“Neither,” said De Lacy.  “Providence removed my sire ere the fray began aright and when I was but a child in arms.  When Your Grace won fame at Tewkesbury I had but turned my thirteenth year.”

“Where is your family seat?”

“At Gaillard Castle in the shire of Leicester, close by the River Weak—­or at least it stood there when last I saw it.  It is ten long years since I crossed its drawbridge and not twelve months of my life have been spent within its walls.”

“Your accent smacks of a Southern sun,” said the Duke.

“My mother was of a French house, and to her own land she took me when my father died;” and, observing the Duke glance at his spurs, he added:  “It was from France’s Constable that I received the accolade.”

“Then right well did you deserve it; St. Pol gave no unearned honors.”

“I was favored much beyond my deserts,” De Lacy replied, although his face flushed at a compliment from the renowned Gloucester.

“Your modesty but proves your merit,” returned the Duke. . .  “And now your message.  From whom come you?”

“From the Duke of Buckingham, my lord,” said De Lacy; and the keen look that accompanied the words did not escape the Prince.  But De Lacy did not know the man before whom he stood, else would he have wasted no energy in any such attempt.  As well try to read the visage of a granite cliff as to discover the thoughts of Richard Plantagenet from the expression of his face.  And if the royal Duke were in aught concerned as to the communication of the powerful Buckingham, there was no evidence of it in his voice or in the eminently courteous and appropriate question as he instantly responded: 

“How did you leave His Grace and where?”

“He was most hearty when we parted at Gloucester; he for his castle of Brecknock and I for Pontefract.”

“He had been in London?”

“Yes, my lord, since before King Edward’s demise.”

“Then are his letters very welcome.”

“Your pardon, sir,” said De Lacy, “but I bear no letters;” and as Richard regarded him in sharp interrogation he added:  “My message is by word of mouth.”

“And why,” said the Duke in the same calm tone he had employed throughout the conversation, “should I credit your story, seeing that I neither know you nor recall your silver trippant stag among the present devices of our land.”

“My bearing,” returned De Lacy tranquilly, “comes to me from my mother’s family, of which she was the heiress, and on English battlefield it has never shone.  And unless this ring attest the authority of my message it must be unsaid,” and drawing from his finger a broad gold band, in which was set a great flat emerald with a swan exquisitely cut on its face, he handed it to the Duke.

Richard examined it for a moment, then returned it with a smile.

“You are sufficiently accredited,” he said.  “I will hear your message.  What said Stafford?”