The Countess had observed Darby’s look and she followed him with a frown . . . and De Lacy wisely kept silent.

“I am glad you came,” she said presently—­then pulled Wilda to a walk.  “Let us loiter; since we are late it is small matter when we reach the rendezvous.”

“Why reach it at all?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“Why not ride?” he persisted.

She looked at the horses thoughtfully . . . then shook her head.  “I would far rather ride,” she said, “but the Queen expects me; duty calls.”

“St. Denis!  I had quite forgot—­duty calls me, too.”

But they did not take the horses from their walk, and it was far after time when they reached the wide open space in the forest, where the party had assembled.

Upon one side were pitched three large silk pavilions; the center one of red and blue—­the colors of the Kingdom; the others, gold and blue—­the colors of the House of York.  In front and for a wide space around on the soft turf were spread the thick carpets of the far East.  Before the tents paced two archers of the guard; and stationed at close intervals around the clearing were a goodly force of those veterans, all of whom had been among the personal retainers of Richard when he was Duke of Gloucester.

Not over two score of the Court had been bidden, and these were clustered before the royal pavilion when De Lacy and the Countess rode up.  A volley of chaff greeted them as he lifted her from the saddle.  One suggested that they had lost their way . . . another that it was a shame to bring in horses so utterly exhausted . . . another that they must have stumbled on the Court by accident . . . another that there was powder on De Lacy’s sleeve. . .  And so it went; until Beatrix, in sheer desperation, gathered her skirts about her and fled into the tent.

The Queen was alone, resting on a couch in the inner apartment; but she had heard the noisy greetings outside and had wondered who were the victims.  Beatrix’s entrance and snapping eyes told her; and she met her with a smile of sympathy.

“Do not mind them, dear,” she said.  “They mean nothing and you have beard a dozen others treated so, under similar circumstances.”

“I know . . .  I know . . .  Your Majesty,” she replied, with nervous energy . . . “but it was most annoying . . . and with Sir Aymer.”

“I doubt not he would give much to know that fact,” said the Queen with an amused smile.

“It is because I fear he does know it that I am so vexed.  By my faith, I have made a merry mess of it all through this morning.”

“The merriest mess and the best you could make, my dear girl,” motioning her to a place on the couch, “would be to marry Sir Aymer de Lacy.”

The Countess gave a look of startled surprise—­then dropped her head.

“And methinks,” Anne went on, watching her closely, “that you are of the same mind.  Take your Queen’s word, aye, and your King’s as well—­for Richard has spoken of it—­and quarter the red chevrons with the silver stag.”