"Who is this De Lacy," the Earl asked with, a supercilious shrug; "one of the new nobility?"
A faint smile came into her eyes.
"New? May be, my lord—the term is but relative—yet I would scarce call him so: his ancestor came with Norman William and built Pontefract."
"So … one of old Ilbert's stock. Well, even a Ware may not cavil at that blood … though it is passing strange I never heard of him until within the week."
"Strange for him or for you?" she asked.
"For me, of course—seeing that he has been so much at Court." The tone was bantering, yet the sarcasm was deliberately veiled.
She turned upon him rather sharply.
"My lord," said she, "if you would criticise Sir Aymer de Lacy, do not, I pray, make me your confidant. He is my good friend."
"And you like him … well?" he questioned.
"Aye, that I do," she retorted instantly. "It is a pity his sort are growing scarce."