bishop of Durham on his right and the Bishop of Bath on his left; and behind him, bearing his train, the Duke of Buckingham… And then the Queen's attendants: Huntington with her Sceptre; Lisle with the Rod and Dove; Wiltshire with her Crown. She, herself, paler than pearls and fragile as Venetian glass, yet calm and self-contained, moved slowly in the heavy royal robes; and after her walked Margaret, Countess of Richmond and mother of him who next would wear the crown, the usurping Tudor.
And then the throne was reached—the music swelled in solemn chorus—the aged Primate raised the crown and placed it on Richard Plantagenet's head—the "Te Deum" rolled out in thunderous tones—and a new King reigned in England.
It was in the late afternoon of the following day that De Lacy, strolling along Bishopgate Street, chanced upon Sir John de Bury near the White Hart Inn, the newest and most popular hostelry in London.
"By St. Luke," Sir John exclaimed, "you are a welcome sight. Come and drink a measure of Burgundy, and I will tell you a bit of news."
They pushed their way through the motley throng in the main room and, coming upon the landlord, were conducted with many bows and smiles to a retired corner and in a moment the wine was set before them. Sir John lifted high the vessel and watched the heavy liquid fall. Then taking a sip he let it run slowly down his throat.
"Not bad, by half," he said, smacking his lips with the air of a connoisseur, and drained his cup at a draught. "What think you of the Coronation?"
"It was a noble spectacle, and a proper act for England."
"Aye, it was—yet I would that Hastings and not Stanley had borne the Mace."
"And that Stanley had been sent in Hastings' place to Chapel Green?" De Lacy asked.
"By St. Luke, yes!" said Sir John instantly; then he leaned over and put his hand on Aymer's shoulder—"and truly, it was a gallant thing you and De Wilton did that mournful morning. Has Gloucester—the King, I mean—said aught to you of it, or has it not reached his ears?"
De Lacy laughed. "He knew it ere he left the Tower, but he found no fault with us."
"And if I know Richard, he liked you both the better for it… Here, fellow, another measure of wine, and see that it be of the same barrel… These rogues need watching else will they serve poorer stuff the second time, as you have likely noticed."
"Human nature, and innkeepers' nature in particular, does not change between Dover and Calais; yet they would hardly do us the discourtesy to think that our heads muddled so easily."
"Nay, lad, I was but following my motto that it is better to warn before the fight than after."
"Did you warn before the fight in Yorkshire?"
"By St. Luke! there was the fitting moment for the motto, but the villains would give me no breathing space to speak. And that reminds me: do you recall the smooth-tongued Abbot of Kirkstall?"
"In truth, I do," said Aymer. "The most inquisitive monk I have chanced upon in many a day."
"Well, the notion grips me hard that the Abbot Aldam could tell some tales about that little incident, and violate no secret of confessional either. There have been strange rumors lately touching his Abbey and the style of servitors it employs at times."
"Then we at least decreased their numbers—but one escaped, if I remember rightly," Aymer replied.
"Aye—one; but it is enough. Some day I may chance upon him and then … I shall know the story."
"Can you recognize the rogue?"
"Instantly. I marked him well, for I had wounded him in the face by a thrust he turned but half aside. A short, thick-set, red-haired knave, with a nose as flat as a sword blade."
"I shall not forget," said Aymer, "and mayhap I may find the story for you. But it occurs to me you spoke of a bit of news."
"By St. Luke, yes! I nigh forgot it, yet it would have mattered little. It is only that I ride North two days hence."
"To Craigston Castle?"
"The same, unless I meet with misadventure on the way."
"In the guise of a flat-nosed, red-haired knave," said Aymer with a laugh.
"A pleasant misadventure, truly! Though, were there any likelihood of that, you would best accompany me and save me from the rogue a second time."
"Nay, my lord, an old bird is not caught twice in the same snare. I scarce fancy you will be surprised a second time, or that he will again venture voluntarily within your reach."
"Then you may not be persuaded to go with me?"
De Lacy shook his head. "I fear I am not open to persuasion; I could not leave the Court at present."
"It is a pity," said Sir John, as he flung the score on the table and arose, "for I had thought the Countess of Clare might like to have you with us. But of course, if the King cannot spare you, there is an end to the matter."
De Lacy looked at the old Knight quizzically for an instant and then laughed frankly.
"It was not fairly done, Sir John," he said; "you caught me foul—you asked first, and reasoned only after I was helpless."
"Well, there is no crime in reconsidering. Will you come?"
"If the King will grant me leave, I shall fare with you."
"With me or with the Countess?" Sir John laughed.
Upon leaving De Bury, Sir Aymer de Lacy bent his steps to Baynard Castle, where the King had come that evening.
At the main door he encountered the Duke of Buckingham in company with Sir William Stanley and was passing them with a courteous salutation when Stafford caught his arm.
"Here, De Lacy," he exclaimed—and Aymer saw he was excited and angry, "you know all the facts! Tell Sir William who is most responsible for the crowning of Gloucester … who sent him message to Pontefract … who joined him at Northampton … who has done all the open work here in London?"
"Nay, Stafford," broke in Stanley, "be not so wrathful. Doubtless His Majesty will be most fair and liberal in the matter. Give him time to feel his crown."
"Time!" retorted the other. "Time! He has had time and to spare. Am I not co-heir to De Bohun through Aleanore, Hereford's daughter, and will Richard of Gloucester think to retake what Henry of Monmouth abjured? By the Lord Omnipotent, let him dare it!"—and with a fiercely menacing gesture he stalked into the courtyard, and springing to horse rode noisily away followed by his attendants.
"His Grace appears a trifle annoyed," said De Lacy.
Sir William Stanley shrugged his shoulders. "It would seem so; yet it were unwise to parade it. However, Buckingham was ever hasty of temper."
"Nathless, the question was embarrassing and I would not care to answer it before a Stanley," Aymer reflected, as he ascended the stairs to the presence chamber.
Baynard Castle, though large and roomy for a nobleman's town residence, was not suited to the needs of a monarch, and as the Court was about to move from Westminster to Windsor, Richard had brought only a few of his favorite Knights and personal attendants with him for the short time he intended to tarry in London. When De Lacy entered the Hall, Richard was not in presence, and lounging at ease on the numerous bancals were some of the minor officers of the Household. He made his way by them to join a group that was gathered about the Duke of Norfolk, when immediately there was a touch upon his arm, and a page summoned him to the King.
Richard was standing at an open window that overlooked the courtyard. He turned as De Lacy entered and demanded abruptly:
"What said Buckingham and Stanley yonder?"
Aymer was too used, by this time, to Richard's ways to be surprised, and he repeated the conversation as accurately as his memory held it and without comment.
The King listened with half-closed eyes, an inscrutable smile upon his lips.
"It may happen, De Lacy," he said, "that there will come a time when you must choose between Henry Stafford and Richard Plantagenet."
"Not so, Sire," Aymer replied. "As against Your Majesty there can never be a choice for me."
Richard looked him straight in the eyes. "I believe it," he said. "I would there were more De Lacys."
Aymer bowed low. "Your Majesty is very gracious; and it encourages me to prefer a request."
"Say on, sir," the King said kindly.
"I would ask a few weeks' leave from Court."
"Wherefore?"
"To accompany Sir John de Bury to Craigston; and to stop at my own castle of Gaillard on my return."
Richard laughed lightly. "It is granted, and may success attend you," he said. "And by St. Paul! if you win the Countess you shall wed her, else I am not King of England."
De Lacy blushed like a girl, and the King laughed more heartily.
"Methinks Sir John is friendly to you," he added, "and in that you are very fortunate. But you have rivals in plenty, so watch them carefully. Remember, I do not make the match, but should you two wish it, none shall make it otherwise."
"Perchance some day I may remind Your Majesty of those words," said De Lacy.
"And shall find me ready to fulfill them, though I bring an army at my back… If need be, you are now excused from attendance until you return, but report to me to-morrow night; I may have some service for you on the journey… Announce me."
Swinging back the door, Aymer lifted the arras.
"The King!" he heralded.
Instantly quiet reigned and every one sprang to his feet and uncovered.
"Be seated, gentlemen," said the King… "Ah! Norfolk, a word with you," he said, and led the way to a large window in a far corner of the apartment.
"Well, Howard," said he, "the break with Stafford nears—though it comes quicker than I had thought. Were you here when he left me?"
"In sooth, yes, and he was wildly angry. He overtook the younger Stanley at yonder door and his words were high enough to carry back, though not distinguishable."
"I know their import. De Lacy met him in the courtyard, and was appealed to to tell who made Gloucester King."
"The man is a fool or crazy," the Duke exclaimed; "and thrice so to make a Stanley his confidant. Methought he would have got a little wisdom lately by association with Your Majesty."
"Nay, Stafford has no statecraft in him and can learn none."
"Yet it would seem he deems himself a second Kingmaker," the Earl Marshal remarked sententiously.
"Let him beware then lest he meet a Warwick's death—or one less noble."
"But, Sire, do you trust entirely this De Lacy if Buckingham grow discontent? Was he not first vouched for by him?"
"Did you ever hear of a De Lacy untrue to England's King?"
"By the Rood, no! they were ever stanch for him who wore the crown—even as Howard has been."
"And I trust De Lacy as I trust Howard," with the winning smile he could use so well when he wished.
The old Peer bent knee and made to kiss the royal hand.
"Not so, John," said Richard, raising him; "let that go save where ceremony demand it. Your honest grip makes faith enough for Gloucester."
After some serious consultation Norfolk took his leave, and Richard, passing on to his apartments and to the window that overlooked the courtyard, watched him ride off to his own abode. Then with serious face he turned away.
"Norfolk and Surrey are trustworthy," he said half aloud, "but who else of the Peers? … By St. Paul! it would seem well to finish Edward's business of snuffing out the old Nobility. Yet I have no Teuton and Tewkesbury to work an opportunity, nor are the Yorkists united behind me… It is a hard problem; and the way through is far from clear… Buckingham—the Stanleys—Northumberland—all their friends—I trust them not … yet must favor them with power that ere long may work my ruin… It has become fashionable in England it would seem, since the Second Richard's time, to crown a new King ere the old one died. It was so with him of Bordeaux—of Windsor—and my own dear nephew—and pardieu! it may be the same with me. Yet, no! By St. Paul, no! If that time ever come, there shall be a change in the fashion: when the new King feels his crown, Richard of Gloucester will be dead."
But the following day brought a change of plans. The King had held council with himself during the night; and in the morning there went forth the word that in late July he would make a royal progress through his realm, and in the ancient town of York be crowned a second time. Of this purpose Richard had promptly informed the Queen at Westminster; and the same messenger who bore her answer bore also a letter from the Countess of Clare to Sir John de Bury, advising him that she would not go North, as had been intended, but would wait and attend Her Majesty; explaining that not only could she thus make the long journey with no trouble to him and with more comfort to herself, but also that she was moved by the express desire of the Queen, who was loath to lose her.
Sir John straightway sought the castle, and De Lacy had small trouble in persuading him to remain and ride back to Yorkshire with the King. That evening Aymer informed His Majesty that, on account of the new orders, he would not relinquish for the present his duties as Knight of the Body, and Richard smiled comprehendingly, but made no comment.
Three days later the Court moved to Windsor. On the morning after the arrival there, as De Lacy rounded the front of St. George's Chapel, he came upon the Queen, attended only by the Countess of Clare. He uncovered, and with a deep obeisance was passing on when the former addressed him.
"Sir Aymer," she said, and he halted and bowed low again, "methought you had left us for distant Yorkshire. We are glad the information was not sound.—Are we not, Beatrix?" with a sly glance at her companion.
"Whatever pleases you pleases me," the Countess answered with a frank smile.
"And do you know, Sir Aymer," said the Queen, who was in a happy mood, "that the Countess of Clare had also proposed leaving us for Craigston Castle … and, indeed, upon the very morning you had fixed to go?"
"What rare fortune to have met her on the way," said Aymer.
"Greater fortune, think you, than to be with her here at Windsor?"
The Countess looked at her mistress in blank surprise.
"Could there be greater fortune than to be where Your Majesty is in presence?" Aymer asked.
"Where she is in presence at this particular moment, you mean?" taking Beatrix's hand.
"Your Majesty is hardly fair to Sir Aymer or to me," said the Countess quickly. "You draw his scanty compliments from him like an arrow from a wound—hurting him all the while."
The Queen laughed. "If all Sir Aymer's wounds hurt him no more, he is likely to know little pain."
"I know he is French-bred and a courtier," Beatrix answered.
"As you told me once before in Pontefract," De Lacy observed.
"And as I am very apt to tell you again when you are presumptuous and flattering."
"Henceforth I shall be neither."
"Charming, Sir Aymer, charming … if you could."
"I can."
"Till you meet another woman."
"It is not in the other woman that my danger lies."
Beatrix frowned, and the Queen laughed.
"The Countess seems to know your failings, Sir Aymer," she said, "and may be this is a good time for you to know them, too. Nay, Beatrix, you need not accompany me… I am going to the Chapel. Do you take Sir Aymer in hand and bring him out of his French habits, since you do not like them. For my part, I think them very charming."
"Surely she loves you," said De Lacy, when the Queen had gone.
The Countess gave him her shoulder.
"She takes a queer way to show it then," she retorted, her foot beating a tattoo on the stones.
He smothered a laugh. "Shall we walk?" he asked.
He got a shrug and a louder tattoo.
"Since the Queen has left me to your tender mercies," she said coldly, "I am at your service."
They walked in silence; he smiling; she stern-eyed and face straight to the fore.
"Does it occur to you, my lady," he said after a while, "that you are a bit unjust?"
The small head lifted higher … then presently, with rising inflection: "Unjust—to whom?"
"To the Queen."
"I am sorry."
"And unjust to me also."
No answer—only a faint toss of the ruddy tresses.
"And to me also," he repeated.
She surveyed him ignoringly—and turned away, eyebrows lifted.
De Lacy smiled and waited.
Presently she gave him a quick, sidelong glance. He was gazing idly toward the river… Again she looked … and again—each time a trifle more deliberately… Finally she faced him.
"You are unusually disagreeable to-day," she said.
"I am sorry," he answered instantly. "I do not wish to be."
It was so contrary to what she had expected that she halted in sheer surprise.
"I wonder," she said musingly… "I wonder …" then she laughed forgivingly. "Come, let us cease this constant banter. We have been at it ever since we met, and it profits nothing to our friendship."
"With all my heart," he exclaimed, taking her hand and pressing it with light fingers.
She drew it away sharply.
"Do you think that a fitting way to begin?"
"Your pardon," he said softly; "I fear I did not think."
She looked at him with quick scrutiny.
"We islanders are not given to impulse, Sir Aymer, and do not trust it deeply. I forgive you—but … not again."
"By St. Denis! I seem to blunder always," he said sadly. "I please you in nothing and am ever at fault."
"You are unjust to yourself," she protested. "You please me in much, and … you ought to know it;" then she blushed… "Let us go on the terrace," and hurried across… "Now talk to me … not about me," she said rather curtly, as she sat down.
De Lacy was growing used to these swift shifts of humor, these flashes of tenderness, veering instantly to aloofness, and then back to a half-confidential camaraderie, that was alluringly delicious, yet irritatingly unsatisfying. At first he had tried to force the situation to his own liking,—to break through her moods and effect an atmosphere more equable,—but she soon had taught him the folly of it, and never failed to punish when he forgot. This time she, herself, had broken through a bit, but that would only make his punishment the heavier.
At first the conversation was aimless and disconnected. De Lacy let it drift and the Countess was rather distrait and steered it uncertainly. Presently she took a grip upon herself, and, before he realized it, he was telling her of the French Court; of Louis the King, whom men called "The Fell," but who was, he said, the ablest of the Valois, and would do much for France—though not by the means then deemed most honorable,—being far ahead of his Age. He spoke of the brave, dead St. Pol, the Constable—after Dunois, the greatest since Du Guesclin's time. He told her of their palaces … of the life of their women, though he touched but lightly upon its loose gayety … of the cities … of the great domains whereon the noble had the "right of high justice, the middle and the low," and indeed up until very lately had done his own sweet will toward aught but the King, and in many cases toward the King himself… And at length he mentioned having seen and met Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, at the Court of Blois. Concerning him the Countess asked many questions, and Aymer answered them as best he could. He had not given the Earl much thought, nor had he offered him any attentions, for he was regarded as little more than adventurer—though one with strangely plenty of money; and who was tolerated by the crafty Louis only because he might be useful some time to play against the Yorkist King of England.
"Methinks there is more in the Tudor than you credit," said the Countess. "I have heard much of him, and from one who knows him well—or did a few years since. He is not a brave Knight or skilled warrior may be, but he has a certain shrewdness and determination which would make him a formidable rival for the Crown, if he were able to muster a following or had an opportunity to arouse any enthusiasm for his cause."
"And from what wise person did you learn all this?" De Lacy asked with an amused smile.
"From the Countess of Northumberland."
"And whence comes her knowledge?"
"If you were not new to England you would not ask," said she. "Henry Tudor was for years a prisoner of state in her father's castle of Pembroke. She knows him from daily companionship and should be competent to judge. Indeed, as the Lady Maude Herbert, it is said she was betrothed to him."
"Why did she marry Percy?"
"That, I can only guess. Her father fell at Edgecote; there were six other sisters … and the great Earl came a-wooing. Besides, Richmond was in exile, had lost his patrimony and a price was on his head."
"And she never loved him?" De Lacy asked.
"Nay, that I do not know; but she was very young, and if she did it was not likely a lasting passion. She seems happy enough as chatelaine of Topcliffe."
"Doubtless—yet, nevertheless, there is another woman in England than Stanley's Countess who may be dangerous to Richard if Henry Tudor ever seek an issue with him."
"You mean the Countess of Northumberland?"
"Aye. Percy wields huge power. He and the Stanleys together could well-nigh topple the throne. Lord Stanley no man trusts—and it was a Percy whose treason sent the Second Richard to his doom."
"Richard of Bordeaux was not Richard of Gloucester," she argued.
"In truth, no, but the conditions then were far more favorable to the King. Believe me, wore I the Crown, these two women would give me more concern than all the nobles in my kingdom."
"What would you do if youwereKing?" she asked, smiling.
De Lacy held up his hands. "Do! When I cannot control even one woman, I would make a merry mess with two and a kingdom besides."
Just then a horn spoke merrily from the courtyard and De Lacy sprang up.
"Richard is for a ride in Windsor forest and I must away," he said. "I would that you went, too."
"We do go," she said. "Let us haste or I shall be late to horse."
"May I ride with you?" he asked.
She nodded. "For a little way."
"Why not all the way?" he persisted.
"Because the King would object"—it was the flash of tenderness now.
"Nay, he would be quite satisfied," De Lacy answered unthinkingly.
She stopped short.
"Indeed!" she exclaimed frigidly; "well, I would not;" and turning abruptly, she entered a private passage and disappeared.
"Now the Devil take my foolish tongue," Aymer muttered, as the door clanged behind her… Then the horn rang out again, and in vast disgust and anger he hurried to his room and into riding dress.
But his haste made him awkward and he lost precious moments; and when at length he rushed down the stairs and into the courtyard it was to see Lord Darby swing the Countess of Clare into saddle and dash off beside her.
De Lacy swore such a string of good round French oaths that the silent Giles Dauvrey was so startled from his wonted equanimity that for the moment he forgot to mount and follow, but stood watching his master in serious wonder, as Selim raced toward the gate.
However, anger would not mend the matter and good humor might, so he put on a smiling front. And when he presently neared the Countess and Lord Darby he reined close beside her and cantered by with bonnet doffed.
"I shall claim your promise presently," he said, his eyes seeking her face—though he doubted much if she would give it to him.
But her humor had veered again, and she answered with such a bewitching smile he was utterly bewildered, and for a time Selim went whither and how he listed.
"May I ask what is the promise?" said Lord Darby.
The Countess raised her eyebrows in annoyed surprise.
"I promised to ride with him this morning."
"The promise is cancelled now."
"And why, my lord?"
"He was a sluggard at the start."
She bent forward and put aright a bit of Wilda's mane.
"Nay, sir, why should you wish him punished," said she lightly, "since it gives you a little of my society?"
He leaned suddenly over and laid his hand upon her arm.
"Will you not give it to me until the end of life?" he asked earnestly.
She gazed at him a moment in startled surprise—then laughed merrily.
"You said that with delightful promptness, my lord," she exclaimed. "Practice makes one proficient, surely."
A cold light settled in Darby's eyes, and he straightened in the saddle and faced to the front.
"If a man be a gallant once, need that condemn his words to disbelief forever?" he asked… "May not even the most confirmed trifler have, some time, an honest passion?"
"Doubtless, yes," she said, with a shrug of the shapely shoulders… "Only …"
"Only … only what?"
"Only that it is very rare and its proof requires strong demonstration and long service."
"And I am ready to do both," he said eagerly.
"Then, one day, my lord, you will bring great joy to some loving heart," she replied, looking him calmly in the eyes.
An awkward silence followed—that was not broken until Sir Aymer came galloping back. With a familiarly courteous salute he swung Selim around; and Lord Darby, seizing the opportunity, bowed low to the Countess, and with a menacing glare at De Lacy—who met it with a careless smile—he spurred away.
The Countess had observed Darby's look and she followed him with a frown … and De Lacy wisely kept silent.
"I am glad you came," she said presently—then pulled Wilda to a walk. "Let us loiter; since we are late it is small matter when we reach the rendezvous."
"Why reach it at all?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Why not ride?" he persisted.
She looked at the horses thoughtfully … then shook her head. "I would far rather ride," she said, "but the Queen expects me; duty calls."
"St. Denis! I had quite forgot—duty calls me, too."
But they did not take the horses from their walk, and it was far after time when they reached the wide open space in the forest, where the party had assembled.
Upon one side were pitched three large silk pavilions; the center one of red and blue—the colors of the Kingdom; the others, gold and blue—the colors of the House of York. In front and for a wide space around on the soft turf were spread the thick carpets of the far East. Before the tents paced two archers of the guard; and stationed at close intervals around the clearing were a goodly force of those veterans, all of whom had been among the personal retainers of Richard when he was Duke of Gloucester.
Not over two score of the Court had been bidden, and these were clustered before the royal pavilion when De Lacy and the Countess rode up. A volley of chaff greeted them as he lifted her from the saddle. One suggested that they had lost their way … another that it was a shame to bring in horses so utterly exhausted … another that they must have stumbled on the Court by accident … another that there was powder on De Lacy's sleeve… And so it went; until Beatrix, in sheer desperation, gathered her skirts about her and fled into the tent.
The Queen was alone, resting on a couch in the inner apartment; but she had heard the noisy greetings outside and had wondered who were the victims. Beatrix's entrance and snapping eyes told her; and she met her with a smile of sympathy.
"Do not mind them, dear," she said. "They mean nothing and you have beard a dozen others treated so, under similar circumstances."
"I know … I know … Your Majesty," she replied, with nervous energy … "but it was most annoying … and with Sir Aymer."
"I doubt not he would give much to know that fact," said the Queen with an amused smile.
"It is because I fear he does know it that I am so vexed. By my faith, I have made a merry mess of it all through this morning."
"The merriest mess and the best you could make, my dear girl," motioning her to a place on the couch, "would be to marry Sir Aymer de Lacy."
The Countess gave a look of startled surprise—then dropped her head.
"And methinks," Anne went on, watching her closely, "that you are of the same mind. Take your Queen's word, aye, and your King's as well—for Richard has spoken of it—and quarter the red chevrons with the silver stag."
The Countess was slowly tracing figures on the carpet with her riding whip; and her mistress pressed on:
"You surely cannot hesitate from doubt of his affection. In a thousand ways he shows you that. And certes you have had enough of suitors to be able to weigh very scrupulously the faith they bring. He loves you honestly. He is your equal in birth; and though his English title be inferior to yours, he is a Count in France. Why not, my dear Beatrix, be … kind to him?" and she put her arm about her.
"You are an earnest pleader, my dear mistress," said the Countess, still busy with the carpet … "and, may be, not without cause… Sir Aymer is all you aver … a braver Knight or truer heart I never knew… And it would be false modesty to pretend I think he does not love me. I did doubt it until lately, but the doubt has gone now. Were I as sure of myself as I am of him, I would hold him off not a moment longer—he might speak when he chose … and the quickest would not be too quick for me … Indeed, sometimes I long for him with eager heart; yet, when he comes, I grow weak in resolution and from very timidity give him only chilly words."
The Queen drew her a little closer. "I understand, dear," she said. "It was so with me when my own dear lord came wooing."
"And how did you … change?" Beatrix asked, and blushed winsomely.
And Anne blushed, too. "Nay, I do not know… One day my heart met his words and all was peace and happiness."
The Countess sighed. "I wish it might be so with me," she said, and tears were in her voice; "for lately I have grown very lonely—and after you, this man comforts me the most."
"My sweet Beatrix," said the Queen, "Sir Aymer has you safe enough," and she put both arms around her and kissed her cheek.
And so, a moment later, the King found them; and with a smile, half sympathy and half amusement, he said:
"Methinks, my dear, you and the Countess are wasting sadly your favors on each other. And I am acquainted with many a gallant Knight—but one especial—who would give his quarterings to be prisoner to her as you are at this moment."
Beatrix's cheeks and brow went rosy and in sharp embarrassment she hid her face upon the Queen's shoulder.
"Pardieu, my dear," said Richard, "I did not mean to distress you—yet since I have said it, let me say a little more. As the Queen likes you, so like I De Lacy, and I have given him these words: 'I make not the match, but if you two wish it, none shall make it otherwise.' And I give them now to you also. Nay, thank me not," as she arose and curtsied low; "and while the match would please us well, yet it is our pleasure to follow your desires. All we need is to know them, and that in your own good time." And Richard took her hand and kissed it; then flung aside the curtains and went out as abruptly as he had entered.
As the King appeared before the pavilion, a bugle rang out, the soldiers presented halberds, and all talk ceased sharply.
"My good friends," said he, "I have brought you here to-day to test your skill with a weapon that once made an English army the most feared in all the world. In a word, I am curious to know how steadily you can draw the cord and lay your bodies to the bow. Yonder are the butts, and here the staves and the draw line. It is but a poor one hundred paces to the nearest clout; and as that will be too beggarly a distance for you, my lords, you shall use the second. The first has been placed for the fair dames who are to shoot with you, if they will."
And taking the hand of the Queen, who had come forth with the Countess of Clare and was standing beside him, he led the way to the near end of the clearing where, on a rustic table built of boughs, were piled an assortment of yew staves and arrows of seasoned ash, with cords of deer hide, wrist gloves, baldrics, and all the paraphernalia essential to the archer's outfit.
"Let the lots be drawn," he commanded; and a page came forward with the disc-bag.
As soon as De Lacy saw that Beatrix would participate in the contest, he chose with much care a stave best adapted for her wrist, and picking out a string to correspond and three grey-goose-feather shafts of a proper length and thickness, he brought them to her.
"Do you not shoot?" she asked.
"Yes—but with small hope. The French do not run to the long bow, and while once I could ring the blanc I am sadly out of practice."
"Ring it now … you can," she said softly.
He looked at her hesitatingly. "Tell me," he said, coming a bit nearer; "tell me … will you be sorry if I fail?"
But the old habit held her and she veered off. "Assuredly … it would be poor friendship if I were not." … A bowstring twanged and the crowd applauded. "Come," she exclaimed, "the match has begun."
"And is this my answer?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir Insistent … until the ride back," and left him.
The luck of the discs had made the Countess of Clare the last to shoot. When she came forward to the line the butt was dotted over with the feathered shafts; but the white eye that looked out from their midst was still unharmed, though the Duchess of Buckingham and Lady Clifton had grazed its edge. Beatrix had slipped the arrows through her girdle, and plucking out one she fitted it to the string with easy grace. Then without pausing to measure the distance she raised the bow, and drawing with the swift but steady motion of the right wrist got only by hard practice, and seemingly without taking aim, she sped the shaft toward the mark.
"Bravo!" exclaimed the King, as it quivered in the white.
Before the word had died, the second arrow rested beside it; and even as it struck, the string twanged again and the third joined the others in the blanc.
"My dear Countess," said Richard, "I did not know we entertained another Monarch. Behold the Queen of Archery! Hail and welcome to our Kingdom and our Court! … Gentlemen, have you no knee for Her Majesty?"
Beatrix blushed and curtsied in return, then quickly withdrew to the side of the Queen.
"Methinks, my lords," Richard said, "you have got a hard score to best. However, it is but two hundred yards to your target; so let it be the notch to the string, the string to the ear, and the shaft in the white clout yonder."
As the King had said, the distance was short for rovers. In all regular contests the mark was never under two hundred and twenty paces, and in many districts it was nearer four hundred. Nevertheless, to strike an object, even at two hundred, that seemed no larger than one's hand is no easy task; and yet, as one after another took his turn, the clout was pierced repeatedly; once by some, and twice by others; but only the Duke of Buckingham and Sir Aymer de Lacy struck it thrice. It chanced, however, that one of the latter's arrows landed directly in the center, on the pin that held the cloth, and this gave him the prize.
"For one who is half a Frenchman, Sir Aymer, you handle a long bow most amazing well," the King remarked… "Pardieu! what say you to a match between the victors?"
A murmur of approval greeted the suggestion.
"May it please you, my liege," said De Lacy, "permit me now to yield. I am no match for the Queen of Archery."
"We will not excuse you … nor, I fancy, will the Countess," turning toward her.
"If Sir Aymer de Lacy will engage to shoot his best and show no favor, I shall not refuse the trial," she replied, coming forward.
"By St. Paul!" Richard exclaimed. "I will answer for that … here is the prize," and deftly plucking the lace kerchief from her hand he passed it to a page. "Substitute this for the clout in the far target," he said.
De Lacy thought she would refuse the contest; but to his surprise she smiled—though with rather indifferent hauteur.
"It is hardly fitting, Sire," she said, choosing an arrow, "that I should both contribute the prize and contest for it."
Then Sir Aymer spoke, bowing low: "May it please Your Majesty, I am your leal subject, yet I shall not shoot at yonder mark unless the Countess of Clare consent."
She gave him a grateful look.
"I thank you, Sir Aymer, for the courtesy," she said… "Shoot and welcome;" and she stepped to the draw line.
It may have been that she was careless, or that the scene had made her nervous, for while her first two arrows struck the blanc truly as before, the third went a finger's length above it. With a shrug she turned away, and loosing the string leaned on the long stave, waiting.
De Lacy had purposed letting her defeat him by a margin so slender as not to seem intentional, but catching the dark eyes of the King fixed on him with sharp significance, he understood that he was to win if he could. So he drew with care, and pierced the kerchief thrice.
De Lacy received the bit of lace from the page and proffered it to the Countess.
"It is quite destroyed," he said. "I am sorry."
She laughed lightly. "You owe me no apologies, and need feel no regret. You won it honestly—and I accept it now as a gift; a guerdon of your prowess and your courtesy."
He bowed; and as his glance sought the King, the latter nodded, ever so lightly, in approval.
An hour later, after the repast was served, the trumpet gave the signal for departure. As De Lacy stepped forward to hold the stirrup, Richard waved him aside, and putting one hand on his horse's wither, vaulted easily into place.
"Look to the ladies!" he called; "and do you, Sir Aymer, escort the Countess of Clare. It is meet that the King of the Bow should attend upon his Queen."
Then dropping his tones, so that they were audible only to De Lacy, he said with a familiar earnestness: "And if you do not turn the kerchief to advantage, you deserve no further aid."
Reining over beside the Queen, he motioned for the others to follow and dashed off toward Windsor. In a trice they were gone, and, save for the servants, the Countess and De Lacy were alone.
She was standing beside Wilda waiting to be put up, and when Aymer tried to apologize for the delay, she stopped him.
"It was no fault of yours," she said—then added archly, head turned half aside: "and you must blame Richard Plantagenet for being left with me."
"Blame him?" he exclaimed, lifting her slowly—very slowly—into saddle… "Blame him! … Do you think I call it so?" and fell to arranging her skirt, and lingering over it so plainly that the Countess smiled in unreserved amusement. Yet she did not hurry him. And when he had dallied as long as he thought he dared, he stole a quick glance upward—and she let him see the smile.
"Am I very clumsy?" he asked, swinging up on Selim.
She waited until they had left the clearing and the grooms behind them and were among the great tall trees:
"Surely not … only very careful," she said teasingly.
He was puzzled at this new mood that had come with the archery and still tarried—this careless gayety under circumstances which, hitherto, would have made her severe and distant. He was so used to being frowned upon, reproved, and held at the point that he was quite blind to the change it signaled. He bent his eyes on his horse's mane. He thought of the King's words as to the kerchief and longed for a bit of his astute penetration and wonderful tact, that he might solve this provoking riddle beside him and lead up to what was beating so fiercely in his breast. In his perplexity he looked appealingly toward her.
She was watching him with the same amused smile she had worn since the fixing of the skirt; and was guessing, with womanly intuition, what was passing in his mind.
"And forsooth, Sir King of the Bow," she said—and the smile rippled into a laugh—"are you so puffed up by your victory that you will not deign to address me, but must needs hold yourself aloof, even when there is none to see your condescension! … Perchance even to ride beside me will compromise your dignity. Proceed… Proceed… I can follow; or wait for the grooms or the scullions with the victual carts."
And this only increased De Lacy's amazement and indecision.
"Why do you treat me so?" he demanded.
"Do you not like my present mood?" she asked. "Yea, verily, that I do! but it is so novel I am bewildered… My brain is whirling… You are like a German escutcheon: hard to read aright."
"Then why try the task?"
"I prefer the task," he answered. "It may be difficult, yet it has its compensations."
"You flatterer," she exclaimed; and for an instant the smile became almost tender.
"Pardieu! … You grow more inexplicable still… Yesterday I would have been rated sharply for such words and called presumptuous and kindred names."
"And what of to-day … if that were yesterday?"
"To-day! … To-day! … It has been the mirror of all the yesterdays since the happy one that gave me first sight of you at Pontefract; … and the later one when, ere I rode back to London, I begged a favor—the kerchief you had dropped by accident—and was denied." … He drew Selim nearer… "To-day I again secured your kerchief; and though I wished to keep it sorely as I wished before to keep the other, yet like it, too, I could only give it back. And now, even as I begged before, I beg again for the favor. Will you not grant it?"
The smile faded and her face went serious.
"Do you not forget the words of that first refusal," she asked, "that 'Beatrix de Beaumont grants neither gage nor favor until she plights her troth'?"
"Nay, I have not forgotten"—and with sudden hope that made his throat thicken and his fingers chill he reached over and took her hand.
She did not withdraw it nor reprove him. Instead, she fastened her eyes on his face as though to read his very heart and soul. Unconsciously they had checked their horses. Then she blushed, and averting her eyes in confusion strove to release her hand. But De Lacy pressed on, though his heart beat fast and his head throbbed. Leaning across, he put his arm about her waist and drew her—struggling gently—toward him.
"And the kerchief, dear one?" he whispered.
"Nay, Aymer, you surely do not wish it now," she answered brokenly.
"Now, more than any earthly gift or Heavenly grace… Give it to me, sweetheart."
She had ceased to resist and his face was getting perilously near her own.
Suddenly, and with a smile De Lacy never forgot, she drew forth the bit of torn lace. "Here, take it, dear," she said.
"And you with it, sweetheart?" he cried.
"Unto death, my lord," she answered; and once more the blushes came.
She tried to hide her face in her hands, but with a joyous laugh Aymer lifted her from the saddle and swung her across and into his strong arms.