In the Wars of the Roses: A Story for the Young

"Dowsett, you will kill him before the Chief sees him, and that he will not thank you for. He is a fine fellow, and I won't stand by and see him killed outright. Take him down and lock him up safely till the Chief returns. He will say what is to be done with him next. It is not for us to take law into our own hands beyond a certain point. You will get nothing out of him, that is plain; he is past speech now."

"The Chief will make him find his tongue," said Dowsett with a cruel sneer; "this is only a foretaste of what he will get when the Fire Eater returns.

"Take him down then, men. 'Twere a pity to kill him too soon. Keep him safe, and we will see what the Chief says to him tomorrow."

Paul heard this as in a dream, although a merciful semi-consciousness had deadened him to the worst of the pain. He felt himself unbound and carried roughly along down some dark passage, as he fancied. There was a grating noise, as if a door had turned on its hinges, and then he was flung down on what seemed like a heap of straw, and left alone in pitchy darkness.

For a time he lay just as he had been thrown, in the same trance of semi-consciousness; but after what had appeared to him a very long time, he beheld as if a long way off a glimmering light, which approached nearer and nearer, though he was too dizzy and faint to heed its movements much. But it certainly approached quite close to him-he saw as much through his half-closed eyelids-and then a voice addressed him, a soft, sweet voice, strangely unlike those he had just been hearing.

"Are you indeed Paul Stukely?" asked the voice.

The sound of his name aroused him, and he made a great effort to see through the mists that seemed to hang over his eyes. A sweet and very lovely face was hanging over him. He thought he must be dreaming, and he asked faintly, hardly knowing what he said:

"Is it an angel?"

"Oh no, I am no angel, but only the daughter of the Chief; and I want to help you, because I have heard of you before, and I cannot bear that they should kill you by inches, as I know they will do if you stay here. See, they are all fast asleep now, and there is no chance of my father's return tonight. I have brought you your clothes, and Madge has given me some rag steeped in a concoction of herbs of her own making, which will wonderfully ease your wounds if you will let me lay it on them. Old Madge is a wonderful leech, and she cannot bear their cruel doings any more than I can, and she said you were a brave lad, and she made you some soup, which I will fetch for you to hearten you up for your journey. For you must get away from here before morning, or nothing can save you from a terrible fate.

"See now, do not your poor shoulders feel better for this dressing? If you can put your clothes on whilst I am gone, I will bring you something that will go far to help you over your ride tonight."

It was a great effort to Paul to collect his wandering faculties, and get his lacerated and trembling limbs to obey his will; but he was nerved to his utmost efforts by the dread of what might befall him if he could not avail himself of this strange chance of escape. By the time the fair-faced girl had returned with a steaming basin in her hands, he had contrived to struggle into his garments, and though quivering in every fibre of his being, was more himself again, and able to understand better the rapid stream of words poured out by the eager maiden.

"Drink this," she said, giving him the basin. "It is very good. It has all kinds of ingredients in it that will ease your pain and give you strength and courage; but that you have without. Oh, I think you are the bravest lad I ever knew. But listen, for I am going to tell you a strange story. I told you that I was the, daughter of the robber chief, did I not? Well, so I am; and my father loves me the more, I think, that he never loved any other being save my mother, and she died in this very cave when I was born. He has always loved me and given me my own way; but these last weeks a change seems to have come over him, and he talks of giving me in wedlock to that terrible man T hate worse than them all-the one they call Devil's Own. He has never spoken a soft word to me all these years; but the past three weeks he has tried to woo me in a fashion that curdles the very blood in my veins. I would not wed him were I heart whole as a babe; and I am not that, for my hand and heart are pledged to another, whose wife I will surely be."

The girl's eyes flashed, and it was plain that the spirit of the sire had descended to her. Paul was slowly swallowing the contents of the basin, and feeling wonderfully invigorated thereby; indeed, he was sufficiently restored to feel a qualm of surprise at being thus intrusted with the history of this young girl, and she seemed to divine the reason of his inquiring look.

"I will tell you why I speak thus freely; and I must be brief, for the moments fly fast, and it is time we were on our way. The man I love is one Jack Devenish, of a place they call Figeon's Farm; and this very night, ere my father returns, I am to meet him; and he will carry me to his home and his mother, and there shall I lie hid in safety until such time as the priest may wed us. And, Paul, it is a happy chance that brought you hither this night instead of another; for we will fly together, and you will be safe at Figeon's as I. For they will not suspect whither we have fled, nor would they dare to attack a peaceful homestead near the village if they did. They have made this country almost too hot to hold them as it is, and are ever talking of a flight to the north. Methinks they will soon be gone, and then I can draw my breath in peace."

Paul listened in amaze. It was an effort to think of moving again tonight, so weary and worn and suffering was he; but anything was better than remaining behind in the power of these terrible men, and he rose slowly to his feet, though wincing with every movement.

"I know it pains you," cried the girl compassionately; "but oh, what is that pain to what you would have to endure if you were to stay? And you will not have to walk. My palfrey is ready tied up in the wood, a bare stone's throw from here. You shall ride her, and I will run beside you, and guide you to the trysting place, where my Jack will be awaiting me, and his great roan will carry the pair of us. Now silence, and follow me. There is a narrow exit from this inner recess in the cave known only to me and to Madge. Not one of the robbers, not even my father himself, knows of it. They think they have you in a safe trap, and will not even keep watch tonight after their weary search.

"Tread softly when you reach the open, lest our footsteps be heard. But it is far from the mouth of the cave, and I have never raised an alarm yet, often as I have slipped out unawares. Give me your hand-so; now stoop your head, and squeeze through this narrow aperture. There, here are we beneath the clear stars of heaven, and here is my pretty Mayflower waiting patiently for her mistress.

"Yes, pretty one; you must bear a heavier burden tonight, but you will do it gladly for your mistress's sake.

"Mount, good sir; we shall soon be out of reach of all danger."

It must be a dream thought Paul, as, mounted on a light palfrey, he went speeding through the dun wood by intricate paths, a fairy-like figure springing through the gloom beside him, and guiding the horse, as he was utterly unable to do.

It seemed as if his strength had deserted him. His hands had lost their power, and it was all he could do to maintain his seat on the animal that bounded lightly along with her unaccustomed burden. At last they reached an open glade; a dark, motionless figure was standing in the moonlight.

"It is he-it is my Jack!" cried the fairy, springing forward with a faint cry of welcome.

"O Jack, I have brought your old friend Paul Stukely back to you. You must take care of him as well as of me, for he has been in deadly peril tonight."

Chapter 7: The Protection Of The Protected

"Nay, wife, why sit up for him? Since he has taken to these roving habits at night there is no depending upon him. I must put an end to them if they are to disturb you so. The boy is safe enough. Why are you anxious about him tonight?"

It was Farmer Devenish who spoke these words to his wife, half an hour after the rest of the household had retired to rest, and he found her still sitting beside the fire, which she had piled up high on the hearth, as if she meant to remain downstairs for some time; which indeed she distinctly told him was her intention, as she did not wish to go to bed until Jack had come in.

"He asked me to sit up for him tonight," she answered, "and he never did so before. I was glad of it; for I have been uneasy for the boy, wondering what could take him out so often at night."

"Oh, he's going courting, you may depend upon it," laughed the farmer in his hearty way; "and courting some young lass not of our village, but one who lives a pretty step from here, I'll be bound. I've held my peace, and let the boy go his own way. He'll speak out when the time comes, depend upon it."

"I believe he will speak out this very night," answered the mother. "He told me he had a surprise in store for me, and begged that I would sit up till his return, and stand his friend with you, if you should be displeased at his choice. One might have thought he was bringing his bride home with him, to hear him talk; but he would never get wedded without speaking first. He is a good lad and a dutiful, and his parents have the right to be told."

The farmer's curiosity was piqued by what he heard, and he resolved to share his wife's vigil. Jack, their only son, was very dear to them, and they were proud of him in their own hearts, and thought such a son had never lived before. Both were anxiously looking forward to the day when he should bring home a wife to brighten up the old home, since it had lost the sweet presence of the daughter Joan; and they neither of them believed that Jack's choice would fall upon anyone unworthy of him.

The farmer dozed in his chair by the glowing hearth. The woman got a large book from some secret receptacle upstairs, and read with deep attention, though with cautious glance around her from time to time, as if half afraid of what she was doing. It was long before the silence outside was broken by any sound of approaching footfalls; and when the ring of a horse hoof upon the frosty ground became distinctly audible through the silence of the night, the farmer would not unbar the door until his wife had glided away with the volume she had been reading.

A minute later and the parents both stood in the doorway, peering out into the cloudy night, that was not altogether dark.

"By holy St. Anthony, there are two horses and three riders," said the farmer, shading his eyes from the glare of the lantern as he peered out into the darkness beyond.

"Jack, is that you, my son? And who are these that you have brought with you?"

"Friends-friends claiming the shelter and protection of your roof, father," answered Jack's hearty voice as he rode up to the door; and then it was seen that he was greatly encumbered by some burden he supported before him on his horse. But from the other lighter palfrey there leaped down a small and graceful creature of fairy-like proportions, and Mistress Devenish found herself suddenly confronted by the sweetest, fairest face she had ever seen in her life, whilst a pair of soft arms stole caressingly about her neck.

"You are Jack's mother," said a sweet, soft voice in accents of confident yet timid appeal that went at once to her heart. "He has told me so much of you-he has said that you would be a mother to me. And I have so longed for a mother all my life. I never had one. Mine own mother died almost ere I saw the light. He said you would love me; and I have loved you long. Yet it is not of myself I must talk now, but of yon poor lad whom you know well. We have brought Paul Stukely back to you. Oh, he has been sorely handled by those cruel robbers-the band of Black Notley! He has been like a dead man these last miles of the road. But Jack says he is not dead, and that your kindly skill will make him live again."

And before Mistress Devenish was well aware whether she were not in a dream herself, her husband had lifted into the house the apparently inanimate form of Paul Stukely, and had laid him down upon the oak settle near to the hospitable hearth.

Jack had gone to the stable with the horses; but one of the serving men having been aroused and having come to his assistance, he was able quickly to join the party beside the fire, and coming forward with a glad and confident step, he took the hand of the fairy-like girl in his own, and placed it within that of his mother.

"Father, mother," he said, "I have brought you home my bride that is to be. Listen, and I will tell you a strange story, and I know you will not then withhold your love from one who has known little of it, and who has led a strange, hard life amid all that is bad and cruel, and is yet all that you can wish to find in woman-all that is true and pure and lovely."

And then Jack, with the sort of rude eloquence sometimes found in his class, told of his wooing of the robber's daughter; told of her hatred and loathing of the scenes she was forced to witness, of the life she was forced to lead; told of her fierce father's fierce love gradually waning and turning to anger as he discovered that she was not pliable material in his hands, to be bent to his stern will; told how he had of late wished to wed her to the terrible Simon Dowsett, and how she had felt at last that flight alone with her own lover could save her from that fate.

Then he told of Paul's capture upon the very night for which the flight had been planned; told how gallantly he had defied the cruelty of the robber band, and how his Eva had effected his liberation and had brought him with her to the trysting place. They had planned before the details of the flight, and it would be death to her to be sent back; but after her liberation of the captive, the thought of facing that lawless band again was not to be thought of.

And the farmer, who had listened to the tale with kindling eyes and many a smothered ejaculation of anger and pity, suddenly put his strong arms about the slight figure of the girl, and gave her a hearty kiss on both cheeks.

"Thou art a good wench and a brave one," he said, "and I am proud that my roof is the one to shelter thee from those lawless men, who are the curse of our poor country.

"Jack, I told the mother that you must be going courting, and that I should be right glad when you brought a bride to the old home. And a bride this brave girl shall be as soon as Holy Church can make you man and wife; and we will love her none the less for what her father was. I always heard that the Fire Eater, as they call him, had carried off and married a fair maiden, too good by a thousand times for the like of him; and if this is that poor lady's daughter, I can well believe the tale. But she is her mother's child, not her fierce father's, and we will love her as our own.

"Take her to your heart, good mother. A brave lass deserves a warm welcome to her husband's home."

The gentle but high-spirited Eva had gone through the dangers of the night with courage and resolution, but tears sprang to her eyes at hearing these kindly words; and whilst Jack wrung his father's hand and thanked him warmly for his goodwill. The girl buried her face upon the shoulder of Mistress Devenish, and was once more wrapped in a maternal embrace.

And then, having got the question of Eva's adoption as Jack's betrothed bride so quickly and happily settled, they all turned their attention to poor Paul, who for a few minutes had been almost forgotten.

There was a warm little chamber scarce larger than a closet opening from the room where the farmer and his wife slept, and as there was a bed therein always in readiness against the arrival of some unlooked-for guest, Paul was quickly transported thither, and tenderly laid between the clean but coarse coverings. He only moaned a little, and never opened his eyes or recognized where he was or by whom he was tended; whilst the sight of his lacerated back and shoulders drew from the woman many an exclamation of pity, and from the farmer those of anger and reprobation.

It was some time before they understood what had happened, or realized that the young kinsman (as they had called him) of Paul's was really the Prince of Wales, the son of the now reigning Henry, and that the two lads had been actually living and travelling together with this secret between them. But Eva had heard much about both, and told how the presence of the prince in the country had become known to her father and his band first through the suspicions of the peddler, who had seen the one pearl clasp still owned and kept by the robber chief, and had at once recognized its fellow; and secondly, from the identification of Paul's companion with the Prince of Wales by one of the band who had been over to France not long ago, and had seen the prince there.

The old likeness between the two youths was remembered well by the band, who had been fooled by it before; and they had been for weeks upon the track of the fugitives, who had, however, left Figeon's before their enemies had convinced themselves of their identity; and in London they were less easily found. Eva did not know the whole story-it was Paul who supplied the missing links later; but she told how a great part of the band had gone forth to seek them in the city-how word had presently been brought by a mounted messenger that the fugitives had escaped, just when they were certain they had them fast-that all roads were being watched for them, but that those who still remained in the forest were to keep a close lookout, lest by some chance they should return by the way they had come.