The Lady Le Despenser and the Countess of Gloucester were seated at breakfast in Cardiff Castle, on a soft, bright morning in the middle of July. Breakfast consisted of fresh and salt fish, for it was a fast-day; plain and fancy bread, different kinds of biscuits (but all made without eggs or butter); small beer, and claret. Little Richard was energetically teasing Maude, by whom he sat, for another piece of red-herring, and the Dowager, deliberate in all her movements, was slowly helping herself to Gascon wine. The blast of a horn without the moat announced the arrival of a guest or a letter, and Bertram Lyngern went out to see what it was. Ten minutes later he returned to the hall, with letters in his hand, and his face white with some terrible news. "Ill tidings, noble ladies!" "Is it Dickon?" cried the Countess. "Is it Tom?" said the Dowager. "There be no news of my Lord, nor from Langley," said Bertram. "But my Lord's Grace of Hereford, and Sir Thomas de Arundel, sometime Archbishop, be landed at Ravenspur." "Landed at Ravenspur!--Banished men!" The loyal soul of Elizabeth Le Despenser could imagine nothing more atrocious. "Well, let them land!" she added in a minute. "The Duke's Grace of York shall wit how to deal with them. Be any gathered to them?" "Hundreds and thousands," was the ominous answer. "Ay me!" sighed the Dowager. "Well! `the Lord reigneth.'" Constance's only comment on the remarks was a quiet, incredulous shrug of her shoulders. She knew her father. And she was right. Like many another, literally and figuratively, York went over to the enemy's ground to parley, and ended in staying there. One of the two was talked over--but that one was not the rebel, but the Regent. Poor York! Looking back on those days, out of the smoke of the battle, one sees him a man so wretchedly weak and incapable that it is hardly possible to be angry with him. It does not appear to have been conviction, nor cowardice, nor choice in any sense, which caused his desertion, but simply his miserable incapacity to stand alone, or to resist the influence of any stronger character on either side. _He_ go to parley with the enemy! He might as well have sent his baby grandson to parley with a box of sugar-plums. Fresh news--always bad news--now came into Cardiff nearly every day. The King hurried back from Ireland to Conway, and there gathered his loyal peers around him. There were only sixteen of them. Dorset, always on the winning side, deserted the sinking ship at once. Aumerle more prudently waited to see which side would eventually prove the winner. Exeter and Surrey were sent to parley with the traitors. They were both detained, Surrey as a prisoner, Exeter with a show of friendship. The latter was too fertile in resources, and too eloquent in speech, not to be a dangerous foe. He was therefore secured while the opportunity offered.