lliant brother; the grave, melancholy Duke of Orleans, who had
been taken captive at Agincourt, and was at present quartered at
Pontefract; the handsome, but stout and heavy-looking Earl of March;
brave Lord Warwick; Sir Lewis Robsart, the old knight to whose charge the
Queen had been specially committed from the moment of her betrothal; and
a young, bold, gay-looking lad, of Malcolm's own age, but far taller and
stouter, and with a merry, half-defiant, half-insouciant air, who had
greatly taken his fancy, was, he was told, Ralf Percy, the second son of
Sir Harry Percy.

'Of him they called Hotspur?--who was taken captive at Otterburn, who
died a rebel!' exclaimed Malcolm.

'Ay,' said James; 'but King Harry had learnt the art of war as a boy,
first under Hotspur, in Wales; nor doth he love that northern fashion of
ours of keeping up feud from generation to generation. So hath he
restored the eldest son to his barony, and set him to watch our Borders;
and the younger, Ralf, he is training in his own school of chivalry.'

More wonders for Malcolm Stewart, who had learnt to believe it mere
dishonour and tameness to forgive the son for his father's deeds. A
cloistered priest could hardly do so: pardon to a hostile family came
only with the last mortal throe; and here was this warlike king forgiving
as a mere matter of course!

'But,' added James, 'you had best not speak of your bent conventwards in
the Court here. I should not like to have you called the monkling!'

Malcolm crimsoned, with the resolution never to betray himself.

CHAPTER V: WHITTINGTON S FEAST

The next day the royal train set forth from Pontefract, and ere mounting,
James presented his young kinsman to the true Joan Beaufort--fair-haired,
soft-featured, blue-eyed, and with a lovely air of graciousness, as she
greeted him with a sweet, blushing, sunny smile, half that of the queen
in anticipation, half that of the kindly maiden wishing to set a stranger
at ease. So beautiful was she, that Malcolm felt annihilated at the
thought of his blunder of last night.

As they rode on, James was entirely occupied with the lady, and Malcolm
was a good deal left to himself; for, though the party was numerous, he
knew no one except the Duke of Bedford, who was riding with the King and
Lord Warwick, in deep consultation, while Sir Nigel Baird, Lord Marmion,
and the rest were in the rear. He fell into a mood of depression such as
had not come upon him