“And I no ears that wish to hear them, if you had,” she laughed.  “This morning you have had much trouble—­I much pleasure—­the scales are balanced—­the accounts canceled.  We will forget it all.  Never will I mention it to you—­nor you to me—­nor either to another.  When we meet again it will be as though to-day had never been. . .  Nay, sir, it must be so.  You have been unfortunate, I unconventional—­it is best for both we start afresh.”

“But am I not even to know your name?” he protested.

She shook her head.  “Not even that, now, and I ask your word not to seek to know it—­until we meet again.”

“You have it,” said he, “until we meet again—­to-morrow.”

She smiled vaguely.  “It will be a far to-morrow . . . good-bye, my lord,” and rode away—­then turned.  “Wait for your squire,” she called.

“And for to-morrow,” he cried.

But she made no answer, and with a wave of her hand was gone, the dog leaping in front of her and baying loud with joy.

II

RICHARD OF GLOUCESTER

But the morrow brought no maid, nor a fortnight of morrows—­she had vanished; and seek as he might at Windsor or through the Tower he could not find her.  Had he been privileged to inquire the quest would have been ended by a word—­but she herself had closed his lips to questions.

Then the mighty Edward died, and all was confusion in the Court; and what with the funeral, the goings and the comings, the plottings and the intrigues, De Lacy was in a maze.  The boy King was at Ludlow with Rivers, and it was Nobility against Queen and Woodville until he came for his crowning.  And in the turmoil De Lacy was forced to cease, for the nonce, the pursuit of ruddy tresses and grey eyes, and choose where he would stand.  And presently that choice sent him riding into the North—­bearing a message to the man in distant Pontefract, upon whom, at that moment, all England was waiting and who, as yet, had made no move, Richard of Gloucester.

The day was far spent, and before a fireplace in his private apartments Richard sat alone, in heavy meditation.  The pale, clean-shaven, youthful face, with its beautiful mouth and straight Norman nose, and the short, slender figure in its mantle and doublet of black velvet furred with ermine, rich under tunic of white satin, tight-fitting hose of silk, and dark brown hair hanging bushy to the shoulders, would have been almost effeminate but for the massively majestic forehead and the fierce black eyes—­brilliant, compelling, stern, proud—­that flashed forth the mighty soul within.