“It is suspicious, this course of his,” the King said; “but for the present, it will profit nothing to tax him with it.  Let him think himself trusted; and perchance the doings of the next few weeks may disclose something that will clear our path of doubt and show the truth.  If not, then shall this Gorges be brought before Sir John de Bury and in our presence, though we ride to Pontefract for the purpose.  Meanwhile, do you avoid his lordship, and permit no brawling between his retainers and your own.  Ratcliffe shall caution him, also, and most peremptorily in this particular.  Later, if he be acquittanced of the crime, you may settle the quarrel as you see fit.”

And while there had been sore provocations on both sides, for each went as near the line of open rupture as he dared, yet when Salisbury was reached, the command had not been disregarded; though it was very evident to the Household, and perchance to Richard, too—­for he missed little that went on about him—­that at the first skirmish with the rebels, a certain private feud would be worked out to a conclusion wherein but one of the participants would be left to couch lance for the King.

On this Sunday morning, De Lacy was crossing the courtyard of the Blue Boar Inn when he was attracted by a shouting and evident excitement toward the North gate of the town, and which grew rapidly nearer.  Then up the street, at a quick trot, came a clump of spears followed by a mass of soldiers, camp followers and citizens on a run.  All were brought up sharply by the guards, stationed a hundred yards or so beyond the royal lodgings; but after a short parley, the horsemen were permitted to pass.  The device on the banneret was new to Aymer, and, knowing it belonged to none of those now with the army, and curious as to what could have attracted the rabble, he waited.

Before the inn, from which floated the royal standard, they drew up, and the leader, an elderly Knight of heavy countenance and rotund frame who carried his visor up, dismounted, and, saluting Sir Aymer de Lacy, whose handsome dress evidenced his condition and rank, demanded instant audience with the King.

“His Majesty has but lately returned from Mass,” said De Lacy; “but if your business be of immediate importance, I will announce you.”

The other laughed swaggeringly.

“I am Sir Thomas Mitten, Sheriff of Shropshire,” he said; “and methinks my business is of most immediate importance, good sir, seeing that I bring with me the traitor, Henry Stafford.”

“St. Denis!  Buckingham a prisoner!” De Lacy exclaimed.

“Yonder—­among my men.  Think you not I shall be welcome?”

For answer, De Lacy turned on his heel, and, leaving the Sheriff to find his way to the King the best he could, strode over to the horsemen.  Motioning them peremptorily aside, he extended his hand to the tall, ruddy-haired man in the stained and torn velvet.