Never for generations was England to see such a gathering of her Peers and Barons and Churchmen as walked in that procession.  There, was the huge Northumberland, fresh from Pontefract—­where but a week aback he had sent Rivers and his friends to the headsman—­now bearing Mercy’s pointless sword; Stanley (his peace made by empty words) with the Mace; Suffolk with the Sceptre; Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the Realm, with the Crown; and Richard himself, in purple gown and crimson surcoat; the Bishop of Durham on his right and the Bishop of Bath on his left; and behind him, bearing his train, the Duke of Buckingham. . .  And then the Queen’s attendants:  Huntington with her Sceptre; Lisle with the Rod and Dove; Wiltshire with her Crown.  She, herself, paler than pearls and fragile as Venetian glass, yet calm and self-contained, moved slowly in the heavy royal robes; and after her walked Margaret, Countess of Richmond and mother of him who next would wear the crown, the usurping Tudor.

And then the throne was reached—­the music swelled in solemn chorus—­the aged Primate raised the crown and placed it on Richard Plantagenet’s head—­the “Te Deum” rolled out in thunderous tones—­and a new King reigned in England.

It was in the late afternoon of the following day that De Lacy, strolling along Bishopgate Street, chanced upon Sir John de Bury near the White Hart Inn, the newest and most popular hostelry in London.

“By St. Luke,” Sir John exclaimed, “you are a welcome sight.  Come and drink a measure of Burgundy, and I will tell you a bit of news.”

They pushed their way through the motley throng in the main room and, coming upon the landlord, were conducted with many bows and smiles to a retired corner and in a moment the wine was set before them.  Sir John lifted high the vessel and watched the heavy liquid fall.  Then taking a sip he let it run slowly down his throat.

“Not bad, by half,” he said, smacking his lips with the air of a connoisseur, and drained his cup at a draught.  “What think you of the Coronation?”

“It was a noble spectacle, and a proper act for England.”

“Aye, it was—­yet I would that Hastings and not Stanley had borne the Mace.”

“And that Stanley had been sent in Hastings’ place to Chapel Green?” De Lacy asked.

“By St. Luke, yes!” said Sir John instantly; then he leaned over and put his hand on Aymer’s shoulder—­“and truly, it was a gallant thing you and De Wilton did that mournful morning.  Has Gloucester—­the King, I mean—­said aught to you of it, or has it not reached his ears?”

De Lacy laughed.  “He knew it ere he left the Tower, but he found no fault with us.”

“And if I know Richard, he liked you both the better for it. . .  Here, fellow, another measure of wine, and see that it be of the same barrel. . .  These rogues need watching else will they serve poorer stuff the second time, as you have likely noticed.”