Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The King's Sons by George Manville Fenn (best 7 inch ereader txt) 📖
- Author: George Manville Fenn
Book online «The King's Sons by George Manville Fenn (best 7 inch ereader txt) 📖». Author George Manville Fenn
“Ah, my son,” he said; “back from the chase so soon?”
“No,” said Alfred huskily. “I did not go.”
“Not go?” said the monk, in surprise. “How was that? Ah! I see,” he continued, for the boy was silent, “you and Ethelbald have quarrelled.”
“No, indeed,” cried Alfred, and then he stopped. The monk went on without looking, passing the pebble slowly round and round upon the slab, grinding up what looked like thin glistening black paste.
“Then why did you stay behind?” said the monk gravely.
“Because—because—because—oh, don’t ask me!” cried the boy passionately.
Swythe fixed his eyes gently and kindly upon the boy, and left off grinding.
“Tell me why, Fred, my son,” he said softly.
“Because of what Bald said and what you said; and then I went in and saw my mother, and she is so unhappy; and—and—”
Then, with a wild and passionate outburst, the boy made a dash at the old man and caught him by the shoulder, as he cried:
“Oh, Father Swythe, I do want to learn to read and to write, and be what you said. Please forgive me and help me, and I will try so hard—so very, very hard!”
“My son!” cried the monk, in a choking voice, and, as the boy was drawn tightly to the old man’s breast and he hid his face so that his tears should not be seen, something fell pat upon the back of his head, making him look up quickly, to see that he need not feel ashamed of his own, for his tutor’s tears were falling slowly, though there was a contented look in the old man’s face.
“Yes,” he said, smiling, “you have made me cry, my boy; but it is because you have made me happy. You have taught me that I have touched your young heart and opened the bright well-spring of the true and good that is in your nature. Fred, my boy,” he continued, “you are too young to know it, so I will tell you: my son, you have just done something that is very brave and true.”
“I?” cried the boy passionately, as he turned away his head. “I have behaved ill to you who have always been so kind and good, and made my mother weep for me when she is in such dreadful trouble without.”
“And then, my boy, you have come straight to me, your teacher—the poor, weak, humble servant of his master, who has always striven to lead you in the right way—and thrown yourself upon my breast and owned your fault. That is what I mean by saying you have done a very brave thing, my boy. There, and so you will try now?”
The last words came with a bright and cheerful ring, as Swythe released the boy and sat back smiling at him and looking proudly into his eyes.
“And so you want to learn to read and write and grow into a wise man who may some day rule over this land?”
“Oh, I want to learn!” cried the boy, dashing away his last tears. “I want to be wise and great; but oh, no: I don’t want to rule and be King. I want father to live till I am quite an old man.”
“I hope he will!” said Swythe, smiling, and nodding his head pleasantly, as the boy hurriedly turned the conversation by asking:
“What are you doing there?”
“Making some fresh ink, my boy,” was the reply.
“Ink? How?”
“Hah!” cried the monk, chuckling pleasantly; “now the vessel is opened and eager for the knowledge to be poured in. Question away, Fred, my son, and mine shall be the task to pour the wisdom in—as far as I have it,” he added, with a sigh.
Alfred stood at the great entrance late that afternoon when the loud barking of the dogs told of the young hunters’ return, and as soon as they came in sight Red cried:
“There, I told you so; Fred’s along with old Swythe.”
For the monk was standing by the boy’s side, waiting to see what success the young hunters had achieved.
They looked to see their brother disappointed and ready to upbraid them with going and leaving him behind; but they were surprised, for the boy saluted them with:
“Well, where’s the fat buck?”
“Oh,” said Bald shortly, “we had a splendid run, but the dogs were so stupid that he managed to get away. But you ought to have been there: it was grand.”
“Was it?” said Alfred coolly. The news did not seem to trouble him in the least. He noticed, though, that the three boys were so tired out that not one of them seemed to care for his supper, and directly after they went off to bed.
The boys had some fresh plan for the next day, and when Alfred went up to bed they were all whispering eagerly; but as soon as their brother entered the room they pretended to be asleep.
Alfred said nothing till he was undressed and about to get into his bed, and then he only wished them good night.
There was no reply, and the boy felt hurt; but just then he recollected something which made him clap his right hand first to his cheek and then to his forehead, as if he fully expected to find both places still wet and warm. They felt still as if his mother’s lips had but just left them.
From that moment Alfred lay quite still in the darkness, feeling very happy and contented, till all at once a long-drawn restful sigh escaped his lips, and he was just dropping off to sleep when he awoke again and lay listening, for his three brothers, believing that he had gone off to sleep, began talking again in an eager whisper, but what about he could not tell, till all at once Red said something about “otters.”
They were going to have a grand otter hunt up the little Wantage stream with the dogs; and for a few moments a feeling of bitter disappointment came over the boy, for he had looked forward to the day when that hunt would take place.
He felt better when he recalled the Queen’s words as he wished her good night. They were:
“I am so glad, Fred, my boy. You have made me feel very happy.”
“Father Swythe must have told her what I said,” thought Alfred, and in another minute he was asleep.
The next morning after breakfast the boy did not feel half so brave, and he was thinking of how he could get away to the monk’s quiet cell-like room without his brothers seeing him; but he was spared from all trouble in that way, for the monk came up to him smiling.
“I’m going to speak to your brothers, Fred,” he said. “I told the Queen that you had promised to try very hard, and she said she was very glad, but she would be so much happier if your brothers came too; so I am going to ask them to come. Do you know where they are?”
“Out in the broad courtyard,” said Alfred quickly; but Father Swythe shook his head.
“No,” he said; “I came across just now, and they were not there.”
At that moment the distant barking of a dog was heard; followed by a yelping chorus which made the boy run to the window and look out, to catch sight of three figures and some half-dozen dogs disappearing over the hill slope.
“I think they have gone after the otters with the dogs,” said Alfred sadly.
“Oh, I see,” said the monk; “and you feel dull because you are not with them?”
Alfred was too honest to deny it.
“Never mind, boy,” said the little monk cheerily; “come to my room, and we’ll finish making the ink, and then you can learn to read the letters as I make them, while I write out a poem for the Queen; and then I’ll get out the red and blue and yellow, and the thin leaves of gold, and we’ll try and make a beautiful big letter like those in the Queen’s book, and finish it off with some gold.”
“But you can’t do that?” cried Alfred, interested at once.
“Perhaps not so well as in the Queen’s beautiful book; but come and see.”
The boy eagerly took hold of the monk’s hand, and they were soon seated at the little table in Swythe’s room, with the light shining full upon the slate slab, the pebble grinder, and the black patch.
“You said that was ink yesterday,” said the boy, as Swythe gave the pebble a few turns round, and then looked to see if the ink was of the right thickness, which it was not, so a feather was dipped in a water-jug, and a few drops allowed to fall upon the black patch.
“There,” said Swythe, “a good writer makes all his own ink. Now you grind that up till it is well mixed. Gently,” cried Swythe; “that ink is too precious to be spread all over the slab. Grind it round and round. That’s the way! That will do!”
As he spoke, Swythe took a thin-bladed knife and a good-sized, nicely-cleaned fresh-water mussel-shell, and let the boy carefully scrape up all the ink from the slab and place it in the shell.
“That’s well done!” he said. “Now we’ll write a line of letters.”
“Yes,” cried the boy; “let me write them.”
“I wish you could, Fred, my boy,” said the monk, smiling; “but you must first learn.”
“That’s what I want to do,” cried the boy eagerly. “But how am I to learn?”
“By watching me. Now see.”
Swythe rose from the table and opened a box, out of which he took a crisp clean piece of nearly transparent sheepskin and a couple of quill pens, sat down again, and then from another box he drew out a piece of lead and a flat ruler—not a lead-pencil such as is now used, but a little pointed piece of ordinary lead—with which he deftly made a few straight lines across the parchment, and then very carefully drew a beautiful capital A, which he finished off with scrolls and turns and tiny vine-leaves with a running stalk and half-a-dozen tendrils.
“But you have put no grapes,” cried Alfred.
“Give me time,” said Swythe good-humouredly, and directly after he faintly sketched in a bunch of grapes, broad at the top and growing narrower till it ended in one grape alone.
“Oh, I wish I could do that!” cried Alfred eagerly. “But I could never do it so well!”
“I’m going to persevere till I make you do it better,” said Swythe. “Now we’ll leave that for a bit and begin a Latin lesson.”
Alfred sighed and looked longingly at the faint initial letter.
But his interest was taken up directly, for Swythe took up one of his quill pens, examined it, and then, after giving the ink a stir, dipped in his pen and tried it.
The next minute, while the boy sat resting his chin upon his hands, it seemed as if beautifully-formed tiny letters kept on growing out of the pen, running off at the point, and standing one after another in a row, almost exactly the same size, till four words stood out clearly upon the cream-coloured parchment.
As he formed the letters with his clever white fingers, Swythe repeated the name of each, pausing a little to give finish and effect as well as sound to the words he formed, till he had, after beginning some little distance in, made so many words upon one of the faintly-drawn lines and reaching right across the parchment.
“It’s wonderful!” cried Alfred. “I could never do that!”
“It is not wonderful, and you soon will be able to do it,” said Swythe; “but let’s say all those words over again letter by letter, and then the words.”
“They are Latin?” asked the boy.
“Yes,” said Swythe, “and you are going to learn them so as to know them next time you see
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