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
The shades of evening were falling fast, but a young moon rode high
in the sky, and helped to light up the expanse of broken ground and
piled-up tree trunks which suddenly became visible to the traveller
as he reached a clearing in the forest, through which the rough
trail or path he was pursuing led. And here in this clearing he
came upon the object of his search, and saw that his surmise as to
the cause of the cries he had heard was only too correct. Four big
burly men, all armed with the weapons of the day--bills, maces, and
even the handgun, which was beginning to find a place amongst the
more time-honoured arms of offence and defence--were surrounding
the struggling figure of a woman, a young woman the traveller
fancied, from her slimness and the cat-like agility which she
displayed in struggling with her captors.
It appeared as if the men did not desire to hurt her if they could
avoid doing so, but rather wished to make of her a prisoner; whilst
she was making the most frantic efforts to escape from their
restraining hands, and was uttering strangled cries for help, which
were so deadened by the thick folds of the heavy driving cloak,
which had been wrapped about her head, as to be barely audible even
at a short distance.
"Let her fight and struggle," said a tall, broad-shouldered man
with a darkly sinister face, who stood a little apart all this
while, keeping, however, a very close watch upon the group. "She
will soon tire herself out, and then we can carry her away
peacefully. Don't hurt her. Let her have her fling--it won't last
long--and she will be all the tamer afterward."
The traveller, who was but a stripling himself, set his teeth hard
as he heard these words spoken. Something in the cool arrogance of
the man, who appeared to be a leader of the rest, stirred his blood
and made his hands tingle to be at his throat.
But it would not do to act rashly in an encounter with four
stalwart men, all armed to the teeth, and plainly well used to the
practice of arms. The youth saw that he must husband his strength
and use his opportunity with every care. His best chance lay in
taking the party by surprise.
He examined his weapons with a keen eye. He too possessed one of
the handguns of the period, and was a good marksman to boot. He
had, too--and glad enough was he of it at that moment--the deadly
guisarme, that old-fashioned weapon that combined a spear and
scythe, and was used with horrible effect in the charges of the
day. Then there was the short battle-axe, slung across his
saddlebow, which at close quarters would be a formidable weapon,
and the poniard in his belt had in its time done deadly work before
this.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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