“Welcome back, Sir Aymer,” he exclaimed.  “The Duke has inquired for you.  Why were you not announced?”

“I was told he was engaged,” said Aymer.

“That was because they did not know you were of the Household.  Come—­” and himself admitted him.

The Duke was alone, seated before a rough table with his head upon his hand, and he did not stir until De Lacy stood directly before him.  Then raising his eyes he fastened them intently upon the young Knight’s face, though without sternness.

[Illustration:  The Duke fastened his eyes upon the young knight’s face.]

“You stopped at Pontefract,” he said.

“I did, so please you,” replied Aymer promptly.  “I could gain but little by going farther that evening.”

“And might gain much by staying,” said Gloucester, sententiously.  “However, I am glad, since you can give me word of the Duchess.  How fares she?”

“As when you left, my lord.  She sent her loving wishes to you.”

Then drawing out De Bury’s letter, he presented it without remark.

Richard read it carefully, and inquired regarding the journey to Craigston Castle.  De Lacy narrated briefly the incident of the attack upon Sir John, but detailed at length the conduct of the Abbot of Kirkstall.  The Duke, however, seemed more interested in the assault than in the priest, and asked particularly concerning the assailants.  But on learning that neither De Bury nor the veteran Royk had recognized any of them, he dropped the matter with the remark: 

“You have profited by your experience on the Continent.  Not many would have thought to investigate these seeming outlaws.”

De Lacy thanked the Duke for his words, and after being informed that he was to lodge at the inn with the rest of the suite, and that the march would be resumed an hour after daybreak, he withdrew, and having dismissed the squire with the horses went in search of Dacre or De Wilton.

It was a brave array that passed out of Leicester that Tuesday morning behind the royal Duke, and in soldiery fitness, man for man, its like was not in England.  But it was a peculiar march, withal.  No flourish of trumpets heralded the advance; no gaudy costumes clothed the attending Knights.  The bugles were hushed, save where necessary to convey an order; the banners were bound in sable; upon every man was the badge of mourning; Richard himself was clad in black, and the trappings of his horse were raven-hued.  Not since the great Henry died at Vincennes, sixty and more years before, had England mourned for a King; and as they passed along the highway and through the straggling villages, the people wondered at the soberly garbed and quiet column, forgetting, for the moment, that Edward the Fourth was sleeping in the chapel of St. George at Windsor and that his successor was not yet crowned.

All morning Gloucester rode steadily onward, halting near noon at a wayside hostelry for refreshment.  The keeper, unnerved at the sudden advent of such a guest, could only stand and stare at the Duke, forgetting in his amazement even the accustomed bow with which he would have greeted an ordinary wayfarer, until a sharp word from Catesby brought him to his wits.