In the Wars of the Roses: A Story for the Young

victor's laurels on the field of Tewkesbury amply avenge

e the faces of those about him, and could ask what had befallen him, he found that he had been carried away to his own small manor, bestowed upon him by the great Earl of Warwick--which manor, perhaps

ch is the prerogative of youth, recovered by degrees from the depression of spirit that the memory of the tragedy of Tewkesbury cast over him, and learned by degrees to take a healthy interest in his little domain, which he ruled wisely and kindly, without meddling in public matt

w in the tragedies which successively befell the scions of the House of York

ion at the failure of some of his most treasured schemes for the advancement of his children cut him off in the flower of his age. And a darker fate befell his own young sons than he had inflicted upon the son of the rival monarch: for Ed

prince--the unhappy Lady Anne. He had murdered his brother's children to raise himself to the throne, and had committed many other crimes to maintain himself thereon; and his own son--another Edward, Prince of Wales--was doomed to meet a sudden death, called by the chroniclers of the time "unhappy," as though some str

eal descendant of Edward the Third by his son John of Gaunt--landed for the second time to head the insurrection against the bloody tyrant, Sir Paul Stukely and a gallant

anks of Sir William Stanley, and fell, crying "Treason, treason!" with his last breath. He who had obtained his crown by treachery, cruelty, and treason of the blackest kind, was destined to fall a victim to the treachery of others. As Paul saw the mangled corpse flung across a hors

f the long civil war, Sir Paul Stukely and his two sons, fine, handsome lads of ten and twelve years old, were making a little journey (as we should no

he was no longer away from his own house than his duty to his king obliged him to be. But he had been much engaged by public duties of late, and the holiday he had promised himself had been long in coming. It had been a promise of some standing to his two elder sons, Edward and Paul, that he would take them some day to visit the spots which he t

es well open, for the village of Much Waltham could not be far off and every pathway in th

on. "O father, we must be getting very near! It is like a smith's forge. I am

the village of Much Waltham. How well the elder Paul remembered it all! the village church, the smithy, and the low thatched cottages, the sm

mitted showers of brilliant sparks. Sir Paul rode forward and paused at the door with a smile of recognition on his face. The s

een years back come November, when I first stopped in sorry plight at this forge, with your pretty wife as my companion, to get your

ange turns, and I have been dwelling in regions far remote from here. But these lads of mine have given me no peace until I should bring them on a visit to Much Waltham and Fig

n the Paul Stukely that the men and women of the place remembered, and the children spoke of as of the hero of some romance dear to their hearts. The news flew like wildfire through the village, and old and you

en his horse in charge to his servant, and was on foot as he trod the familiar track; and she was listening with flushing and paling cheek to the tale of Tewkesbury, whilst the boys

home. Jack Devenish and his wife, Eva, managed the house and farm, and brought up their sturdy and numerous family so as to be a credit to the old name. It was Jack himself who came hurrying out to meet his g

room in which their father had slept, the window from which he had flung the robber who had come to carry away Mistress Joan, and

ey, where Paul had once been dragged a prisoner, and had been so roughly handled by the robbers. The days were full of excitement and pleasure to the two lads, and scarcely less so

he protection accorded by its inhabitants in past days to the head of the house; and round the firesides in cottage and farm there was for many long years no more favourite story told by the ol

te

ight in these days of c