For a space Sir Aymer rode alone at the head of the column without even casting a glance behind or addressing a word to his squire. Presently the road forked and turning half around in his saddle, he inquired: "Which leads to Kirkstall Abbey?"
"The straightaway one, my lord; the other would carry you back to Wakefield," said the elderly under-officer, whose hair, where it had strayed from under his casquetel, was silvered, and across whose weather-beaten face, from chin to temple, ran a bright red scar.
"The battlefield?"
"The same, sir."
"Ride beside me," said De Lacy. "Did you fight at Wakefield?"
"I did, fair sir—it was a bloody field."
"The Duke of York died that day."
"Aye, sir—I stood not ten feet from him when he fell. He was a brave knight, and our own Gloucester much resembles him in countenance."
"You have seen many battles, my man?"
"Since the first St. Albans I have missed scarce one. It is a trade that came into the family with my grandsire's sire."