“Methinks you told me of this matter at the time,” addressing De Lacy.

“Yes, my liege,—­at Leicester.”

Richard nodded.  “Perchance, Sir John, you may solve the riddle some day, and by way of Kirkstall:  though it were not best to work sacrilege.  Mother Church is holy with us yet awhile, and must needs be handled tenderly.  Nathless, there is no hurt in keeping a close watch upon the Cistercian.”

“And if it should be that he plots treason against the King of England?” De Bury queried.

Richard smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“In that event,” he said, “there will be a new mitre to fit at Kirkstall. . .  And mon Dieu!  John, how would you like to wear it?”

De Bury raised his hands in horrified negation.  “Now God forefend that I, in my old age, should come to that.  Better take De Lacy; he is young and blithesome.”

“By St. Paul!  John, best not tell your niece you sought to turn De Lacy monk!” . . . then went on:  “Two days hence we fare Northward, but without Her Majesty, who will join us later . . . at Warwick likely.  To you, Sir John, I give command of her escort . . .  De Lacy, you will ride with me.  But of this, more anon,” and he moved away—­then stopped and said sternly:  “Sir Aymer, go to the Queen and say to her it is my command that, until we depart, you walk with the Countess of Clare on the terrace, or ride with her, or do whatever you two may wish.”  And then he laughed.

On the following Thursday, being the thirteenth of July, Richard departed from Windsor, and behind him rode the most imposing and gorgeous cavalcade that ever accompanied a King of England in a peaceful progress through his realm.  There, gleamed the silver bend of Howard on its ground of gules; the red chevron of Stafford in its golden field; the golden fess of De la Pole amid the leopard faces; the three gold stagheads of Stanley on the azure bend; the gold bend of Bolton, Lord of Scrope; the gold and red bars of Lovell; the red lion of De Lisle ramping on its field of gold; the sable bend engrailled of Ratcliffe; the red fess and triple torteaux of D’Evereux, Lord Ferrers of Chartley; the sable twin lions of Catesby; the golden chevron of Hungerford; the red engrailled cross and sable water bougets of Bourchier; and a score of others equally prominent and powerful.  And with every Baron were his particular retainers; but varying in number up to the three hundred that wore the Stafford Knot and ruffled themselves as scarce second even to the veterans of the King himself.

Richard was mounted on “White Surray,” the famous war horse that he rode first in the Scottish War, and was to ride for the last time in the furious charge across Redmore Plain on that fatal August morning when the Plantagenet Line died, even as it had lived and ruled—­hauberk on back and sword in hand.  He wore no armor, but in his rich doublet and super-tunic of dark blue velvet with the baudikin