From the window of the room in which he was confined, Buckingham idly watched the work; and as he stood there, the King and the Duke of Norfolk came forth with a few attendants and rode gayly away.
A scowl of darkest hatred distorted his face, and he shook his fist at Richard—then laughed; and the laugh grew into a sneer, that after the features were composed again still lingered about the mouth.
"It was well for the Plantagenet he did not grant the interview," he muttered; "else———" From within his doublet, he took a long silver comb, such as men used to dress their flowing hair and of which, naturally, he had not been deprived, and touching a secret spring, drew from the heavy rim a slender dagger.
"It is a pretty bit of Italian craft and methinks would have cut sure and deep," he mused. He felt the blade and tested its temper by bending it nigh double … "Why should I not cheat yonder scaffold and scorn the tyrant to the end?" … then with calm determination returned it to its sheath. "It would give them cause to dub me coward, and to say I would have weakened at the final moment. A Stafford dare not risk it."
He turned again to the window—and started forward with surprise. "Darby! By all the devils in Hell! Here, with the King… The false-hearted scoundrel! With him, at least, I can square off."
He struck the door sharply; it opened and Raynor Royk stepped within and saluted.
"Will you deliver a message for me?" Buckingham asked, offering him a rose-noble.
The old soldier drew back.
"I am not for sale, Sir Duke," he said. "What is the message?"
"For Sir Aymer de Lacy, my good fellow. Tell him I pray a moment's conversation on a matter of grave importance."