"Let me go," said Paul; "I should like the walk through the wood. I
am quite strong again now, and I am weary of doing nothing from
morning to night."
"Well, I don't know why you should not if it pleases your fancy,"
said the farmer. "You will be welcome at the Priory, as all guests
are who come with news for the holy brothers from the world
without. 'Tis less than four miles away, and you have got the use
of your legs. Go, and welcome, if you will."
"I would go with you, were I not bound to go to Chelmsford myself,"
quoth Jack, the farmer's ruddy-faced son, of whom mention has not
yet been made.
Paul had indeed seen but little of him so far, as his time was
mainly spent in the fields, and he had been absent from home on his
first arrival there, buying some fat sheep to be killed and salted
down for consumption in the winter.
"I like well enough a visit to the Priory. There is always good
cheer there enough and to spare. They know what good living means,
those holy men. If all other trades failed, I would not mind
turning friar myself."
"Nay, brother, jest not upon the holy men," quoth his sister in a
tone of gentle reproof. Then turning to Paul, she added, with
something of pleading in her tones, "But, sir, why peril yourself
by venturing into the forest alone? You have still but the use of
one arm, and were the robbers to be on the watch for you, you would
fall an easy prey into their hands."
But Paul laughed, as also did Jack.
"I trow the robbers have something else to do than to play the spy
continually on me and my movements," he said. "They cannot always
be on the watch, and the wood is dark and full of hiding places.
Were I to hear the sound of pursuit, I warrant me I could hide
myself so that none should find me. I have done the like many a
time before now. In this part of the country one must needs go into
the forest if one is ever to leave the shelter of the house at all.
Have no fear for me; I will take care not to run into danger."
Joan looked as if hardly satisfied, though she was unable to uphold
her case by argument; for it was very true that if their guest was
to be anything but a close prisoner, he must adventure himself from
time to time in the forest. Jack, however, broke into one of his
hearty laughs, as he looked at Paul, and said:
"Those same robbers are not such bad fellows, after all, as some of
our good folks would make out. True, they help themselves to our
goods from time to time; but they are capital company if you chance
to fall upon their haunts, and they make you welcome. I've spent
more than one night amongst them, and never a bit the worse. Men
must live; and if the folks in authority will outlaw them, why,
they must jog along then as best they may. I don't think they do
more harm than they can well help."
Mistress Devenish shook her head in silence over the rather wild
talk of her son, but she said nothing. She was used to Jack's ways,
and she was proud of his spirit, though afraid sometimes that it
would lead him into trouble. She had noted of late that he had been
unwontedly absent from home during the long evenings of the summer
just gone by, and had wondered what took him off, for he seldom
gave account of himself. She noted, too, that he spoke in a very
different fashion from others of the robber band that was such a
terror to the village folks. She did not know whether or not to put
these two facts together as connected with each other; but she
listened eagerly to all he said on the subject, trying to discover
what might be the meaning of this strange leniency of opinion.
"It is different for you, brother--they owe you no grudge," said
Joan, with a slight shiver; whilst the farmer broke in roughly:
"Tut, tut, Jack! what mean you by trying to make common cause with
the ruffians who would have carried your sister off as a prey of
that graceless scamp well-called Devil's Own? I marvel to hear such
words from you. You should know better."
"They are not all brutes like Devil's Own," muttered Jack in a low
tone; but he did not speak aloud, for the fashion of the day
forbade the young to argue with the old, or children to answer back
when their parents spoke to them in reproof.
But Paul was still resolved that he would be the messenger to carry
to the Priory that day the two fat capons the worthy mistress had
in readiness for the prior's table. They had been bespoken some
time, and could be no longer delayed. Paul was weary of an idle
life, and eager to see something of the country in which he found
himself. He was in comfortable quarters enough at the farm; but he
was growing stronger each day, and was beginning to fret against
the fetters which held him from straying far from the farm.
He did not much believe in the lasting anger of the robber band. He
knew that those gentlemen would have other matters on hand than
that of revenging themselves upon him for his frustration of their
captain's design. He was content to rest yet awhile beneath the
hospitable roof of the Figeons, so long as he knew that his
presence there might be something of a protection and gain to its
inmates; but he had no intention of being a prisoner. His young
blood stirred within him, and he longed to be out in the free air
of heaven again. His strength had all come back, and even the
broken arm was mending so fast that he felt it would not be long
before he should gain its full use again. The love of adventure,
strong within him, made him fearless even of a second encounter
with the robbers. He felt certain he could hold his own against one
or two, and a whole band would never take him unawares. He should
hear or see them in plenty of time to hide away in some tree or
thicket. It was absurd to be chained within doors any longer.
Paul was looking now a very different object from the battered and
way-worn traveller who had rescued Joan from the robbers. A couple
of weeks' rest and good feeding had given a healthy glow to his
cheek, had brightened his eye, and brought back the native
boyishness and brightness to his face. He was stronger, gayer,
blither than he had been since the never-to-be-forgotten day when
he had closed his dead mother's eyes, and been obliged to fly for
his life from his ancestral halls, ere the rapacious scions of the
House of York fell upon him there, to take into their own
possession all that should have been his. For his father and
brothers lay in a bloody grave, killed in one of those many risings
and insurrections scarce mentioned in history, whereby the
adherents of the Red Rose sought to disturb Edward's rule in
England, and incite the people to bring back him they called their
rightful king.
Those days had changed Paul, a mere lad of seventeen, into a grave
and sad-faced man; but the impression had gradually worn somewhat
faint during the three years in which he had been a wanderer and an
outcast from his home. Of late it had seemed to him that his lost
youth was returning, and certainly there was that in his bright
glance and erect and noble bearing which won for him universal
admiration and affection.
He was, in truth, a right goodly youth. His features were very
fine, and the dark-gray eyes with their delicately-pencilled brows
were full of fire and brilliance. The lips readily curved to a
bright smile, though they could set themselves in lines of resolute
determination when occasion demanded. The golden curls clustered
round the noble head in classic fashion, but were not suffered to
grow long enough to reach the shoulders, as in childhood's day; and
the active, graceful, well-knit figure gave indication of great
strength as well as of great agility.
Paul's dress, too, was improved since we saw him last; for one of
the travelling peddlers or hawkers who roamed the country with
their wares, and supplied the remote villages with the greater part
of those articles not made at home, had recently visited Figeon's
Farm, and Paul had been able to supply himself with a new and
serviceable suit of clothes, in which his tall figure was set off
to the best advantage.
It was made of crimson cloth and the best Spanish leather, and was
cut after one of the most recent but least extravagant fashions of
the day. Paul had been able to purchase it without difficulty, for
he had by no means exhausted the funds he had in his possession,
and the leather belt he wore next his person was still heavy with
broad gold pieces.
Lady Stukely had seemed to have a prevision of coming trouble for
her youngest-born son for many long years before the troubles
actually came, and she had been making preparation for the same
with the patience and completeness that only a mother's heart would
have prompted. She had made with her own hands a stout leather
belt, constructed of a number of small pouches, each one of which
could contain a score of broad gold pieces. She knew full well that
lands might be confiscated, valuables forfeited, houses taken in
possession by foes, but the owner of the current gold of the land
would never be utterly destitute; so for years before her death she
bad been filling this ingeniously contrived belt, and had stored
within its many receptacles gold enough to be a small fortune in
itself. This belt had been in Paul's possession ever since the sad
day when she had kissed him for the last time and had commended him
to the care of Heaven. He had by no means yet exhausted its
contents, for he had often won wages for himself by following one
or another great noble in his private enterprises against some
lawless retainer or an encroaching neighbour.
A little money went a long way in those days, when open house was
kept by almost all the great of the land, and free quarters and
food were always to be had at any monastery or abbey to which
chance might guide the wanderer's feet. So Paul had not been forced
to draw largely upon his own resources, and was a man of some
substance still, although his compact little fortune was so well
hidden away that none suspected its presence.
And now, his health restored, his strength renewed and his outer
man refurbished in excellent style, Paul began to weary of the
seclusion and monotony of the farm, and was eager to enjoy even the
mild relaxation of a walk across to the brothers of the
neighbouring Priory. The basket was soon packed, and was intrusted
to his care; and off he set down the easy slope which led from
Figeon's to Much Waltham, whistling gaily as he moved, and swinging
his heavy burden with an ease that showed how little he made of it.
Will Ives, the blacksmith's son, was looking out from the rude
forge as he passed, and came out to speak a friendly word to the
fine young gentleman, as he now looked to rustic eyes. Honest
Will's face had grown somewhat gloomy of late, though Paul did not
know it, and he was suffering, if the truth must be told, from the
keen pangs of jealousy. For he had long been courting Joan
Devenish, and hoped to make her his wife before the year's end, and
he fancied that she was disposed to his suit, although she had
never given a direct reply to his rather clumsy but ardent wooing.
Of course it seemed to the young smith that every man in the world
must be equally enamoured of his sweetheart, and he was terribly
afraid that this fine young gentleman, with his handsome face and
graceful figure, and pleasant voice and ways, would altogether cut
him out with saucy Mistress Joan, who, it must be confessed, was
fond of teasing her faithful swain, and driving him to the verge of
distraction. So it showed Will's good-heartedness that he did not
shun and dislike his rival, but rather, when he found him bent on
an errand into the forest, offered to go with him part of the way,
to make sure that all was safe.
"We haven't seen anything of the robbers round here lately, and
they always give the Priory a wide berth, being half afraid of
incurring the ban of Holy Church, though they care little about
anything else. Anyway, I'll walk a part of the way with you, and
carry the basket for a spell. Not but what you look brave and
hearty again, in good faith."
Paul was ready enough for company, and Will soon got talking of his
own private affairs, and presently it all came out--how he had
loved Joan ever since they had been children together; how he had
worked hard these past three years to save money to furbish up a
little home for her; and how he was now building a snug little
cottage under shelter of his father's larger one, so that he might
have a little place for her all her own, seeing that she had been
used to the space and comfort of the farm. To all this Paul
listened with good-humoured interest, only wondering why Will's
face kept so lugubrious, as if he were speaking of something which
he had hoped for, but which could never be.
"You will have to look a little brighter when you come a-wooing,"
he said at length, "or Mistress Joan will be frightened to look at
you. And why have you kept away so much these last days? She has
been quite offended by it, I can tell you. It's always being said
that you are sure to come today; and when the day goes by and you
come not, she pouts and looks vexed, and casts about for all manner
of reasons to account for it. You had better not be too slack, or
you will offend her altogether."
Will's face brightened up marvellously.
"Then you think she cares?"
"Why, of course she does. She's forever talking of you and all you
have done, and what a wonderful Will you are. When she sits at her
wheel and chatters to me as I lounge by the fire, she is always
telling of you and your sayings and doings. Why, man, did you not
know that for yourself? Did you think all the love was on your
side?"
"I daresay I was a fool," said Will, getting fiery red. "But I
thought, perhaps, she would not care for a clumsy fellow like me
after she had seen a gentleman like you. You saved her life, you
know, and it seemed natural like that you should care for each
other afterward. I know I'm nothing like you."
"No, indeed. I'm a mere wanderer--here today and gone tomorrow; a
soldier and an outcast, who could never ask any woman to share his
lot. My good sword is my bride. I follow a different mistress from
you. I may never know rest or peace till the House of Lancaster is
restored to its ancient rights. You need not fear me as a rival,
good Will; for no thought of marriage has ever entered my head, and
sometimes methinks it never will."
The smith's face was a study as he listened to these welcome words,
and Paul laughed as he read the meaning of those changing
expressions.
"Give me the basket, and get you gone to Figeon's, and make your
peace with your offended lady," he said, laughing. "You are but a
sorry wooer if you yield so soon to depression and despair. But I
warrant she will forgive you this time; and if you will but plead
your cause in good earnest, it may be that I shall yet have the
pleasure of treading a measure at your wedding feast."
The blushing smith was easily persuaded to this course, and bade
farewell to his companion in eager haste. He was clad only in his
working apron, and his hands were grimy from his toil; but his open
face was comely and honest enough to please the fancy of any
maiden, and Paul thought to himself that Mistress Joan would scarce
reject so stalwart a champion after the fright and the shock of the
previous week but one. As Will Ives's wife she would be safer and
better protected than as Farmer Devenish's unwedded daughter.
As for himself, thoughts of love and marriage had seldom entered
his mind, and had always been dismissed with a light laugh. As he
had said to Will, he was wedded to a cause, to a resolute aim and
object, and nothing nearer or dearer had ever yet intruded itself
upon him to wean away his first love from the object upon which it
had been so ardently bestowed. The little prince--as in his
thoughts he still called him sometimes--was the object of his
loving homage. King Henry was too little the man, and Queen
Margaret too much, for either of them to fulfil his ideal or win
the unquestioning love and loyalty of his heart; but in Edward,
Prince of Wales, as he always called him, he had an object worthy
of his admiration and worship.
Everything he heard about that princely boy seemed to agree with
what he remembered of him in bygone years. He and not the gentle
and half-imbecile king would be the real monarch of the realm; and
who better fitted to reign than such a prince?
The kindly welcome he received at the Priory from Brother Lawrence
and the prior himself was pleasant to one who had so long been a
mere wanderer on the face of the earth. The beautiful medieval
building, with its close-shorn turf and wide fish ponds, was a
study in itself, and lay so peacefully brooding in the pale
November sunshine, that it was hard to realize that the country
might only too soon be shaken from end to end by the convulsions of
civil war.
Paul was eagerly questioned as to what he knew of the feeling of
the country, and he could not deny that there was great discontent
in many minds at the thought of the return to power of the
Lancastrian king. The monks and friars shook their heads, and
admitted with a sigh that they feared the whole county of Essex was
Yorkist to the core, and that it was the leaven of heretical
opinions which was at the root of their rebellion against their
lawful king. It was difficult to believe that the warlike Edward
would long remain an exile, content to deliver up a kingdom which
had once been his without striking a single blow, especially when
his own party was so powerful in the land.. London, a hotbed of
Lollardism, would soon raise its voice in the call for Edward of
York. The present hour was calm and bright, and Henry of Windsor
wore his crown again; but the mutterings of the coming storm seemed
already to be heard in the distance, and the brothers of the
monastery did not blind their eyes to the fact that the wheel of
fortune might still have strange turns in store.
"Wherefore we must walk warily, and not stir up strife," quoth the
rubicund prior, who looked at once a benevolent and a strong-willed
man. "We will pray for the restoration--the permanent restoration
of the good king; but we must avoid stirring up the hearts of his
subjects in such a way as will make them his foes.
"Young sir, what think you of your hosts at the farm? Are they
quiet and well-disposed people, seeking in all things the good of
the people, and giving due reverence to Holy Church?"
Paul answered eagerly in the affirmative. He had heard or seen
nothing of a suspicious character of late, and had grown very fond
of the kindly folks, who made him so welcome to the best of what
they had. His reply was considered very satisfactory, and the prior
dismissed him with his blessing; for Paul had no wish to be belated
in the forest, and proposed to return immediately after the midday
meal which he had shared with the brothers.
It was in somewhat thoughtful mood that he pursued his way through
the woodland paths. Conversation about the burning questions of the
day always left him with a feeling akin to depression. He longed
for the restoration of the house he loved and served, but knew that
a transitory triumph was not a true victory. There was still much
to be done before Henry's seat upon the throne could be called
secure; and what would be the result of the inevitable struggle of
the next months?
He had unconsciously stopped still in deep thought as he asked
himself this question, and was leaning in meditation against a
great oak tree, when he suddenly became aware of a rapid tread
approaching along the narrow track. It seemed as if some youth were
advancing toward him, for he heard the clear whistle as of a boyish
voice, and the springy tread seemed to denote youth and agility.
Although Paul was by no means afraid of a chance encounter in the
forest, he was well aware that it was possible to be overreached
and taken prisoner by some of the robbers, and that he was an
object of special hatred to some amongst them. He decided,
therefore, to act with caution; and as the spot in which he had
halted was rather an open one, through which meandered a little
brook, he resolved to slip silently into the thicket hard by, and
watch from that place of security what manner of person it was
advancing.
A moment later he had effectually concealed himself, and hardly had
he done so before a figure came into view through the dim aisles of
the wood.
The figure was that of a tall, slim, graceful youth of singularly
winning aspect. His frame displayed that combination of strength,
lightness, and agility which is the perfection of training, and his
face was as full of beauty as his frame of activity and grace. The
features were exceedingly noble, and the poise of the head upon the
shoulders was almost princely in its unconscious majesty. The eyes
were a deep blue gray, and looked out upon the world as if their
owner were born to rule. The hair was golden in hue, and clustered
round the head in manly fashion, not in the flowing love locks that
some in those days affected. The dress he wore was very simple, and
somewhat faded, and in his cap a little silver swan was fastened,
forming the only adornment on his person.
Paul, as he lay in his ambush, gazed and gazed as if fascinated
upon the figure now standing stationary in the midst of the green
space. Instinctively he felt for the little silver swan in his own
cap, and looked to see if he had on by mistake the faded dress he
had previously worn, so like the one he now gazed upon. For it
seemed to him as though he saw his own double--or someone closely
resembling himself--and his heart began to beat almost to
suffocation; for had not this same experience been his before? and
could there be another, a third youth in the realm, whose face and
figure he had so accurately copied? Paul had not the royal mien of
this wanderer--he had not even the same absolute beauty of feature
or peculiar delicacy of colouring; but for all that the likeness
was so striking that it was bewildering to him to see it, and the
images and visions at once conjured up before his mind's eye were
of a nature to excite him beyond the bounds of consecutive thought.
Holding his breath, and still uncertain if he might not be
dreaming, he fastened his eyes upon the apparition, and waited for
what should happen.
The youth paused and looked round him, and then spoke aloud:
"Have I come on a fool's errand after all? Shall I ever accomplish
my object? Methinks if I had but a trusty comrade at hand somewhat
might be done; but I fear my poor Jacques never reached the land
alive, and I had trusted to him to be my guide and counsellor in my
quest. Alone I feel helpless--stranded--bewildered.
"Ha! what is that? Who comes this way?"
"Your faithful servant, gracious prince," cried Paul, springing out
of his concealment and throwing himself at young Edward's feet. "My
dear, dear lord, how come you here alone, unarmed, defenceless, in
the midst of a hostile country? Methinks I do but dream; but yet
the face, the voice--I cannot be mistaken. O sweet prince, did we
not truly say that we should meet again? Do you remember me?"
"Remember you, good Paul? Of a truth I do, and that right well; and
it is indeed a happy chance that has thrown you across my path this
day. But Paul, on your life, on your loyalty as a subject, call me
not prince again. It might cost me my life, and you yours.
"Hush! I will be obeyed, and I will explain in brief. I am here
unknown to all. I stole away from my mother's side, even as I stole
into the forest with you when we were but boys together. She thinks
me with her sister, the Princess Yolande. But I had my own purpose
in coming thus alone and disguised to our royal realm of England.
They say my father reigns here once again. The crown has been
placed upon his head by one I have almost the right now to call my
father-in-law. But what rule has he, in truth, who reigns not in
his people's hearts? What use to seek the empty glory of a golden
crown, who wins not the priceless guerdon of a nation's love?
"Listen then, Paul. They tell me that in my hands will the kingly
power soon be placed. If that is to be so, I would fain learn for
myself the temper of my people. And this is not to be learned by
Edward, Prince of Wales, seated in the midst of proud nobles at his
father's court; but it may be learned by a humble wayfarer, who
travels from place to place seeking information from whence it may
truly be culled--namely, from the artless sons of the soil, who
speak not to please their listener but as their heart dictates.
"Paul, tell me I have done well--smile upon me again; for I am very
lonely, and my heart sometimes sinks. But I love my people, and
would be loved by them, only I needs must grow to know them first."
"O my lord," cried Paul enthusiastically, "how can they help loving
you when they see you? But how come you alone, and in these wild
woods, too, infested by fierce robber bands? It is not meet thus to
peril your royal life."
The prince placed his hand smilingly on Paul's lips.
"Use not that word again," he said smilingly, yet with a certain
imperiousness of manner that became him well. "I am thus solitary
through the untoward accident that drowned the faithful follower
who alone shared my design, and I knew not that I was in peril from
these lawless men in one part of the realm more than the other.
Paul, if I ever wield the kingly power, I will put down these bands
of marauders with a strong hand. My peaceful subjects shall not go
in terror of their liberties and lives. I would learn all their
wrongs that I may right them. They shall know at last that a prince
who loves them has been in their midst."
"And, my lord, if you are thus alone and unattended, take me with
you on your travels. Did you not promise me long years ago that the
day would come when we should roam the world together? and has not
the time come now?"
"Why, verily I believe it has," cried Edward, with brightening
eyes. "But, Paul, I have not asked you of yourself. Have you no
other tie--no stronger claim? And how comes it that you are here,
so far away from your home? I have asked not your history, though I
have told mine own."
"Mine is soon told, sweet prince," said Paul. "I crave your pardon,
but I know not how else to frame my speech."
Then in a few graphic words he sketched the history of himself and
his kindred during those troubled years of civil strife and of
Edward's reign; and young Edward listened with a sorrowful air and
drooping mien, and heaved a deep sigh at the conclusion.
"Another faithful house ruined--another tale of woe for which it
seems we unhappy princes are the cause. Nay, Paul, I know what you
would say, brave loyal heart; but it lies heavy on my soul for all
that. And having suffered thus, why tempt your fate anew by linking
your fortunes with those of the hapless House of Lancaster? Why
not--"
"My lord, break not my heart by rejecting my poor services," cried
Paul, plunging anew into the tale of his longing and ambition to be
one day called the servant of the Prince of Wales; and then as both
were young, both ardent, hot-headed, and hopeful, all stern and
sorrowful thoughts were laid aside, and the two youths began to
plan with eager vehemence the future of adventure which lay before
them.
"And first, Paul, this you must learn once and for all: I am prince
no more, but Edward alone, Edward Stukely--for I will e'en borrow
your good name--your younger brother, who seeks his fortune with
you. I will pass as cousin here, where you are known, but elsewhere
it shall be as brothers we will travel. This strange likeness will
be my best safeguard, for none will doubt that we are close akin.
Not as knight and squire, as once we thought, will we roam the
world in search of adventure. This little realm of England will
suffice us, and hand in hand as brothers will we go. But methinks
we shall surely meet as many strange adventures as in our dreams;
and if I ever sit at last on England's throne, this journey of
thine and mine will be for years the favourite theme of minstrels
to sing in bower and hall."