“It is not the journey, dear,” she answered.  “Many a time have you taken it; and, for the blows, did I not speed you to the Scottish war?  Yet I have a foreboding—­nay, smile not, my lord!—­that upon your course in this matter hangs not only your own fate, but the fate of Plantagenet as well.  Accept it not,” taking his hand and speaking with deep entreaty; “the Protectorship can add nothing to Richard of Gloucester, and it may work not only your doom but that of the great House of Anjou.”

“Nay, Anne, you are ill, surely,” said Richard, putting his arm around her.  “What has put such uncanny notions into your mind?”

“I do not know; yet I implore you to humor me in this. . . .  You have not already despatched an answer to Buckingham?” she suddenly demanded.

“No—­not yet,” then turned sharply to De Lacy.  “It seems, Sir Aymer, that you are to be admitted to my confidence as well as to Stafford’s.  So be it, for I trust you.  Yet, believe me, it is well sometimes to forget.”

De Lacy bowed low, saying simply, “I have forgotten.”

“Forgive me, Richard,” said the Duchess.  “My heart so ruled my head that I quite lost myself.”

The Duke took her hand and pressed it affectionately.  “Think no more now of the matter; we will consider it to-morrow.”

“And you will make no decision until then?”

“None, by St. Paul!” and striking the bell he ordered the page to summon the Duchess’ lady-in-waiting.

In a moment she appeared:  a slender figure in dark blue velvet, with ruddy tresses and deep grey eyes—­the maid of Windsor Forest.

De Lacy caught his breath and stood staring, like one bereft of sense, until the dropping of the arras hid her from his sight.  Then he saw Gloucester regarding him with a smile.

“You are not the first,” he observed, “nor, I warrant, will you be the last.”

“Her name?” said the Knight so eagerly the Duke smiled again.

“She is Beatrix de Beaumont, in her own right Countess of Clare, and save our own dear spouse no sweeter woman lives.”

“In truth do I believe it; else has God sent a plague upon the Nobles of England.’”

“If disappointed love and blasted hopes can be so reckoned,” said Richard with a shrug, “then does many a fair lord suffer from the disease.  See that you do not become affected also.”

“Nay, my lord Duke,” replied De Lacy; “I know better than to allow a poor Knight’s mind to dwell upon the charms of a great heiress—­and she the Countess of Clare.”

“Pardieu!” said Gloucester; “be not so humble.  Your birth is equal to her own; it was only for your peace of mind I cautioned you.”

III

THE VOICE ON THE RAMPARTS

On quitting the Duke, De Lacy dispatched a page for his squire and was then conducted to his quarters on the floor above.