The Sword in the Tree by Clyde Robert Bulla Read Free Book Online

were in rags.
    He did not turn his head. “Who is it?” he said. “What do you want with me?”
    Shan stood very still. He knew that voice.
    He cried out, “Father!”
    The man looked up. “Shan! . . . Shan, it is you!” He began to weep. “My poor boy, now you are a prisoner, too.”
    â€œNo, Father—”
    â€œTell me of your mother, Shan. Tell me quickly. Is she safe?”
    â€œShe is safe. She will soon be here.” Shan could hardly speak. He could not move from the doorway.
    â€œWhy do you stand and look at me so?” asked his father. “Are you afraid?”
    â€œNo,” said Shan, “but I—I thought—”
    â€œI know,” said his father. “You thought I was dead.”
    â€œYes,” whispered Shan.
    â€œOn that day of the hunt, your uncle meant to kill me,” said his father. “But I looked into his face and he was afraid and put his sword away. For a while he kept me prisoner in the woods. Then he brought me to my own dungeon. He thought I would die here.”
    Shan went to his father. He put his arms about him and tried to lift him from the floor. “Now you are free.”
    â€œFree? Where is my brother?” asked Lord Weldon. “Where are his men?”
    â€œThey are gone,” said Shan. “They can do us no more harm.”
    â€œBut how can that be?” asked Lord Weldon.
    â€œI’ll tell you. When we are out of this place, I’ll tell you everything,” said Shan. “Here, let me help you up the stairs.”
    â€œI must close my eyes at first,” said Lord Weldon. “The sun will be too bright.”
    He put his hand on Shan’s arm. Slowly they climbed the steps, while Nappus went ahead, holding the torch to light the way.

Excerpt from A Lion to Guard Us

I
The Sailor Man
    On a February morning in the year 1609, a small, thin-faced man made his way over London Bridge. He wore a leather jacket and a blue wool stocking cap. His clothes were splashed with mud, and mud sucked at his shoes. He could hardly see for the cold rain in his face.
    He had been looking for Fish Street, and here it was, at the end of London Bridge. Now he was looking for a house on Fish Street—a great stone house not far from the bridge.
    Here was one with tall chimneys and many windows. It must be the house, he thought. He went around to the back.
    A plump, pretty maid opened the door.
    â€œWould this be the Trippett house?” he asked.
    She looked at his muddy clothes. “What do you want?”
    â€œA word with Mistress Freebold, if she’s about.”
    â€œMistress Freebold? Oh, you mean Annie. You can’t see her,” said the maid. “She’s sick abed.”
    â€œCould you just let her know there’s someone here from America—?”
    â€œAmerica?” The maid stared into his face. “Then you must be—” She was gone. He heard her crying out, “Amanda, Amanda!”
    Someone came running. Someone cried, “Father!” and a girl was there. She looked no more than ten or eleven—a pale little thing with great, dark eyes.
    She stopped. She said in bitter disappointment, “You’re not my father.”
    â€œI shouldn’t think so,” said the man.
    â€œEllie said you were from America, and she thought—I thought—”
    â€œSo you’re James Freebold’s girl,” he said.
    â€œOne of them. I’m Amanda.” She asked quickly, “Do you know my father?”
    â€œI do, and I saw him not many weeks ago. We were together in America, in the colony of Virginia. I’m a sailor, you see, and my ship was there—”
    â€œAnd you saw him.” Her eyes were bright again. “Was he well? What did he say?”
    â€œHe was well enough, for all I could see. He’d built a house in Jamestown. That’s the only town there. When my ship sailed, he asked if