With all seeming freedom did Richard respond, but he mentioned not the Knight of Liddesdale, nor the temper of the Scottish king. Cunning indeed was the questioning, but of the letters, either way, naught was said. Rather was there much loose chat of the things by the way, and Richard declared:
"Little know I. I am but a youth."
"And well worn?" said the monk. "Now I will counsel thee, for thou well mayest trust such as I am. Rest thou here in peace, and I will convey to the king any matters from my old and dear friend and father in God, the archbishop. High, indeed, is my reverence for that holy man. Deep is my fealty to our good lord the king. Even give me thy message and I will depart."
"Thanks to thee, reverend father," said Richard. "But there is no haste. It were not well for thee to travel by night. Come thou in the morning, for now I can talk no more. Thou mayest ride my own horse, if thou shalt find him rested."
So the friar smiled, and gave Richard his blessing and departed, not having given any name. That was what came to Richard's mind quickly, but he said to himself:
"Who knoweth what name he would have given—his own, or another? I like him not, but if the host be right, he will not ride far upon that nag. Nor will he be overweighted with the king's errand. But I told him no untruth. Never before was I cunning, but I must care for my head."
So said the landlord, shortly, when he came and heard, but he added:
"Not in the house shalt thou sleep. Come thou with me, my lord. I will show thee a safer resting."
The darkness had fallen, and not even a lanthorn did they take with them as they made their way out of the inn to the barns. None met them, and they paused not until they were among hayricks in the rear.