In the Wars of the Roses: A Story for the YoungEverett-Green, Evelyn
History
In the Wars of the Roses: A Story for the Young
Everett-Green, Evelyn
Great Britain -- History -- Wars of the Roses, 1455-1485 -- Juvenile fiction
Sir James and his son both bowed low, and the father prepared to
lead away the boy. But the prince had once more thrown his arms
round Paul's neck, and was speaking in his eager way:
"You and I will be knighted together when we are grown. I shall
think of you, and you will not forget me--promise that you will
not. And when we meet next, wherever it may be, we shall know each
other for the likeness we bear the one to the other. Kiss me, Paul,
and promise never to forget. Farewell now, but my heart tells me we
shall meet again."
The king's son and the knight's embraced with all the warmth of a
real and deep affection, albeit of only a few hours' growth, and
gazing at each other to the last they parted.
"I shall always wear the silver swan," Paul had said as their lips
met. "You will know me by that. And I--oh, I never could forget
you! Your face will live always in my heart."
The doors closed behind the retiring knight and his son. The vision
alone conjured up by the words of the prince lived in the heart of
Paul Stukely. His face was very brightly grave as he rode home
beside his father. How little he or any in that noble company
guessed where and under what circumstances the prince and Paul
would meet next!
Chapter 1: A Brush With The Robbers.
"Help--help--help!"
This cry, growing feebler at each repetition, was borne by the
evening breeze to the ears of a traveller who was picking his way
along the dark mazes of Epping Forest one cool, fresh October day.
Instinctively he drew rein and listened, laying his band
unconsciously upon the hilt of his poniard.
"A woman's voice," he said half aloud, as he spurred more rapidly
onward in the direction whence the cry proceeded. "A woman set
upon, no doubt, by some band of these marauders who are desolating
the country and disgracing humanity. Cowards! I wonder how many of
them there are? A solitary traveller has not much chance against a
gang of them; but at least I can sell my life dear. I have little
enough to live for now; and it would be a stain for ever upon my
father's fame were I to pass by unheeding the cry of a damsel in
distress.
"Forward, then, good Sultan; there is work for both of us before we
can think of food or lodging after our weary day of travel.
Forward, good horse."
The coal-black charger, who, despite his jaded air and look of
neglect, had evidently come of a good stock, and had both blood and
mettle of the true soldier sort in him, pricked his ears, arched
his neck, and appeared to be fully aware of what was required of
him by his loved master. He broke into a gentle canter, and despite
the roughness of the ground, maintained that pace for several
hundred yards, until the hand of the traveller upon his rein warned
him to moderate his pace.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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