“Nay, I only jested. . .  But seriously, De Lacy, why should the wedding be delayed . . . why not have the ceremony here at Pontefract before we go Southward?”

“That it has not already taken place is no fault of mine------”

“It is, sir; you should have won the Countess to consent,” the King interrupted.

“Her wish runs with mine.”

“Then what ails the matter? . . .  Not De Bury surely?”

“Sir John is as willing as we.  It is the behest of the dead Earl that bars.”

“Beatrix’s father?”

“Yes; she promised him she would not wed before her twenty-fifth birthday.”

“Peste!  A senseless thing to exact; she was little more than child.  As King I can absolve her from it.”

“I fear that would not help the matter, Sire; Beatrix regards it as sacred—­it was given at the Earl’s deathbed.”

Richard made a gesture of annoyance.  “Does no consideration lift the obligation from her?” he demanded.

“Naught, as she views it now, but a question of life, honor, or imperative necessity.”

“Now may the Devil fly away with such foolishness!  Wherefore shall the dead rule the living? . . .  How old is the Countess?”

“She was four and twenty last month.”

“Great St. George!  You have a wait, indeed; and ample time to pray for the imperative necessity.  Meanwhile, best continue to keep the betrothal secret.  It will likely save you both some embarrassment and considerable gossip at the long delay.”

Just then another bugle blared from the barbican.

“Sir John and Beatrix!” the Queen exclaimed.

Richard shook his head.

“It was Ratcliffe’s call,” he said.

A moment later the Master of Horse came at full gallop across the courtyard.

Jumping from saddle and letting his horse run loose to be caught by the grooms, he sprang up the steps.  In the anteroom the page met him with the information that Their Majesties were on the wall and were not to be disturbed.  But at the first word, Ratcliffe dashed into the King’s chamber and thence to the ramparts.  Richard saw him coming and went quickly to meet him.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Where is De Bury?” Ratcliffe asked.

“Gone for a ride with the Countess.”

“I feared it.  I found his horse at the foot of the hill, trotting toward the castle from the West.  There is blood on the saddle cloth, and the rein is cut in twain at the bit.”

“Foul work!” the King exclaimed.  “Send an order to the camp for a hundred men to scour the country toward the Aire, and let another fifty muster before the barbican at daybreak; then come to me.” . . . and turning, he sauntered back to the Queen.  “Come, my dear, let us go in,” he said, putting his arm through hers, “I must take up some matters that Ratcliffe has brought.  And do you remain, De Lacy; perchance you can aid me.”