Chapter 11

"The Beauforts were bastards," he answered, "and Parliament specifically refused them the royal dignity; yet who, to-day, is Lancaster's chief and claimant for your Crown but the heir of those same Beauforts? Pardieu! Sire, you need not me to tell you that Parliament belongs to him whose writ summons it."

"I would never countenance it," the King answered; "and it would surely destroy me if I did."

Stanley smiled shrewdly. "Did the Fourth Henry sit less easy on the throne when the deposed Richard died suddenly at Pontefract? . . . Did John tyrannize the less because of Arthur's cruel taking off?"

The King arose and paced the floor, looking straight before him. Stanley watched him furtively, trying vainly to read behind the mask of that passionless face.

"Tell me, my lord," said Richard presently, halting beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder, "if you were King of England, what would you do with the Princes?"

Stanley evaded the direct question. "Your Majesty is King of England, and I can never be aught but a subject--how can I know what a King would do?"

Richard nodded. "That is but fair, my lord," he said. "To decide as King one must be King. Yet I would gather from our talk that you deem the . . . removal . . . most essential--is it not so?"

Pushed into the corner, the shifty Baron hesitated and sought to evade again. But he managed badly, for now the King's eyes were hard upon his face.

"Of a truth, Sire," he replied, "our talk this night has convinced me it would be most expedient for Your Majesty."

Richard's lips softened into the very faintest smile.

"Our talk------!" he began.

Then suddenly Stanley started up and pointed to the window.

"Who is yonder listener?" he exclaimed.

Richard turned quickly, following the gesture.

"Are your eyes failing?" he asked. "It is De Lacy--he is on duty to-night."

"Did you know he was there?"

"Most assuredly, my lord."

Stanley stared at the King in amazed silence, and despite his careful dissimulation the indignation blazed in his eyes.

"If Your Majesty deem it wise to discuss such matters before a simple attendant," he said, "it is not for me to criticise . . . yet, methinks, if it be not risky, it is at least unusual."

"Never fear, Lord Steward; I will answer for my Body-Knight," Richard responded.

During the colloquy, De Lacy had been leaning on the window edge, watching idly the courtyard below, but paying strict attention to all that was said behind him. Now he came forward and bent knee to Richard.

"My King's confidence," he said, "makes contemptible the insinuations of the fickle Stanley."

"How now, Sir------" Stanley began angrily; but Richard silenced him with an imperious gesture.

"Hold, my Lord Steward," he said sternly, "no words betwixt you two. And hark you both, no renewal of this hereafter. You are each acquittanced of the other now."

De Lacy drew himself up stiffly and saluted.

"The King commands," he said.

"And you, my lord?" asked Richard, eyeing Stanley.

"Pardieu! Sire, I have no quarrel with Sir Aymer," he answered, and affably extended his hand.

Just then there came loud voices from the outer room, followed immediately by the entrance of the page.

"May it please Your Majesty," the boy said, as the King's curt nod gave him leave to speak, "Sir Robert Brackenbury craves instant audience on business of state."

"Admit him!"

The next moment the old Knight strode into the room, spurs jangling and boots and doublet soiled by travel.

"Welcome, Robert," said Richard, giving him his hand. "What brings you in such haste?"

"Matters which are for your ears alone, Sire," said the Constable of the Tower, with the abruptness of a favored counsellor.

The King walked to a distant window.

"Might the two-faced Lord Steward hear us?" Brackenbury asked.

"No danger, speak--what is amiss in London?"

"Enough and to spare. Edward's sons are dead."

Even Richard's wonderful self-control was unequal to such news, and he started back.

"Holy Paul!" he exclaimed, under his breath; then stood with bent head. . . "How happened it?"

"No one knows, certainly. As you expressly ordered, either the lieutenant or myself regularly locked their apartments at sundown and opened them at dawn. Two nights since I, myself, turned key upon them. In the morning I found them dead--in each breast a grievous wound--Edward's bloody dagger on the floor."

"And your view of it?"

"That Edward killed Richard and himself. He had lately been oppressed with heavy melancholy."

The King shook his head. "Yes, that is doubtless the solution, yet scant credence will be given it. To the Kingdom it will be murder foul. . . Yet, pardieu! who else know it?"

"None but my lieutenant."

"And his discretion?"

"Beyond suspicion. He has forgotten it long since."

Richard called De Lacy to him. "Let Suffolk, Lovel, Ratcliffe, D'Evereux and Catesby be summoned instantly," he ordered.

"My friends," said he, when the last of them had come, "I have sore need of your wisdom and counsel. Hark to the mournful tidings Sir Robert Brackenbury brings."

Bluntly and simply the old Knight told the story. When he ended there was deep concern on every face and all eyes turned toward the King.

"You perceive, my lords, the gravity of the situation," said Richard. "What shall be done?"

None answered.

"Come, sirs; it is here and we must face it. What say you, Stanley?"

The Lord Steward swept the circle with a keen glance.

"Your Majesty has put a direful question and given us scant time for thought," he replied. "Yet but two courses seem possible: either to proclaim the Princes dead by natural causes and give them public burial; or to conceal the death, and by letting the world fancy them life prisoners so forget them. Each has its advantage; but on the whole, the latter may be better. Nathless, this much is self-evident--the true tale dare not be told. Daggers, blood, and death are inexplicable when Kings' sons are the victims, save on one hypothesis."

One after another endorsed these words, until finally it came back to the King for decision.

For a long while he sat silent, staring into vacancy. Through the open windows floated the noises of the courtyard--the neigh of a horse, the call of a soldier, the rattle of steel on stone; from the anteroom came the hum of voices, the tramp of a foot, the echo of a laugh. But within, no one spoke nor even stirred. Not a man there but understood the fatefulness of the moment and the tremendous consequences of the decision, which, once made, might never be amended. At length he spoke.

"It is an ill-fated event and leaves a dismal prospect," he said very quietly. "Sooner or later my nephews' death will be laid on me. To proclaim them dead would be to declare me guilty now. To conceal their death will be simply to postpone that guilt a time--a very little time, it may be. Curiosity will arise over their prolonged disappearance . . . then will come suspicion . . . and at length suspicion will become accepted fact. . . So, my lords, their blood will be put on me--either now or in the future. That is my only choice--now or the future--. . . and I choose the future. We will not announce the death; and the bodies shall be buried privately and in an unknown spot. To you, Sir Robert Brackenbury, I commit the task, trusting you fully. . . And, my lords, from this moment henceforth, let this council and its sad subject be forgotten utterly. . . Only I ask that when, in after days, you hear Richard Plantagenet accused of this deed, you will defend him or his memory. . . And now, good night."

One by one they came forward, bent knee and kissed his hand; then quietly withdrew, leaving him and De Lacy alone together.

"And yet, forsooth," he exclaimed, "Stanley advised that the Princes be removed! By St. Paul! if he sought to persuade me to my injury, the Fates have subserved his wishes well. Him I can baffle, but under their frown the strongest monarch fails."

XVI

THE FLAT-NOSE REAPPEARS

It was September, and Their Majesties had come to Pontefract with the immediate Household for a brief rest after the labors and fatigues of the summer, and which had culminated in the festivities and ceremonies at York. In the room where Sir Aymer de Lacy first saw Richard of Gloucester, the King and Queen were alone together. Evening had fallen, but the brilliancy of a full moon in a cloudless sky had prolonged the day. Through the open windows came the freshness of the woods and hills, and the candles flickered and flamed in coquetry with the gentle breeze.

"Come, Anne, let us walk. It is too fine an evening to spend indoors," Richard said, laying aside the papers he had been examining.

She answered with the sweet smile that was always on her lips for him, and arm in arm they passed out upon the ramparts.

The main body of the soldiery were quartered in the town below the hill, and the castle was very quiet, save only for the tramp of the guards on the wall, the rattle of their weapons, and an occasional burst of laughter from the great hall. The peace and calm appealed to the Queen, and she sighed.

"How so, sweetheart," said Richard; "what troubles you?"

"I was thinking how much preferable Pontefract is to London."

The King laughed. "I believe you would rather be Duchess than Queen."

"Aye, Richard, much rather, much rather," she replied instantly.

He put his hand on her fair hair and stroked it softly. "Nay, dear, the wearisome work is over now, I trust. Henceforth it will be pleasanter . . . Pardieu! was there ever another woman, I wonder, who needed encouragement to wear a crown?"

"A Neville once refused one," she replied.

"True, indeed; and gave it back to the miserable Henry. . . You resemble your great father in many ways--and may our own dear son be like you both."

"You are very good to me, Richard," she said, taking his hand.

"But much short of what you deserve, dear one."

Suddenly a bugle rang loudly from before the barbican, followed in a moment by the rattle of the drawbridge and the clatter of hoofs on the planks.

"It is Beatrix and Sir John returning from their ride," the Queen said.

"It was not De Bury's call," he answered.

"Why, it is Sir Aymer de Lacy!" she exclaimed, as a pair of horsemen cantered across the inner bailey.

Richard nodded. "And a day earlier than I anticipated . . . but he has a good excuse."

"And a bit of disappointment also, that Beatrix is not here to greet him."

"He can spare her until he has supped, I fancy."

"She would not be pleased to think so."

"A woman wants a man to think of naught but her," he smiled.

"Yes, she does--and even though she know it to be futile . . . it is foolish, doubtless."

"It is more than foolish; it is unfortunate. It annoys the man and grieves the woman."

"Nay, Richard, you look at it with a man's view only."

"And you, my dear?"

"I?--with the proper view, of course."

The King laughed aloud; and as De Lacy, who had just dismounted before the keep, recognized the voice and glanced up, Richard leaned over the parapet and beckoned to him.

"We are glad to see you," he said, as the Knight presently bent knee and kissed the Queen's hand.

"Yes, Sir Aymer, you are always welcome," she added.

"Your Majesties overwhelm me."

"Well, if our greeting overwhelm you," the King remarked, "the Countess of Clare's wilt likely end your life."

"I am very anxious to risk it, Sire," De Lacy answered quickly.

"Beatrix has left the castle," said Richard.

"Gone!" Aymer exclaimed.

"Oh . . . only for a ride."

"A ride--at night?"

"Surely--why not--on a fine night and with a gallant escort?"

"Nay, Richard," the Queen broke in, "do not distress him. Sir Aymer, Beatrix is with her uncle, and as they have been absent since before vespers, they must soon return."

De Lacy's face cleared so quickly that Richard smiled.

"A bad case, truly," he commented, putting his arm about the Queen. "Has the lady the disease so deep?"

"I would not tell you even if I knew," she answered.

"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."

"Will you be occupied very late?" she asked, as he held back the arras.

"Only a short time, my dear. I will come to you presently," and himself closed the door behind her.

"Are you very weary?" he asked De Lacy.

"Fit for any service Your Majesty may wish."

"It will be your own service."

"Mine! Mine! . . . You cannot mean----" taking a step forward.

"Steady, man, steady! I mean only that Sir John's riderless horse has just been found near the castle, with severed rein and bloody saddle."

De Lacy passed his hand across his forehead.

"And Beatrix?" he asked huskily.

The King shook his head.

Again Aymer passed his hand across his eyes; his brain was working very slowly how.

"You have given orders?" he asked.

"One hundred men-at-arms are seeking for a clue. Fifty others will await you at the barbican at daybreak."

"Meanwhile I, too, will seek," and he sprang toward the door--and into Ratcliffe's arms.

"Stay, Sir Aymer," said the King; "it would do no good for you to search at night--you may go far astray. All that can be done till daybreak the scouts will do. . . You gave the orders, Ratcliffe?"

"I did, and venture to amplify them by sending twenty men along the North road as far as the Aire for any trace of Sir John or of the fight--for, of course, there was a fight."

"And a passing hard one ere De Bury was unhorsed," said Richard.

"The remaining eighty," Ratcliffe continued, "I divided into bands of ten and five, bidding them follow every cross-road or bridle-path, and inquire for information from every traveler and at every habitation. The instant aught is discovered you will be advised."

The King turned to De Lacy. "You rescued Sir John when he was attacked last April near his own castle; might this be the same band?"

Aymer shook his head. "We killed all of them but one."

"True, I remember now. . . The flat-nosed one alone escaped. . . Did De Bury ever speak to you of enemies in these parts?"

"Never directly; though, as you know, he seemed to dislike the Abbot of Kirkstall and suspected him of being, at least, party to the other attack."

"Well, we must wait for even a plausible solution until we have a few facts. Yet I would wager much it is an abduction--and God grant it be so. . . Of course, it may be the villains did not molest the Countess. In that case, find Sir John and you find her, too."

"The chance is slight," De Lacy said quickly, "yet I shall ride rapidly back for a few miles and, perchance, it may be so. If I be not here by daybreak, Sire, I will join the men en route."

"It will be a relief for you to be on the move," said Richard kindly; "but return here for your escort. We may have clues then; and if the Countess has been abducted, she is quite as likely to be carried South as North."

"I shall be here at daybreak," Aymer answered. He saddled Selim with his own hand, and with Dauvrey beside him hurried away. They rode in silence with eyes alert, scanning sharply the ground on both sides of the road that lay like a silver stream before them. A mile from the castle a soldier rode out from the shadow and reined across the track, his casquetel and drawn sword glistening in the moonlight.

"Hold!" he ordered.

"Yorkshire!" said De Lacy . . . "Any news?" he demanded, as they swept by.

"None, my lord."

At the first cross-road two horsemen barred the way. Aymer paused to question them, but learning nothing, the pace was resumed. Another mile was passed, and they had tarried a moment to breathe and water the horses at a rivulet that gurgled across the road, when Selim suddenly threw up his head.

"Some one comes!" said De Lacy . . . "it is news . . . he rides furiously; he must be stopped."

They drew out into the middle of the track and waited. Presently a running horse shot into view ahead, and the rider, seeing the two in front, shouted the royal messenger's call: "Way! In the King's name! Way!"

"Stay, Allen," Giles Dauvrey cried, recognizing him. "What word?"

"Sir John has been found," the man answered, drawing up short.

"Dead?" Aymer demanded.

"No, my lord, not yet."

"And the Countess of Clare?"

"Gone, my lord; no trace."

"God in Heaven! . . . Where Is Sir John?"

"Half a league further on."

"Tell the King I have gone thither," Aymer called over his shoulder as he raced away.

In a patch of moonlight, fifty feet or so in from the road, lay Sir John de Bury, his eyes closed, his face upturned, motionless--to all appearances a corpse. De Lacy sprang down and knelt beside him.

"He is not dead, my lord," said a soldier.

Aymer laid back the doublet and shirt, wet and heavy with blood that had come from a deep wound in the right breast, and was still oozing slowly. The heart was beating, but very faintly, and forcing the set jaws apart with his dagger, he poured a measure of cordial down Sir John's throat.

"May it please you, sir," said one of the men, "we have arranged a litter of boughs, and if you think it good we will bear him back to the castle."

"It can do him no harm," De Lacy answered. . . "How say you, Giles?"

"With even step it will not hurt him," the squire replied.

Lifting the old Knight carefully they placed him on the litter and Aymer wrapped his own cloak around him, then nodded to the soldiers to proceed.

"Go slowly," he ordered, "a jolt may end his life. Watch his heart closely; if it grow weaker, use the cordial," and he handed them the flask.

"The fight was not at this place," said Dauvrey after a moment's examination of the ground; "there are no mingling hoof marks. De Bury likely fell from the saddle here and the horse kept on to the castle; his tracks point thither."

"Let us follow the back track," De Lacy exclaimed.

For a score of paces it led them, slowly and laboriously, into the dark forest, and then vanished, and though they searched in all directions, no further trace was found. It was a fruitless quest; and at length the squire persuaded his master to abandon it and await the coming of the dawn.

Reluctantly De Lacy remounted and they rode slowly back to Pontefract. The soldiers bearing Sir John de Bury had reached there some time before, and he lay on the couch in his own room. There was no material change in his condition, though under the candle-light there was less of the ghastly pallor of death in the face; and about the ears were evidences that the blood was beginning to circulate more strongly. The King's own physician, Antonio Carcea--an Italian--sat beside him with his hand on the pulse and, ever and anon, bent to listen to the respiration.

At Be Lacy's entrance he glanced up with a frown which faded when he saw who it was.

"He will live, Signor," he said in Italian. "He has not yet come to consciousness, but it is only a matter of a little while."

"Will he speak by daybreak?" De Lacy asked.

"Most likely, Signor."

"Summon me on the instant, and may the Good God aid you."

Going to his quarters and waving Dauvrey aside when he would have relieved him of his doublet, Aymer threw himself upon the bed. He had ridden far that day, and with the coming of the sun would begin what promised to be a labor long and arduous. He could not sleep--and his closed eyes but made the fancies of his brain more active and the visions of his love, abducted and in hideous peril, more real and agonizing. Yet to serve her he must needs be strong and so he tried to compose himself and rest his body. There was scanty time until morning; but an hour of quiet now might breed a day of vigor in the future.

Presently there came a sharp knock and Ratcliffe entered.

"Lie still," he said, as De Lacy would have risen. "I know you found no trace of the Countess else you would not be here. Yet, perchance, Sir John may speak or some of the scouts return with a clue. If not, the sunlight, doubtless, will reveal what the night has hidden. The King has retired, but he bade me say to you not to depart without word with him. Meanwhile if any of the scouts come in they are to report to you."

Slowly the minutes dragged themselves out. The shadows lengthened more and more as the moon went to its rest behind the distant Craven hills. Then of a sudden, light and shadow mingled and all was dark. Presently a cock crowed; and the sound seemed loud as a roar of a bombard. Again the cock crowed, and from the retainers' houses another and another answered, until the shrill cry ran along the outer bailey and across the wall and on down the hill to the village, growing fainter and fainter until, at the last, it was like a far distant echo, more memory than reality.

De Lacy turned his head toward the window, hoping for some sign of day, but the East was black. With an impatient sigh he lay back. Was ever man so sorely tried--so cruelly used--so choked by horrors of the probable! Then came a troubled slumber--a tossing and a waking--that was ended by a quick step in the corridor, and with a bound he reached the door and flung it open.

"Sir John------" the page began, but got no farther--De Lacy was gone.