Chapter 4

"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."