In the Wars of the Roses by Evelyn Everett Green

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Possibly had Paul's faculties been less benumbed by fatigue and the
bitter cold, he would scarce have argued the case so calmly; but he
was calm with the calmness of physical exhaustion, and in truth his
chance of escape would have been small indeed. He could have made
no real effort at flight, and the very fact of his trying to hide
himself would have brought upon him instant pursuit and capture.

So he lay still, crouching in his nest of leaves, until one of the
dogs suddenly gave a deep bay, and came rushing upon him, as if
indeed he had been the quarry pursued.

"Halt there!" cried a deep voice in the gloom; "the dogs have
found. They never give tongue for a different trail than the right
one.

"Dicon, dismount and see what it is; there is something moving
there be neath that bush."

Seeing himself discovered, Paul rose to his feet, and made a step
forward, though uncertainly, as if his limbs still almost refused
to obey him.

"I am a poor benighted traveller," he said; "I pray you, can you
direct me where I can get food and shelter for the night? I have
been wandering many hours in this forest, and am weary well-nigh to
death."

"Turn the lantern upon him, fellows," said the same voice that had
spoken before; and immediately a bright gleam of light was cast
upon Paul's pale, tired face and golden curling hair.

"Is this the fellow we are seeking?" asked the leader of his
followers; "the description seems to fit."

"If it isn't one it is the other," answered the man addressed. "I
have seen both; but, marry, I can scarce tell one from the other
when they are apart. What has he done with his companion? They
have, been together this many a day, by day and by night."

"You were not alone when you started on this journey last night,"
said the robber, addressing Paul sternly. "Where is your companion?
You had better speak frankly. It will be the worse for you if you
do not."

Paul's heart beat fast; the blood began to circulate in his veins.
He tried hard to keep his faculties clear, and to speak nothing
which could injure the prince.

"We parted company. I know not where he is," he answered slowly. "I
told him to go his own way; I would not be a source of peril to
him. I bid him adieu and sent him away."

It suddenly occurred to Paul that if, even for an hour, he could
personate the prince, and so draw off pursuit from him, his point
might be gained. He had not forgotten the episode of the first
adventure they had shared as children; and as we all know, history
repeats itself in more ways than one.

The man who appeared the leader of the band, and whose face was not
unkindly, doffed his hat respectfully at these words, and said, "It
is true, then, that I am addressing the Prince of Wales?"

Paul said nothing, but bent his head as if in assent, and the man
continued speaking, still respectfully.

"It is my duty then, sire, to take your sacred person under my
protection. You are in peril from many sources in these lone woods,
and I have been sent out on purpose to bring you into a place of
safety. My followers will provide you with a good horse, and you
will soon be in safe shelter, where you can obtain the food and
rest your condition requires, and you will receive nothing but
courteous treatment at our hands."

To resist were fruitless indeed. Politely as the invitation was
tendered, there was an undertone of authority in the man's voice
which convinced Paul that any attempt at resistance would be met by
an appeal to force. And he had no disposition to resist. The longer
the fiction was kept up, the longer there would be for the prince
to seek safe asylum at the Priory. When once those sanctuary doors
had closed behind Edward, Paul thought it mattered little what
became of himself.

"I will go with you," he answered with simple dignity; "I presume
that I have indeed no choice."

A draught from a flask tendered him by one of the men did much to
revive Paul, and the relief at finding himself well mounted,
instead of plodding wearily along on foot, was very great. He was
glad enough to be mounted behind one of the stout troopers, for he
was excessively drowsy, despite the peril of his situation. He had
been unable to sleep, as Edward had done, in the woodman's hut, and
it was now more than thirty-six hours since sleep had visited him,
and those hours had been crowded with excitement, peril, and
fatigue. The potent liquor he had just drunk helped to steal his
senses away, and as the party jogged through the dim aisles of the
wood, Paul fell fast asleep, with his head resting on the shoulder
of the stalwart trooper, and he only awoke with a start, half of
fear and half of triumph--for he knew the prince was safe enough by
this time--when the glare from the mouth of a great cavern, and the
loud, rough voices of a number of men who came crowding out, smote
upon his senses, and effectually aroused him to a sense of what was
passing.

"Have you got them?" cried a loud voice, not entirely unfamiliar to
Paul, although he could not for the moment remember where he had
heard it before.

"We have got one-got the most important one," answered the man who
had been leader of the little band. "The other has got off; but
that matters less."

"By the holy mass, it was the other that I wanted the more," cried
the rougher voice, as the man came out swearing roundly; "I had an
account of my own to square with him, and square it I will one of
these days. But bring in the prize--bring him in. Let us have a
look at him. He is worth the capture, anyhow, as the Chief will say
when he returns. He is not back yet. We have all been out scouring
the forest; but you always have the luck, Sledge Hammer George. I
said if any one brought them in it would be you."

Paul had by this time recognized the speaker, who was standing in
the entrance of the cave with the light full upon his face. It was
none other than his old adversary, Simon Dowsett, whom he had twice
defeated in his endeavour to carry off the lady of his choice; and
who was, as he well knew, his bitterest foe. His heart beat fast
and his breath came fitfully as he realized this, and he looked
quickly round toward the black forest, as if wondering if he could
plunge in there and escape. But a strong hand was laid upon his
arm, and he was pushed into the cave, where the ruddy glow of the
fire fell full upon him.

Simon Dowsett, who in the absence of the Chief, as he was called,
acted as the captain of the band, strode forward and fixed his eyes
upon the lad, his face changing as he did so until its expression
was one of diabolical malice.

"What?" he cried aloud; "at the old game again? You thought to
trick us once more, and again to get off with a sound skin?--Lads,
this isn't the prince at all; this is the other of them, who has
fooled you as he fooled the Chief himself long years ago. What were
you thinking of to take his word for it? And you have let the real
one slip through your fingers.

"Ha, ha, Sledge Hammer George! you are not quite so clever as you
thought. Why did you not wring the truth out of him, when the other
quarry could not have been far off? You have been pretty gulls to
have been taken in like this!"

The other man, who had now come up, looked full into Paul's face,
and asked, not savagely though sternly enough:

"Which are you, lad? speak the truth. Are you the Prince of Wales,
or not?"

It was useless now to attempt to keep up the deception. Paul
carried the mark of Simon Dowsett's bullet in his shoulder, and he
was too well known by him to play a part longer. Looking full at
the man who addressed him, he answered boldly:

"I am Paul Stukely, not the prince at all. He is beyond the reach
of your malice. He is in safe shelter now."

"Where is he?" asked the man quietly.

"I shall not tell you," answered Paul, who knew that these robbers
were so daring that they might even make a raid on the Priory, or
watch it night and day, and to prevent the escape of the prince
from thence, if their suspicions were once attracted, to the spot.

Sledge Hammer George laid a hand upon the young man's arm.

"Now don't be a fool, lad; these fellows here will stand no more
from you. A valuable prize has escaped them, and they will wring
the truth out of you by means you will not like, but will not be
able to resist. You have a bitter enemy in Devil's Own, as he is
called, and he will not spare you if you provoke. I will stand your
friend, if you will but speak out and tell us where the prince is
to be found; for he cannot be very many miles away from this place,
as we are well assured. If you are obstinate, I can do nothing for
you, and you will have to take your chance.

"Come, now, speak up. Every moment is of value. You will be made to
do so before long, whether you wish or not."

Paul's lips closed tightly one over the other, and his hands
clasped themselves fast together. He thought of the vow he had
registered long years ago in his heart, to live or to die in the
service of his prince; and though what he might be called upon to
suffer might be far worse than death itself, his will stood firm,
and he gave no sign of yielding. The man, who would have stood his
friend if he would have spoken, looked keenly at him, and then
turned away with a slight shrug of the shoulders, and Simon's
triumphant and malicious face was looking into his.

"Now, lad, once more: will you speak, or will you not? It is the
last time I shall ask you."

"I will tell you nothing," answered Paul, raising his head and
looking at his old enemy with a contempt and lofty scorn which
seemed to sting the man to greater fury.

"You will not! very good. You will be glad enough to speak before I
have done with you. I have many old scores to settle with you yet,
and so has the Chief when he comes back; but the first thing is to
wring from you where the prince is hiding himself.

"Strip off his fine riding dress and under tunic, lads (it is a
pity to spoil good clothes that may be useful to our own brave
fellows), and string him up to that beam.

"Get out your hide whips, Peter and Joe, and lay it on well till I
tell you to stop."

With a brutal laugh, as if it were all some excellent joke, the men
threw themselves upon Paul, and proceeded to carry out the
instructions of their leader, who seated himself with a smile of
triumph where he could enjoy the spectacle of the suffering he
intended to inflict. Paul's upper garments were quickly removed,
and his hands and feet tightly bound with leather thongs. An
upright and a crossway beam, supporting the roof of the cave,
formed an excellent substitute for the whipping post not uncommon
in those days upon a village green; and Paul, with a mute prayer
for help and courage, nerved himself to meet the ordeal he was
about to undergo, praying, above all things, that he might not in
his agony betray the prince to these relentless enemies.

The thick cow-hide whips whistled through the air and descended on
his bare, quivering shoulders, and he nearly bit his lips through
to restrain the cry that the infliction almost drew from him. But
he was resolved that his foe should not have the satisfaction of
extorting from him any outward sign of suffering save the
convulsive writhings which no effort of his own could restrain. How
many times the cruel whips whistled through the air and descended
on his back, he never knew--it seemed like an eternity to him; but
at last he heard a voice say:

"Hold, men!

"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.

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