It was still wanting something of noon when the low white walls of Kirkstall glinted before them.  De Lacy rode steadily on, however, nodding pleasantly to the porter, who was standing in the gateway, but declining his invitation to enter.  It was better, he thought, that Abbot Aldam should have no opportunity to question his men as to their destination of yesterday.  When they reached the banks of Aire, he ordered a short halt; then swinging again into saddle, they splashed through the clear waters and breasting the opposite bank resumed the march at a rapid walk.  Presently a body of horsemen hove in sight and, as they approached, De Lacy eyed them carefully.  They were less than a dozen in number, and though they displayed no banner, yet the sun gleamed from steel head-pieces and chamfrons.  The man in front, however, was plainly not in armor and his horse was strangely small.  Then, as the distance was reduced, the horse became an ass and the rider the Abbot of Kirkstall.

“You travel early, Lord Abbot,” said Aymer, as they met and halted.

“It is of our calling, my son.  Religion knows no night.  But you also must have risen early—­on your way to the Coronation—­Deo volente?” with a quizzical smile.

“As fast as horse will carry me.”

“Perchance you may overtake the Duke of Gloucester; he left York to-day, I believe.”

“He has rather a long start, methinks, for a stern chase,” replied Aymer.

“Six hundred men move not so quickly as twelve, my son,” said the monk.  “Indeed, you might come up with him at Nottingham,” he added carelessly.

“Peradventure, yes—­Deo volente,” wondering how much the Abbot knew of the matter and how much was shrewd conjecture.  “But will not your reverence attend the Coronation?  There is sure to be a brave array of churchmen there.”

“No doubt,” returned the Abbot; “but I care little for such gay scenes or for the intrigues of the Court.  A country priest has no training for such traps.  However, I trust we shall soon meet again; and, meanwhile, Kirkstall’s gates are always open to you. Pax vobiscum.”

“Hypocritical liar,” muttered De Lacy, when the two troops had passed.  “I would think twice ere I trusted myself in your power if I chanced to be an obstacle to your schemes.  Giles, what think you of yon Abbot?”

“He is much of his kind and I like not the breed,” replied Dauvrey.  “Methinks he resembles rather his brethren of Italy than those I have seen in this land of mist and fog.  He has been meddling with us, I warrant.”

The Knight laughed.

“He has shown a most Christian solicitude for us, at all events,” he said.

When De Lacy drew rein before the barbican of Pontefract, there was no need to wind horn to gain entrance, for the drawbridge was down and Lord Darby, with a score of attendants, was just departing.

“Now what in Satan’s name brought him back?” Aymer muttered—­though he knew the answer well enough.  Then he raised his hand in salute.  “I give you greeting, my lord,” he said.