“I give you humble thanks, Mistress Joan, and gladly would I find so hospitable a shelter.  I am but a poor traveller, however, roaming the world in search of the fame and fortune that come not.  I am one of those who have ever followed the failing fortunes of the Red Rose of Lancaster, and sorry enough has often been my plight.  But if rumour speaks true, and the great Earl of Warwick has placed King Henry once again on his throne, then perchance I may retrieve the fallen fortunes of my house.  My father and brothers laid down their lives for his cause; his foes took possession of our fair lands, and I was turned adrift on the wide world.  But tell me, ere we journey farther, which Rose you and your house favour; for I would not bring trouble upon any, and my roving life has taught me that the House of Lancaster has many bitter foes.”

“O sir, be not afraid,” answered Joan eagerly; “we country folk are quiet and peaceable, and care little who wears the crown, so as we may till our land in peace, and be relieved from the hordes of robbers and disbanded soldiers who have swarmed the country so long.  We have called ourselves Yorkists these past years, since King Edward has been reigning; but I trow if what men say is true, and he has fled the country without striking a blow for his crown, and the great earl has placed King Henry on the throne again, that we shall welcome him back.  I know little of the great matters of the day.  My father bids me not trouble my head over things too hard for me.  I tend the poultry and the young calves, and let the question of kings alone.”

The traveller smiled at this; but his companion was evidently something of a talker, and endued with her full share of feminine curiosity.

“I would gladly know your name, fair sir,” she said shyly, “for I shall have to present you to my good father ere long.”

“My name is Paul Stukely,” he answered.  “I am the youngest and only surviving son of one of King Henry’s knights and loyal adherents.  My parents are both dead, and I have long been alone in the world.  I have little to call my own save my good horse and trusty weapons.  But I sometimes hope that there may be better days in store, if the rightful king gets back his own again.”

At that moment the travellers were passing by the village forge, and a bright gleam of light streamed across their path, revealing to a brawny young fellow at the door the weary horse and its double burden.  He came one step nearer, and exclaimed: 

“Why, Joan, what means this?  You riding pillion fashion with a stranger!  What, in the name of all the saints, has befallen you?”