Giles Dauvrey was no fledgling whose apprenticeship had begun among the dainty pages of my lady"s bower. A Gascon, and lowly born, he was a simple man-at-arms when, in a small affray on the Italian border, he had chanced to ward from Sir Aymer de Lacy"s head the battle-axe that, falling on him from behind, must else have cleft him to the gorget.
The young Knight had thereupon obtained the man"s transfer to his own following and--becoming a.s.sured of his bravery and martial fitness--he had made him his squire when, a few months later, an Italian cross-bolt had wrought a vacancy in the post. Stocky in build, wonderfully quick and thoroughly trained in arms, he also had the rare faculty of executing an order without the slightest evasion, and could be trusted in any emergency either of discretion or valor. Right often had the two stood side by side in the press of skirmish and the rush of battle,--for they had ever sought the locality of strife--and there had come to be little choice for the foeman between the accomplished axe-play of the master and the sweeping blows of the st.u.r.dy squire.
And as among the veteran soldiery of the French-Italian borders no name stood higher than De Lacy, so also was no wearer of the silver spurs more respected than he who bore the banner of the Trippant Stag.
"It is a great fortress, Giles," said the Knight. "Never have I seen a stronger."
"Marry, no; nor one, I ween, wherein the discipline was sterner. Are all castles in this land of yours, my lord, so conducted?"
"All wherein the Duke of Gloucester holds command."
"Of a truth, then," said Dauvrey, "the tales I have heard of this Prince are not so wide of the clout."
"What were the tales?"
"They were many and various, yet I gathered that he was a great warrior and fit to be a ruler of men."
"And you gathered truly," returned De Lacy. "He is the best soldier and shrewdest man in all this island Kingdom."
"How looks he to the eye, my lord?"
"You may judge that for yourself; observe him at the evening meal.
Here comes the summons."
A step came rapidly up the stairs and a page halted at the half-opened doorway.
"His Grace requests that Sir Aymer de Lacy join him in the great hall,"
he said.
The Knight arose and flung his short cloak about him.
"Lead on," he ordered; "we follow."
When they entered the hall the Duke was already seated on the dais, surrounded by the officers of his household. On the right, De Lacy recognized Sir Robert Wallingford, to whom, as Constable of Pontefract, he had been conducted upon his arrival; but the others he was not able to identify, although, of course, he knew by reputation several who should be among them. The chair on Richard"s left was unoccupied, and he motioned for De Lacy to take it.
"Sit you here," he said. . . . "Gentlemen, I present Sir Aymer de Lacy. He is fresh from London and, I doubt not, can give you much news of the Court and Capital."
All arose and bowed to De Lacy, who bowed back at them.
"My knowledge, such as it is," said he, "is freely yours. Yet as I was only a few weeks in London my budget may be very meagre. But if you will ask, I will gladly tell you what I know."
And they did not hesitate to ask, and he was kept busy answering questions upon every conceivable subject, from the details of the funeral of the dead King to the fashion of the latest gown. Indeed it was not until the meal was almost over that he had an opportunity for a word aside to the Duke.
"May I ask Your Grace the name of the fair-haired man yonder?" he said.
"I cry pardon," Richard exclaimed. "I forgot you were a stranger in England. He is my Chamberlain, Sir William Catesby. . . The black-moustached Knight with the scar on his forehead, who has just put down his wine gla.s.s, is Sir Richard Ratcliffe. . . The elderly man beside him with the gray hair and ruddy countenance is Sir Robert Brackenbury. . . The one with the thin, dark face and broad shoulders is Lord Darby of Roxford.--The rest are younger men and of less prominence. . . The one beside Darby is Sir Ralph de Wilton, next to him is Sir James Dacre, and on Dacre"s left is Sir Henry de Vivonne."
He pushed back his chair and arose.
"Gentlemen," said he, "you are excused from further attendance." Then he called to De Wilton.
"Sir Ralph," he said, "Sir Aymer de Lacy is of the Household. Give him some idea of his duties, and then sponsor him in Her Grace"s presence chamber."
And Aymer liked De Wilton on the instant, with his courteous manner and frank, gracious smile, and for an hour or more they sat in pleasant conversation. Then Sir Ralph was summoned to the Duke, and De Lacy, postponing, perforce, his presentation to the d.u.c.h.ess" household until the morrow, went for a stroll on the ramparts.
Night had settled down; the sky was clear and through the cool, crisp air the stars were shining brightly. The turmoil in the bailey had subsided, but from the quarters of the soldiery rose the hum of voices that now and then swelled out into the chorus of some drinking or fighting song. There were lights in many of the dwellings where lived the married members of the permanent garrison, and from them ever and anon came the shrill tones of some shrewish, woman scolding her children or berating her lord and master. For a while Sir Aymer paced the great wide wall, reflecting upon what had occurred since he came to Pontefract and the matters he had learned from De Wilton. But through it all a woman"s face kept with him and led his thoughts awry, and presently he turned aside and leaned upon the parapet.
He had found her--and by accident; and had lost her the same instant.
Beatrix of Clare, the greatest heiress in England, was not for him--a wanderer and a stranger. She had warned him plainly that day in Windsor Forest--though he, not knowing her, had missed the point till now. He might not presume to speak to her until properly presented--nor even then to refer to what had pa.s.sed or so much as intimate that they had met before. . . And yet had not Gloucester himself bade him be not so humble--that his birth was equal to her own?
Why should he not aspire . . . why not seek her favor . . . what more favorable conditions would he ever know than now? How extraordinary it was that she should be in Pontefract--the length of England from where he saw her last. Surely the Fates were kind to him! And had she recognized him? No, for she had not even given him a glance. He had thought to meet her in the presence chamber this very night; and now--he must wait until the morrow. Yet the morrow was sure . . . and then he would see again that sweet face, those ruddy tresses and grey eyes . . . would hear that silvery voice. . .
Hark! he heard it now.
"Why so abstracted, sir?" it seemed to say.
He stood quite still--would it come again?
St. Denis! there it was!
"Is she so far away, Sir Ralph?" it asked.
Sir Ralph! What had Sir Ralph to do with this music?
There came a soft laugh and a touch of a hand on his shoulder.
He whirled around--and stared in wonder at the woman of his dream.
"Oh!" she said. "Oh! I thought you were Sir Ralph de Wilton . . . the night is dark--pray, forgive me."
De Lacy bowed low.
"I am Sir Ralph de Wilton," he said.
The Countess smiled.
"You are very good," she said, and moved away.
"May not Sir Ralph walk with you?" De Lacy asked.
She stopped and with head half turned looked at him thoughtfully.
"Yes, if he wish," she answered.
For a s.p.a.ce they walked in silence; she with head averted. . .
Presently she laughed.
"Silence is new in Sir Ralph," she said.
"He was waiting leave to speak."
"And that is newer still."