His companion was utterly dissimilar.  His garments were of sober black, without ornament or decoration, and no ring shone on his fingers.  His sandy hair was cut rather shorter than was wont, and there was no mark of helmet wear along the brow or temples.  His frame was neither active nor powerful, and his walk was sedate, almost to preciseness.  His countenance was peculiar, for in it there was both cunning and frankness:  cunning in the eyes, frankness in the mouth and chin; a face, withal, that would bear constant watching, and that contained scarce a trace of virility—­only a keen selfishness and a crafty faithlessness.  And of a verity, if ever a human visage revealed truly the soul within, this one did; for a more scheming sycophant, vacillating knave and despicable traitor than Thomas, Lord Stanley, England had not seen since the villain John died at Newark.

“A powerful pair,” said De Wilton, “yet a strange companionship—­one rather of accident than design, I fancy.  There is little in either to attract the other, nor is it any secret that the Lord Chamberlain does not love the fickle Stanley.”

“No more does Stanley love him, nor any living creature, for the matter of that,” said Sir Aymer.  “It passes me why the Lord Protector trusts him.”

“Pardieu!” exclaimed De Wilton, “the Duke may use him; he will never trust him.  He knows the truckler of old—­the first to greet Warwick when he came to lead Henry from the Tower; the loudest for Edward when Barnet’s day was done.”

“Well, mark me,” said De Lacy, with lowered voice, “yonder false lord will be a troublesome counsellor, even if he be not a faithless baron.  I would have none of him.”

“Bon jour, mes amis!” Hastings called out in hearty greeting.  “Has the Protector arrived?”

“No, my lord,” returned De Wilton, as he and De Lacy arose; “he was engaged, and may be a trifle late for the council.”

“Who has preceded us?” said Stanley; and in contrast to the melodious voice of the Lord Chamberlain his tones were like melting ice.

“Only the Lord Chancellor and the Bishop of Ely.”

“Then, Hastings, we shall have time to discuss further the matter I touched on a moment since,” said Stanley, making as though to go on.

“As you will,” Hastings answered indifferently, and without moving, “but believe me, my lord, it will boot little what may be the record.  Eleanor and Katharine Neville were sisters, true enough, but Eleanor is dead and you have wed a second time; while Katharine still chatelaines my castles of Ashby and Calais.  The matter has been left to her sweet judgment, and her wish is my decision.  It is quite needless to debate the subject further.”

Aymer caught the quick look of resentment that flashed through Stanley’s eyes, but Hastings missed it, for he had turned and was gazing toward the royal lodge.

And Stanley, with that cool indifference to aught but expediency which characterized his whole life, let the curt speech pass, seemingly unheeded.