“There is no improvement, my liege.”

“It will, of a surety, have rained itself out by morning.  For it to continue means a slow muster, and the time is all too short as it is,” the King said meditatively.  “And hark you, further,” he broke out suddenly, “let word go to Lord Stanley at Lathom, this night yet, of this matter, bidding him instantly gather his retainers and report at Nottingham.”

Ratcliffe hurried away, to return almost instantly with a packet which he gave the King.

“From Stanley,” he said.  “It arrived but this moment.”

Richard flashed a smile across to De Lacy.

“He moves quickly, by St. Paul!” . . . then with a touch of sarcasm:  “Hold a bit, Ratcliffe; perchance our news may be a trifle old in Lathom.”  He broke the seals and spread the parchment under the candles on the table.  It ran: 

“To Our Sovereign Lord the King: 

“It has come to us that Henry Tudor, styled Earl of Richmond, intends to sail with an army from St. Malo, on the twelfth day coming of the present month, and will adventure to land at the town of Plymouth on the sixth day thereafter, there and then to proclaim himself King.  According, will we muster instantly our Strength and proceed, with all dispatch, to meet Your Majesty at Nottingham, or wheresoever it may be we are commanded.

“Written with humble allegiance and great haste at our Castle of Lathom, this tenth day of October.

“Stanley.”

“It will be unnecessary to advise the Lord Stanley—­he has already learned of the matter,” said Richard—­and Ratcliffe hurried away.  He passed the letter to De Lacy.  “Read it. . .  Now you see the depth and foresight of this man.  But for your chance discovery and furious ride he would have been the first to warn me of this danger.  Note his shrewdness:  he does not mention Buckingham, but only the Tudor, his own step-son; and hence the greater will seem his loyalty.  And by St. Paul! he bests me.  I must accept his message at its seeming value; for he will now follow it by prompt action.  Yet his motive is as plain as God’s sun:  he would hasten Buckingham to the block, and himself to his dead friend’s offices.  Well, so be it.  When I can read his purposes I hold him half disarmed.  He shall be Constable of England—­have the title without its dangerous powers.  The higher he go the further the fall when he stumble,” and the dagger went down into its sheath with a click. . .  “Pardieu, De Lacy! it would seem that you are ever getting into my confidences.  But then neither do you like the Stanley.”

“So little, Sire, that I shall hope to see that stumble.”

“It will be a passing grateful sight to many another also, I warrant.”  Then with one of those quick shifts of thought characteristic of his active mind:  “Did you find naught of the Countess of Clare in all these weeks?”

“I came upon a clue last night,” De Lacy answered.