"On, then!" almost shouted the earl. "Ride well, thou of Wartmont, lest the foes of the Neville as well as the traitors to the king shall bar thy way. But I am glad that they lied who said that the good archbishop is failing. On!"
Silent and motionless upon their horses sat the men-at-arms as Harcourt and Richard galloped by.
Miles away, upon another road, a somewhat like band of warlike men were halted as if waiting, and to him who seemed their leader it was said, by a small, gray-headed man at his side:
"Could we but know the mind of the archbishop we might be able to tell the king why we pay not his contributions, and why thy retainers are not on the march for Portsmouth."
"We shall have his Grace's letters before the sun is down," hoarsely responded the knight addressed. "I would there might be somewhat in Wartmont's doublet to imperil the proud head of his uncle Warwick."
"Aye, my Lord of Surrey," said the gray-headed man, "it were overcunning of John Beauchamp to have the young Neville so near the prince. That house towereth too high. We will tumble it somewhat."
Small was the knowledge of Richard concerning the plots and perils through which he and his had ridden, but in a small, elegantly furnished room, at many a long mile's distance, there sat at that hour twain who spoke of him.
"My son," remarked one of them, "I will not say that thou and Warwick were overconfident to send a boy. The time for his return draweth near."
"'Tis far to ride," replied the younger of the pair, and he was very much the younger. "I sent Sir Geoffrey Harcourt to watch for him, else he might not come. My royal sire, Richard Neville and his archers might come and go where a knight and a score of men-at-arms would fail."