Chapter 10

As soon as De Lacy saw that Beatrix would participate in the contest, he chose with much care a stave best adapted for her wrist, and picking out a string to correspond and three grey-goose-feather shafts of a proper length and thickness, he brought them to her.

"Do you not shoot?" she asked.

"Yes--but with small hope. The French do not run to the long bow, and while once I could ring the blanc I am sadly out of practice."

"Ring it now . . . you can," she said softly.

He looked at her hesitatingly. "Tell me," he said, coming a bit nearer; "tell me . . . will you be sorry if I fail?"

But the old habit held her and she veered off. "Assuredly . . . it would be poor friendship if I were not." . . . A bowstring twanged and the crowd applauded. "Come," she exclaimed, "the match has begun."

"And is this my answer?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir Insistent . . . until the ride back," and left him.

The luck of the discs had made the Countess of Clare the last to shoot. When she came forward to the line the butt was dotted over with the feathered shafts; but the white eye that looked out from their midst was still unharmed, though the Duchess of Buckingham and Lady Clifton had grazed its edge. Beatrix had slipped the arrows through her girdle, and plucking out one she fitted it to the string with easy grace. Then without pausing to measure the distance she raised the bow, and drawing with the swift but steady motion of the right wrist got only by hard practice, and seemingly without taking aim, she sped the shaft toward the mark.

"Bravo!" exclaimed the King, as it quivered in the white.

Before the word had died, the second arrow rested beside it; and even as it struck, the string twanged again and the third joined the others in the blanc.

"My dear Countess," said Richard, "I did not know we entertained another Monarch. Behold the Queen of Archery! Hail and welcome to our Kingdom and our Court! . . . Gentlemen, have you no knee for Her Majesty?"

Beatrix blushed and curtsied in return, then quickly withdrew to the side of the Queen.

"Methinks, my lords," Richard said, "you have got a hard score to best. However, it is but two hundred yards to your target; so let it be the notch to the string, the string to the ear, and the shaft in the white clout yonder."

As the King had said, the distance was short for rovers. In all regular contests the mark was never under two hundred and twenty paces, and in many districts it was nearer four hundred. Nevertheless, to strike an object, even at two hundred, that seemed no larger than one's hand is no easy task; and yet, as one after another took his turn, the clout was pierced repeatedly; once by some, and twice by others; but only the Duke of Buckingham and Sir Aymer de Lacy struck it thrice. It chanced, however, that one of the latter's arrows landed directly in the center, on the pin that held the cloth, and this gave him the prize.

"For one who is half a Frenchman, Sir Aymer, you handle a long bow most amazing well," the King remarked. . . "Pardieu! what say you to a match between the victors?"

A murmur of approval greeted the suggestion.

"May it please you, my liege," said De Lacy, "permit me now to yield. I am no match for the Queen of Archery."

"We will not excuse you . . . nor, I fancy, will the Countess," turning toward her.

"If Sir Aymer de Lacy will engage to shoot his best and show no favor, I shall not refuse the trial," she replied, coming forward.

"By St. Paul!" Richard exclaimed. "I will answer for that . . . here is the prize," and deftly plucking the lace kerchief from her hand he passed it to a page. "Substitute this for the clout in the far target," he said.

De Lacy thought she would refuse the contest; but to his surprise she smiled--though with rather indifferent hauteur.

"It is hardly fitting, Sire," she said, choosing an arrow, "that I should both contribute the prize and contest for it."

Then Sir Aymer spoke, bowing low: "May it please Your Majesty, I am your leal subject, yet I shall not shoot at yonder mark unless the Countess of Clare consent."

She gave him a grateful look.

"I thank you, Sir Aymer, for the courtesy," she said. . . "Shoot and welcome;" and she stepped to the draw line.

It may have been that she was careless, or that the scene had made her nervous, for while her first two arrows struck the blanc truly as before, the third went a finger's length above it. With a shrug she turned away, and loosing the string leaned on the long stave, waiting.

De Lacy had purposed letting her defeat him by a margin so slender as not to seem intentional, but catching the dark eyes of the King fixed on him with sharp significance, he understood that he was to win if he could. So he drew with care, and pierced the kerchief thrice.

De Lacy received the bit of lace from the page and proffered it to the Countess.

"It is quite destroyed," he said. "I am sorry."

She laughed lightly. "You owe me no apologies, and need feel no regret. You won it honestly--and I accept it now as a gift; a guerdon of your prowess and your courtesy."

He bowed; and as his glance sought the King, the latter nodded, ever so lightly, in approval.

An hour later, after the repast was served, the trumpet gave the signal for departure. As De Lacy stepped forward to hold the stirrup, Richard waved him aside, and putting one hand on his horse's wither, vaulted easily into place.

"Look to the ladies!" he called; "and do you, Sir Aymer, escort the Countess of Clare. It is meet that the King of the Bow should attend upon his Queen."

Then dropping his tones, so that they were audible only to De Lacy, he said with a familiar earnestness: "And if you do not turn the kerchief to advantage, you deserve no further aid."

Reining over beside the Queen, he motioned for the others to follow and dashed off toward Windsor. In a trice they were gone, and, save for the servants, the Countess and De Lacy were alone.

She was standing beside Wilda waiting to be put up, and when Aymer tried to apologize for the delay, she stopped him.

"It was no fault of yours," she said--then added archly, head turned half aside: "and you must blame Richard Plantagenet for being left with me."

"Blame him?" he exclaimed, lifting her slowly--very slowly--into saddle. . . "Blame him! . . . Do you think I call it so?" and fell to arranging her skirt, and lingering over it so plainly that the Countess smiled in unreserved amusement. Yet she did not hurry him. And when he had dallied as long as he thought he dared, he stole a quick glance upward--and she let him see the smile.

"Am I very clumsy?" he asked, swinging up on Selim.

She waited until they had left the clearing and the grooms behind them and were among the great tall trees:

"Surely not . . . only very careful," she said teasingly.

He was puzzled at this new mood that had come with the archery and still tarried--this careless gayety under circumstances which, hitherto, would have made her severe and distant. He was so used to being frowned upon, reproved, and held at the point that he was quite blind to the change it signaled. He bent his eyes on his horse's mane. He thought of the King's words as to the kerchief and longed for a bit of his astute penetration and wonderful tact, that he might solve this provoking riddle beside him and lead up to what was beating so fiercely in his breast. In his perplexity he looked appealingly toward her.

She was watching him with the same amused smile she had worn since the fixing of the skirt; and was guessing, with womanly intuition, what was passing in his mind.

"And forsooth, Sir King of the Bow," she said--and the smile rippled into a laugh--"are you so puffed up by your victory that you will not deign to address me, but must needs hold yourself aloof, even when there is none to see your condescension! . . . Perchance even to ride beside me will compromise your dignity. Proceed. . . Proceed. . . I can follow; or wait for the grooms or the scullions with the victual carts."

And this only increased De Lacy's amazement and indecision.

"Why do you treat me so?" he demanded.

"Do you not like my present mood?" she asked. "Yea, verily, that I do! but it is so novel I am bewildered. . . My brain is whirling. . . You are like a German escutcheon: hard to read aright."

"Then why try the task?"

"I prefer the task," he answered. "It may be difficult, yet it has its compensations."

"You flatterer," she exclaimed; and for an instant the smile became almost tender.

"Pardieu! . . . You grow more inexplicable still. . . Yesterday I would have been rated sharply for such words and called presumptuous and kindred names."

"And what of to-day . . . if that were yesterday?"

"To-day! . . . To-day! . . . It has been the mirror of all the yesterdays since the happy one that gave me first sight of you at Pontefract; . . . and the later one when, ere I rode back to London, I begged a favor--the kerchief you had dropped by accident--and was denied." . . . He drew Selim nearer. . . "To-day I again secured your kerchief; and though I wished to keep it sorely as I wished before to keep the other, yet like it, too, I could only give it back. And now, even as I begged before, I beg again for the favor. Will you not grant it?"

The smile faded and her face went serious.

"Do you not forget the words of that first refusal," she asked, "that 'Beatrix de Beaumont grants neither gage nor favor until she plights her troth'?"

"Nay, I have not forgotten"--and with sudden hope that made his throat thicken and his fingers chill he reached over and took her hand.

She did not withdraw it nor reprove him. Instead, she fastened her eyes on his face as though to read his very heart and soul. Unconsciously they had checked their horses. Then she blushed, and averting her eyes in confusion strove to release her hand. But De Lacy pressed on, though his heart beat fast and his head throbbed. Leaning across, he put his arm about her waist and drew her--struggling gently--toward him.

"And the kerchief, dear one?" he whispered.

"Nay, Aymer, you surely do not wish it now," she answered brokenly.

"Now, more than any earthly gift or Heavenly grace. . . Give it to me, sweetheart."

She had ceased to resist and his face was getting perilously near her own.

Suddenly, and with a smile De Lacy never forgot, she drew forth the bit of torn lace. "Here, take it, dear," she said.

"And you with it, sweetheart?" he cried.

"Unto death, my lord," she answered; and once more the blushes came.

She tried to hide her face in her hands, but with a joyous laugh Aymer lifted her from the saddle and swung her across and into his strong arms.

XV

THE FROWN OF FATE

It was the Countess' wish that the betrothal should remain secret for the present, and therefore none but Their Majesties and Sir John de Bury were acquainted with it. The old Knight, when approached by De Lacy on the subject, had clapped him heartily on the shoulder.

"Take her, lad," he exclaimed; "and be worthy, even as I think you will. The King, himself, has spoken in your behalf . . . to say naught of the maid herself. But by St. Luke! this fortune will bring its drag. The Countess has had too many suitors for the favored one to escape unhated. Nay, do not shrug your shoulders . . . or, at least, there is no harm in shrugging if your wit be keen, your dagger ever ready, and your arm strong. Remember, De Lacy, that you are a stranger, high in favor with the King, and that Beatrix has broad acres as well as a fair face."

"And also that there is a certain, flat-nosed, red-haired knave at large, who, perchance, may honor me, even as he did you."

"Spare him, lad, spare him for me! . . . Yet if he should come under your sword, put a bit more force in the blow for my sake."

"Trust me for that. . . I shall split him six inches deeper--and tell him why as I do it."

"It will make me still more your debtor. By the Holy Evangels! if I were assured the Abbot Aldam of Kirkstall had aught to do with that attack upon me, I would harry his worthless old mummery shop so clean a mouse would starve in it."

"Hark you, Sir John," said Aymer, "I may resign the Flat-Nose to you, but I shall claim a hand in that harrying business if the time ever ripen."

"Sorry the day for the Cistercian when we batter down his gates," the old Knight laughed, yet with a menacing ring in his words.

"Sorry, indeed, for those on the other side of the gates," came a voice from behind the arras, and the King parted the hangings. . . . "Though may I ask whose gates are in to be battered and for what purpose?"

"The gates of Kirkstall Abbey, under certain conditions, so please Your Majesty," said De Bury.

Richard elevated his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"And the conditions?" he asked.

"Proof that the Abbot Aldam was concerned in a recent murderous assault upon me, or that he harbors a certain flat-nosed ruffian who led it," Sir John replied.

"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 stripes on the sleeve, he made as handsome and gallant a figure as one was wont to see, even in those days of chivalry. And no reign, since his protonymic predecessor's, gave promise of a brighter future. The people had accepted him without a murmur of dissatisfaction, well pleased that there was to be no occasion for the riot of factions and favorites that a child King always engenders. England had known Richard of Gloucester, even since his boyhood, as a strong man among strong men--a puissant knight, an unbeaten general, a wise counsellor, a brilliant administrator; in all things able, resourceful, proficient; combining, as it were, in the last of the Angevines, all the keen statesmanship, stern will, and fiery dash of the great House that had ruled England for three hundred turbulent years.

Since the evening in London when Buckingham had quitted the castle in anger at the denial of the De Bohun inheritance, the matter had not been mentioned between them; nor did the Duke know that Richard had ever heard of his outburst. Yet it is sure that from that moment they had distrusted each other, though they varied not a jot their former bearing. Stafford remained at Court in constant attendance, and the King continued to grant him substantial favors and honors, and this day, as they rode side by side toward Reading (as well as until Buckingham turned aside at Gloucester for his demesne of Brecknock), the most astute observer could not have detected in the frank cordiality of their manner, the faintest trace of unfriendliness on the part of either.

The King had thrown aside his haughty reserve, and laughed and chatted gayly with those about him. Toward the inhabitants, who were gathered in crowds along the highways, he was very gracious, doffing bonnet to the curtsies of the women, and acknowledging with a gracious sweep of his arm and hand the respectful salutations of the men. And many were the enthusiastic cries of "God save the King!" or "God save Your Majesty!" or "God save King Richard!" And they came from the solitary individual as well as from the multitude; from the laborers in the country as well as from the tradesmen and artificers in the hamlets and small towns.

It was near evening on the twelfth day after leaving Windsor that the tall towers of Warwick Castle loomed in the distance, the giant "Caesar" rising high above its huge brothers, the "Gateway" and the "Grey," and casting its grim shadow far across the country-side. During much of this day's journey Richard had been very quiet, riding with his head sunk on his breast; and observing this, his attendants, save only the particular Knight of the Body on duty, gradually drew further behind so that their talk would not annoy him. At intervals he summoned one or more of them, but after a short time his interest waned, his abstraction returned, and like discreet courtiers, they quickly dropped again to the rear. As they neared the fortress he roused himself, and when the bombard on the wall roared out the royal salute he waved his suite to him. At the same time Sir William Catesby, who had gone on in advance from Worcester the previous day, came galloping to meet them with Sir James Gascoyne, the Constable of the Castle.

Richard supped alone that evening; and then for a while he paced the floor in meditation, pausing finally at the open window. Presently he struck the bell.

"Who waits?" he asked.

"Sir Aymer de Lacy and Sir Ralph de Wilton," replied the page.

"De Lacy," he said. . . "Come hither," as Aymer entered; "a crowded courtyard always entertains me. . . Sometimes much may be learned from it; and this is very active now. Have you ever seen one so bright and busy?"

"But once before in England, Sire."

"Where?"

"At Pontefract! the night I first met the Duke of Gloucester."

"Aye, that may be true--it was crowded in those days. . . Pardieu! it is scarce three months since then--and yet . . . Holy Paul, what, changes!" He half closed his eyes in retrospection. . . "It is marvellous what memory can show us in an instant," he said, and turning sharply from the casement struck the bell again. . . "Summon the Lord Steward," he ordered . . . then, to De Lacy, when the page had gone: "And do you attend to what is said and pay no regard to Stanley's glances of uneasiness. . . You understand?"

De Lacy bowed. "I do, and with profound satisfaction."

"Why satisfaction?"

"That Your Majesty does not trust him."

Richard smiled grimly. "Trust him or his brother William? Rather look for faith and honesty in the Fiend himself. Nathless, I may not slight them--yet awhile. It is watch and wait--now. And a trying task truly, for they are the shrewdest brained in the land."

"Save the King of England," Aymer added.

"Save none, as you some day may see."

"God forbid!" De Lacy exclaimed earnestly.

But Richard only shrugged his shoulders. "Nay, what boots it? As great Coeur-de-Lion said: 'From the Devil we Plantagenets all come, and to the Devil shall we all go.'"

"Then Your Majesty will never be quit of the Stanleys."

"It would seem so," with a short laugh; "yet it is the live Stanley that worries me now."

"The Lord Stanley awaits Your Majesty's pleasure," said the page, stepping within the arras.

"Admit him," the King ordered, choosing a place where his own face would be in the shadow and the other's in the glare. . . "And would it were my pleasure, rather than my expediency, that awaited him," he added in an undertone.

Stanley came forward in his precise and cautious way and bent knee to the King.

"Be seated, my lord," said Richard cordially. "I wish your advice upon a most important matter, if you can spare me a little of your time."

The Lord Steward bowed. "My time belongs to you, Sire," he said suavely; "though I fear my poor advice can aid but little your own keen judgment; yet it is flattering to be asked it."

Richard made a gesture of dissent. "I did not summon you for flattery," he said; "if I did not value your discretion you would not be here."

"Then I trust your gracious confidence may not be misplaced."

"I am about to test it. . . Tell me, my lord, what is the gravest state problem that confronts me now?"

The Lord Steward's crafty blue eyes shot a sharp glance at the King, but Richard's black ones met it half way and drove it back in quick retreat. Now, Stanley had one weakness. He was vain of his astuteness and ever ready to display it; and he thought he had discerned instantly what was in the King's mind.

"Your Majesty means the two Princes--Edward's sons," he said.

Richard's face showed blank surprise.

"Nay, my lord, I mean nothing in particular," he said. "I sought only what, in your opinion, was my chief embarrassment and peril. . . And you answer: the young Princes. . . By St. Paul! you may be right--give me your reasons."

Stanley saw his blunder and grew hot with rage. He had been outwitted; and now, as between him and the King, he must ever bear the burden of having first suggested Edward's sons as a menace to the State. The trap was so easy; and yet he had never seen it until it had caught him tight. And between his anger and the strange influence which Richard exercised over all men when in his presence, he blundered again--and worse than before.

"When, since time began," he asked, "has a new King had peace or comfort while his supplanted predecessor lived to breed revolt?"

Richard seized the opening instantly.

"Great St. George! You do not urge the Princes' death?" he exclaimed.

And Stanley floundered deeper.

"Holy Mother, Sire, do not misunderstand me," he answered. "I urge nothing. But the problem, as I see it, is, not why to act, but how to refrain."

"Yet Parliament has declared them bastards and so never eligible to the crown," Richard objected.

But Stanley had gone too far now to retreat and he pressed on, knowing that he, himself, was incurring little or no danger by the advice. Richard alone would be responsible if he acted upon it, and all the open shame would fall upon him.