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?”