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The Outlaw Of Torn
By
Edgar Rice Burroughs
To My Friend
JOSEPH E. BRAY
Contents
Here is a story that has lain dormant for seven
hundred years. At first it was suppressed by one of the Plantagenet kings of
England. Later it was forgotten. I happened to dig it up by accident. The
accident being the relationship of my wife's cousin to a certain Father
Superior in a very ancient monastery in Europe.
He let me pry about among a quantity of mildew=
ed
and musty manuscripts and I came across this. It is very interesting--parti=
ally
since it is a bit of hitherto unrecorded history, but principally from the =
fact
that it records the story of a most remarkable revenge and the adventurous =
life
of its innocent victim--Richard, the lost prince of England.
In the retelling of it, I have left out most of
the history. What interested me was the unique character about whom the tale
revolves--the visored horseman who--but let us wait until we get to him.
It all happened in the thirteenth century, and
while it was happening, it shook England from north to south and from east =
to
west; and reached across the channel and shook France. It started, directly=
, in
the London palace of Henry III, and was the result of a quarrel between the
King and his powerful brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.=
Never mind the quarrel, that's history, and you
can read all about it at your leisure. But on this June day in the year of =
our
Lord 1243, Henry so forgot himself as to very unjustly accuse De Montfort of
treason in the presence of a number of the King's gentlemen.
De Montfort paled. He was a tall, handsome man,
and when he drew himself to his full height and turned those gray eyes on t=
he
victim of his wrath, as he did that day, he was very imposing. A power in
England, second only to the King himself, and with the heart of a lion in h=
im,
he answered the King as no other man in all England would have dared answer=
him.
"My Lord King," he cried, "that=
you
be my Lord King alone prevents Simon de Montfort from demanding satisfaction
for such a gross insult. That you take advantage of your kingship to say wh=
at
you would never dare say were you not king, brands me not a traitor, though=
it
does brand you a coward."
Tense silence fell upon the little company of
lords and courtiers as these awful words fell from the lips of a subject,
addressed to his king. They were horrified, for De Montfort's bold challenge
was to them but little short of sacrilege.
Henry, flushing in mortification and anger, ro=
se
to advance upon De Montfort, but suddenly recollecting the power which he
represented, he thought better of whatever action he contemplated and, with=
a
haughty sneer, turned to his courtiers.
"Come, my gentlemen," he said,
"methought that we were to have a turn with the foils this morning.
Already it waxeth late. Come, De Fulm! Come, Leybourn!" and the King l=
eft
the apartment followed by his gentlemen, all of whom had drawn away from the
Earl of Leicester when it became apparent that the royal displeasure was st=
rong
against him. As the arras fell behind the departing King, De Montfort shrug=
ged
his broad shoulders, and turning, left the apartment by another door.
When the King, with his gentlemen, entered the=
armory
he was still smarting from the humiliation of De Montfort's reproaches, and=
as
he laid aside his surcoat and plumed hat to take the foils with De Fulm, his
eyes alighted on the master of fence, Sir Jules de Vac, who was advancing w=
ith
the King's foil and helmet. Henry felt in no mood for fencing with De Fulm,
who, like the other sycophants that surrounded him, always allowed the King
easily to best him in every encounter.
De Vac he knew to be too jealous of his fame a=
s a
swordsman to permit himself to be overcome by aught but superior skill, and
this day Henry felt that he could best the devil himself.
The armory was a great room on the main floor =
of
the palace, off the guard room. It was built in a small wing of the buildin=
g so
that it had light from three sides. In charge of it was the lean, grizzled,=
leather-skinned
Sir Jules de Vac, and it was he whom Henry commanded to face him in mimic
combat with the foils, for the King wished to go with hammer and tongs at
someone to vent his suppressed rage.
So he let De Vac assume to his mind's eye the
person of the hated De Montfort, and it followed that De Vac was nearly
surprised into an early and mortifying defeat by the King's sudden and clev=
er
attack.
Henry III had always been accounted a good
swordsman, but that day he quite outdid himself and, in his imagination, was
about to run the pseudo De Montfort through the heart, to the wild acclaim =
of
his audience. For this fell purpose he had backed the astounded De Vac twic=
e around
the hall when, with a clever feint, and backward step, the master of fence =
drew
the King into the position he wanted him, and with the suddenness of lightn=
ing,
a little twist of his foil sent Henry's weapon clanging across the floor of=
the
armory.
For an instant, the King stood as tense and wh=
ite
as though the hand of death had reached out and touched his heart with its =
icy
fingers. The episode meant more to him than being bested in play by the bes=
t swordsman
in England--for that surely was no disgrace--to Henry it seemed prophetic o=
f the
outcome of a future struggle when he should stand face to face with the rea=
l De
Montfort; and then, seeing in De Vac only the creature of his imagination w=
ith
which he had vested the likeness of his powerful brother-in-law, Henry did =
what
he should like to have done to the real Leicester. Drawing off his gauntlet=
he
advanced close to De Vac.
"Dog!" he hissed, and struck the mas=
ter
of fence a stinging blow across the face, and spat upon him. Then he turned=
on
his heel and strode from the armory.
De Vac had grown old in the service of the kin=
gs
of England, but he hated all things English and all Englishmen. The dead Ki=
ng
John, though hated by all others, he had loved, but with the dead King's bo=
nes
De Vac's loyalty to the house he served had been buried in the Cathedral of=
Worcester.
During the years he had served as master of fe=
nce
at the English Court, the sons of royalty had learned to thrust and parry a=
nd
cut as only De Vac could teach the art, and he had been as conscientious in=
the
discharge of his duties as he had been in his unswerving hatred and contempt
for his pupils.
And now the English King had put upon him such=
an
insult as might only be wiped out by blood.
As the blow fell, the wiry Frenchman clicked h=
is
heels together, and throwing down his foil, he stood erect and rigid as a
marble statue before his master. White and livid was his tense drawn face, =
but
he spoke no word.
He might have struck the King, but then there
would have been left to him no alternative save death by his own hand; for =
a king
may not fight with a lesser mortal, and he who strikes a king may not live-=
-the
king's honor must be satisfied.
Had a French king struck him, De Vac would have
struck back, and gloried in the fate which permitted him to die for the hon=
or
of France; but an English King--pooh! a dog; and who would die for a dog? N=
o,
De Vac would find other means of satisfying his wounded pride. He would rev=
el
in revenge against this man for whom he felt no loyalty. If possible, he wo=
uld
harm the whole of England if he could, but he would bide his time. He could
afford to wait for his opportunity if, by waiting, he could encompass a more
terrible revenge.
De Vac had been born in Paris, the son of a Fr=
ench
officer reputed the best swordsman in France. The son had followed closely =
in
the footsteps of his father until, on the latter's death, he could easily c=
laim
the title of his sire. How he had left France and entered the service of Jo=
hn
of England is not of this story. All the bearing that the life of Jules de =
Vac
has upon the history of England hinges upon but two of his many attributes-=
-his
wonderful swordsmanship and his fearful hatred for his adopted country.
South of the armory of Westminster Palace lay =
the
gardens, and here, on the third day following the King's affront to De Vac,
might have been a seen a black-haired woman gowned in a violet cyclas, rich=
ly
embroidered with gold about the yoke and at the bottom of the loose-pointed
sleeves, which reached almost to the similar bordering on the lower hem of =
the garment.
A richly wrought leathern girdle, studded with precious stones, and held in
place by a huge carved buckle of gold, clasped the garment about her waist =
so
that the upper portion fell outward over the girdle after the manner of a
blouse. In the girdle was a long dagger of beautiful workmanship. Dainty
sandals encased her feet, while a wimple of violet silk bordered in gold
fringe, lay becomingly over her head and shoulders.
By her side walked a handsome boy of about thr=
ee,
clad, like his companion, in gay colors. His tiny surcoat of scarlet velvet=
was
rich with embroidery, while beneath was a close-fitting tunic of white silk.
His doublet was of scarlet, while his long hose of white were cross-gartered
with scarlet from his tiny sandals to his knees. On the back of his brown c=
urls
sat a flat-brimmed, round-crowned hat in which a single plume of white waved
and nodded bravely at each move of the proud little head.
The child's features were well molded, and his
frank, bright eyes gave an expression of boyish generosity to a face which
otherwise would have been too arrogant and haughty for such a mere baby. As=
he
talked with his companion, little flashes of peremptory authority and digni=
ty,
which sat strangely upon one so tiny, caused the young woman at times to tu=
rn
her head from him that he might not see the smiles which she could scarce
repress.
Presently the boy took a ball from his tunic, =
and,
pointing at a little bush near them, said, "Stand you there, Lady Maud=
, by
yonder bush. I would play at toss."
The young woman did as she was bid, and when s=
he
had taken her place and turned to face him the boy threw the ball to her. T=
hus
they played beneath the windows of the armory, the boy running blithely aft=
er
the ball when he missed it, and laughing and shouting in happy glee when he=
made
a particularly good catch.
In one of the windows of the armory overlooking
the garden stood a grim, gray, old man, leaning upon his folded arms, his b=
rows
drawn together in a malignant scowl, the corners of his mouth set in a ster=
n,
cold line.
He looked upon the garden and the playing chil=
d,
and upon the lovely young woman beneath him, but with eyes which did not se=
e,
for De Vac was working out a great problem, the greatest of all his life.
For three days, the old man had brooded over h=
is
grievance, seeking for some means to be revenged upon the King for the insu=
lt
which Henry had put upon him. Many schemes had presented themselves to his
shrewd and cunning mind, but so far all had been rejected as unworthy of th=
e terrible
satisfaction which his wounded pride demanded.
His fancies had, for the most part, revolved a=
bout
the unsettled political conditions of Henry's reign, for from these he felt=
he
might wrest that opportunity which could be turned to his own personal uses=
and
to the harm, and possibly the undoing, of the King.
For years an inmate of the palace, and often a
listener in the armory when the King played at sword with his friends and
favorites, De Vac had heard much which passed between Henry III and his
intimates that could well be turned to the King's harm by a shrewd and
resourceful enemy.
With all England, he knew the utter contempt in
which Henry held the terms of the Magna Charta which he so often violated a=
long
with his kingly oath to maintain it. But what all England did not know, De =
Vac had
gleaned from scraps of conversation dropped in the armory: that Henry was e=
ven
now negotiating with the leaders of foreign mercenaries, and with Louis IX =
of
France, for a sufficient force of knights and men-at-arms to wage a relentl=
ess
war upon his own barons that he might effectively put a stop to all future
interference by them with the royal prerogative of the Plantagenets to misr=
ule
England.
If he could but learn the details of this plan,
thought De Vac: the point of landing of the foreign troops; their numbers; =
the
first point of attack. Ah, would it not be sweet revenge indeed to balk the
King in this venture so dear to his heart!
A word to De Clare, or De Montfort would bring=
the
barons and their retainers forty thousand strong to overwhelm the King's
forces.
And he would let the King know to whom, and for
what cause, he was beholden for his defeat and discomfiture. Possibly the
barons would depose Henry, and place a new king upon England's throne, and =
then
De Vac would mock the Plantagenet to his face. Sweet, kind, delectable veng=
eance,
indeed! And the old man licked his thin lips as though to taste the last sw=
eet
vestige of some dainty morsel.
And then Chance carried a little leather ball
beneath the window where the old man stood; and as the child ran, laughing,=
to
recover it, De Vac's eyes fell upon him, and his former plan for revenge me=
lted
as the fog before the noonday sun; and in its stead there opened to him the=
whole
hideous plot of fearsome vengeance as clearly as it were writ upon the leav=
es
of a great book that had been thrown wide before him. And, in so far as he
could direct, he varied not one jot from the details of that vividly concei=
ved
masterpiece of hellishness during the twenty years which followed.
The little boy who so innocently played in the
garden of his royal father was Prince Richard, the three-year-old son of He=
nry
III of England. No published history mentions this little lost prince; only=
the
secret archives of the kings of England tell the story of his strange and
adventurous life. His name has been blotted from the records of men; and the
revenge of De Vac has passed from the eyes of the world; though in his time=
it
was a real and terrible thing in the hearts of the English.
For nearly a month, the old man haunted the
palace, and watched in the gardens for the little Prince until he knew the
daily routine of his tiny life with his nurses and governesses.
He saw that when the Lady Maud accompanied him,
they were wont to repair to the farthermost extremities of the palace groun=
ds
where, by a little postern gate, she admitted a certain officer of the Guar=
ds
to whom the Queen had forbidden the privilege of the court.
There, in a secluded bower, the two lovers
whispered their hopes and plans, unmindful of the royal charge playing
neglected among the flowers and shrubbery of the garden.
Toward the middle of July De Vac had his plans
well laid. He had managed to coax old Brus, the gardener, into letting him =
have
the key to the little postern gate on the plea that he wished to indulge in=
a
midnight escapade, hinting broadly of a fair lady who was to be the partner=
of his
adventure, and, what was more to the point with Brus, at the same time slip=
ping
a couple of golden zecchins into the gardener's palm.
Brus, like the other palace servants, consider=
ed
De Vac a loyal retainer of the house of Plantagenet. Whatever else of misch=
ief
De Vac might be up to, Brus was quite sure that in so far as the King was
concerned, the key to the postern gate was as safe in De Vac's hands as tho=
ugh
Henry himself had it.
The old fellow wondered a little that the moro=
se
old master of fence should, at his time in life, indulge in frivolous escap=
ades
more befitting the younger sprigs of gentility, but, then, what concern was=
it
of his? Did he not have enough to think about to keep the gardens so that h=
is
royal master and mistress might find pleasure in the shaded walks, the
well-kept sward, and the gorgeous beds of foliage plants and blooming flowe=
rs
which he set with such wondrous precision in the formal garden?
Further, two gold zecchins were not often come=
by
so easily as this; and if the dear Lord Jesus saw fit, in his infinite wisd=
om,
to take this means of rewarding his poor servant, it ill became such a worm=
as he
to ignore the divine favor. So Brus took the gold zecchins and De Vac the k=
ey,
and the little prince played happily among the flowers of his royal father's
garden, and all were satisfied; which was as it should have been.
That night, De Vac took the key to a locksmith=
on
the far side of London; one who could not possibly know him or recognize the
key as belonging to the palace. Here he had a duplicate made, waiting impat=
iently
while the old man fashioned it with the crude instruments of his time.
From this little shop, De Vac threaded his way
through the dirty lanes and alleys of ancient London, lighted at far interv=
als
by an occasional smoky lantern, until he came to a squalid tenement but a s=
hort
distance from the palace.
A narrow alley ran past the building, ending
abruptly at the bank of the Thames in a moldering wooden dock, beneath which
the inky waters of the river rose and fell, lapping the decaying piles and
surging far beneath the dock to the remote fastnesses inhabited by the great
fierce dock rats and their fiercer human antitypes.
Several times De Vac paced the length of this
black alley in search of the little doorway of the building he sought. At
length he came upon it, and, after repeated pounding with the pommel of his
sword, it was opened by a slatternly old hag.
"What would ye of a decent woman at such =
an
ungodly hour?" she grumbled. "Ah, 'tis ye, my lord?" she add=
ed,
hastily, as the flickering rays of the candle she bore lighted up De Vac's
face. "Welcome, my Lord, thrice welcome. The daughter of the devil
welcomes her brother."
"Silence, old hag," cried De Vac.
"Is it not enough that you leech me of good marks of such a quantity t=
hat
you may ever after wear mantles of villosa and feast on simnel bread and
malmsey, that you must needs burden me still further with the affliction of=
thy
vile tongue?
"Hast thou the clothes ready bundled and =
the
key, also, to this gate to perdition? And the room: didst set to rights the
furnishings I had delivered here, and sweep the century-old accumulation of
filth and cobwebs from the floor and rafters? Why, the very air reeked of t=
he
dead Romans who builded London twelve hundred years ago. Methinks, too, fro=
m the
stink, they must have been Roman swineherd who habited this sty with their
herds, an' I venture that thou, old sow, hast never touched broom to the pl=
ace
for fear of disturbing the ancient relics of thy kin."
"Cease thy babbling, Lord Satan," cr=
ied
the woman. "I would rather hear thy money talk than thou, for though it
come accursed and tainted from thy rogue hand, yet it speaks with the same
sweet and commanding voice as it were fresh from the coffers of the holy
church.
"The bundle is ready," she continued,
closing the door after De Vac, who had now entered, "and here be the k=
ey;
but first let us have a payment. I know not what thy foul work may be, but =
foul
it is I know from the secrecy which you have demanded, an' I dare say there
will be some who would pay well to learn the whereabouts of the old woman a=
nd
the child, thy sister and her son you tell me they be, who you are so anxio=
us
to hide away in old Til's garret. So it be well for you, my Lord, to pay old
Til well and add a few guilders for the peace of her tongue if you would th=
at
your prisoner find peace in old Til's house."
"Fetch me the bundle, hag," replied =
De
Vac, "and you shall have gold against a final settlement; more even th=
an
we bargained for if all goes well and thou holdest thy vile tongue."
But the old woman's threats had already caused=
De
Vac a feeling of uneasiness, which would have been reflected to an exaggera=
ted
degree in the old woman had she known the determination her words had cause=
d in
the mind of the old master of fence.
His venture was far too serious, and the resul=
ts
of exposure too fraught with danger, to permit of his taking any chances wi=
th a
disloyal fellow-conspirator. True, he had not even hinted at the enormity of
the plot in which he was involving the old woman, but, as she had said, his=
stern
commands for secrecy had told enough to arouse her suspicions, and with them
her curiosity and cupidity. So it was that old Til might well have quailed =
in
her tattered sandals had she but even vaguely guessed the thoughts which pa=
ssed
in De Vac's mind; but the extra gold pieces he dropped into her withered pa=
lm
as she delivered the bundle to him, together with the promise of more, quite
effectually won her loyalty and her silence for the time being.
Slipping the key into the pocket of his tunic =
and
covering the bundle with his long surcoat, De Vac stepped out into the dark=
ness
of the alley and hastened toward the dock.
Beneath the planks he found a skiff which he h=
ad
moored there earlier in the evening, and underneath one of the thwarts he h=
id
the bundle. Then, casting off, he rowed slowly up the Thames until, below t=
he
palace walls, he moored near to the little postern gate which let into the =
lower
end of the garden.
Hiding the skiff as best he could in some tang=
led
bushes which grew to the water's edge, set there by order of the King to ad=
d to
the beauty of the aspect from the river side, De Vac crept warily to the
postern and, unchallenged, entered and sought his apartments in the palace.=
The next day, he returned the original key to
Brus, telling the old man that he had not used it after all, since mature
reflection had convinced him of the folly of his contemplated adventure,
especially in one whose youth was past, and in whose joints the night damp =
of
the Thames might find lodgement for rheumatism.
"Ha, Sir Jules," laughed the old
gardener, "Virtue and Vice be twin sisters who come running to do the
bidding of the same father, Desire. Were there no desire there would be no
virtue, and because one man desires what another does not, who shall say
whether the child of his desire be vice or virtue? Or on the other hand if =
my
friend desires his own wife and if that be virtue, then if I also desire his
wife, is not that likewise virtue, since we desire the same thing? But if to
obtain our desire it be necessary to expose our joints to the Thames' fog, =
then
it were virtue to remain at home."
"Right you sound, old mole," said De
Vac, smiling, "would that I might learn to reason by your wondrous log=
ic;
methinks it might stand me in good stead before I be much older."
"The best sword arm in all Christendom ne=
eds
no other logic than the sword, I should think," said Brus, returning to
his work.
That afternoon, De Vac stood in a window of the
armory looking out upon the beautiful garden which spread before him to the
river wall two hundred yards away. In the foreground were box-bordered walk=
s,
smooth, sleek lawns, and formal beds of gorgeous flowering plants, while he=
re and
there marble statues of wood nymph and satyr gleamed, sparkling in the
brilliant sunlight, or, half shaded by an overhanging bush, took on a sembl=
ance
of life from the riotous play of light and shadow as the leaves above them
moved to and fro in the faint breeze. Farther in the distance, the river wa=
ll
was hidden by more closely massed bushes, and the formal, geometric precisi=
on
of the nearer view was relieved by a background of vine-colored bowers, and=
a
profusion of small trees and flowering shrubs arranged in studied disorder.=
Through this seeming jungle ran tortuous paths,
and the carved stone benches of the open garden gave place to rustic seats,=
and
swings suspended from the branches of fruit trees.
Toward this enchanting spot slowly were walking
the Lady Maud and her little charge, Prince Richard; all ignorant of the
malicious watcher in the window behind them.
A great peacock strutted proudly across the wa=
lk
before them, and, as Richard ran, childlike, after it, Lady Maud hastened o=
n to
the little postern gate which she quickly unlocked, admitting her lover, who
had been waiting without. Relocking the gate the two strolled arm in arm to=
the
little bower which was their trysting place.
As the lovers talked, all self-engrossed, the
little Prince played happily about among the trees and flowers, and none saw
the stern, determined face which peered through the foliage at a little
distance from the playing boy.
Richard was devoting his royal energies to cha=
sing
an elusive butterfly which fate led nearer and nearer to the cold, hard wat=
cher
in the bushes. Closer and closer came the little Prince, and in another mom=
ent,
he had burst through the flowering shrubs, and stood facing the implacable
master of fence.
"Your Highness," said De Vac, bowing=
to
the little fellow, "let old DeVac help you catch the pretty insect.&qu=
ot;
Richard, having often seen De Vac, did not fear
him, and so together they started in pursuit of the butterfly which by now =
had
passed out of sight. De Vac turned their steps toward the little postern ga=
te, but
when he would have passed through with the tiny Prince, the latter rebelled=
.
"Come, My Lord Prince," urged De Vac,
"methinks the butterfly did but alight without the wall, we can have it
and return within the garden in an instant."
"Go thyself and fetch it," replied t=
he
Prince; "the King, my father, has forbid me stepping without the palace
grounds."
"Come," commanded De Vac, more stern=
ly,
"no harm can come to you."
But the child hung back and would not go with =
him
so that De Vac was forced to grasp him roughly by the arm. There was a cry =
of
rage and alarm from the royal child.
"Unhand me, sirrah," screamed the bo=
y.
"How dare you lay hands on a prince of England?"
De Vac clapped his hand over the child's mouth=
to
still his cries, but it was too late. The Lady Maud and her lover had heard
and, in an instant, they were rushing toward the postern gate, the officer
drawing his sword as he ran.
When they reached the wall, De Vac and the Pri=
nce
were upon the outside, and the Frenchman had closed and was endeavoring to =
lock
the gate. But, handicapped by the struggling boy, he had not time to turn t=
he
key before the officer threw himself against the panels and burst out befor=
e the
master of fence, closely followed by the Lady Maud.
De Vac dropped the key and, still grasping the=
now
thoroughly affrightened Prince with his left hand, drew his sword and
confronted the officer.
There were no words, there was no need of word=
s; De
Vac's intentions were too plain to necessitate any parley, so the two fell =
upon
each other with grim fury; the brave officer facing the best swordsman that=
France
had ever produced in a futile attempt to rescue his young prince.
In a moment, De Vac had disarmed him, but,
contrary to the laws of chivalry, he did not lower his point until it had f=
irst
plunged through the heart of his brave antagonist. Then, with a bound, he
leaped between Lady Maud and the gate, so that she could not retreat into t=
he
garden and give the alarm.
Still grasping the trembling child in his iron
grip, he stood facing the lady in waiting, his back against the door.
"Mon Dieu, Sir Jules," she cried,
"hast thou gone mad?"
"No, My Lady," he answered, "bu=
t I
had not thought to do the work which now lies before me. Why didst thou not
keep a still tongue in thy head and let his patron saint look after the wel=
fare
of this princeling? Your rashness has brought you to a pretty pass, for it =
must
be either you or I, My Lady, and it cannot be I. Say thy prayers and compose
thyself for death."
Henry III, King of England, sat in his council
chamber surrounded by the great lords and nobles who composed his suit. He
awaited Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, whom he had summoned that he
might heap still further indignities upon him with the intention of degradi=
ng
and humiliating him that he might leave England forever. The King feared th=
is
mighty kinsman who so boldly advised him against the weak follies which were
bringing his kingdom to a condition of revolution.
What the outcome of this audience would have b=
een
none may say, for Leicester had but just entered and saluted his sovereign =
when
there came an interruption which drowned the petty wrangles of king and
courtier in a common affliction that touched the hearts of all.
There was a commotion at one side of the room,=
the
arras parted, and Eleanor, Queen of England, staggered toward the throne, t=
ears
streaming down her pale cheeks.
"Oh, My Lord! My Lord!" she cried,
"Richard, our son, has been assassinated and thrown into the Thames.&q=
uot;
In an instant, all was confusion and turmoil, =
and
it was with the greatest difficulty that the King finally obtained a cohere=
nt
statement from his queen.
It seemed that when the Lady Maud had not retu=
rned
to the palace with Prince Richard at the proper time, the Queen had been
notified and an immediate search had been instituted--a search which did not
end for over twenty years; but the first fruits of it turned the hearts of =
the court
to stone, for there beside the open postern gate lay the dead bodies of Lady
Maud and a certain officer of the Guards, but nowhere was there a sign or t=
race
of Prince Richard, second son of Henry III of England, and at that time the
youngest prince of the realm.
It was two days before the absence of De Vac w=
as
noted, and then it was that one of the lords in waiting to the King reminded
his majesty of the episode of the fencing bout, and a motive for the abduct=
ion
of the King's little son became apparent.
An edict was issued requiring the examination =
of
every child in England, for on the left breast of the little Prince was a
birthmark which closely resembled a lily and, when after a year no child was
found bearing such a mark and no trace of De Vac uncovered, the search was =
carried
into France, nor was it ever wholly relinquished at any time for more than
twenty years.
The first theory, of assassination, was quickly
abandoned when it was subjected to the light of reason, for it was evident =
that
an assassin could have dispatched the little Prince at the same time that he
killed the Lady Maud and her lover, had such been his desire.
The most eager factor in the search for Prince
Richard was Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, whose affection for his r=
oyal
nephew had always been so marked as to have been commented upon by the memb=
ers
of the King's household.
Thus for a time the rupture between De Montfort
and his king was healed, and although the great nobleman was divested of his
authority in Gascony, he suffered little further oppression at the hands of=
his
royal master.
As De Vac drew his sword from the heart of the
Lady Maud, he winced, for, merciless though he was, he had shrunk from this
cruel task. Too far he had gone, however, to back down now, and, had he left
the Lady Maud alive, the whole of the palace guard and all the city of Lond=
on would
have been on his heels in ten minutes; there would have been no escape.
The little Prince was now so terrified that he
could but tremble and whimper in his fright. So fearful was he of the terri=
ble
De Vac that a threat of death easily stilled his tongue, and so the grim, o=
ld
man led him to the boat hidden deep in the dense bushes.
De Vac did not dare remain in this retreat unt=
il
dark, as he had first intended. Instead, he drew a dingy, ragged dress from=
the
bundle beneath the thwart and in this disguised himself as an old woman,
drawing a cotton wimple low over his head and forehead to hide his short ha=
ir. Concealing
the child beneath the other articles of clothing, he pushed off from the ba=
nk,
and, rowing close to the shore, hastened down the Thames toward the old dock
where, the previous night, he had concealed his skiff. He reached his
destination unnoticed, and, running in beneath the dock, worked the boat far
into the dark recess of the cave-like retreat.
Here he determined to hide until darkness had
fallen, for he knew that the search would be on for the little lost Prince =
at
any moment, and that none might traverse the streets of London without being
subject to the closest scrutiny.
Taking advantage of the forced wait, De Vac
undressed the Prince and clothed him in other garments, which had been wrap=
ped
in the bundle hidden beneath the thwart; a little red cotton tunic with hos=
e to
match, a black doublet and a tiny leather jerkin and leather cap.
The discarded clothing of the Prince he wrapped
about a huge stone torn from the disintegrating masonry of the river wall, =
and
consigned the bundle to the voiceless river.
The Prince had by now regained some of his for=
mer
assurance and, finding that De Vac seemed not to intend harming him, the li=
ttle
fellow commenced questioning his grim companion, his childish wonder at thi=
s strange
adventure getting the better of his former apprehension.
"What do we here, Sir Jules?" he ask=
ed.
"Take me back to the King's, my father's palace. I like not this dark =
hole
nor the strange garments you have placed upon me."
"Silence, boy!" commanded the old ma=
n.
"Sir Jules be dead, nor are you a king's son. Remember these two things
well, nor ever again let me hear you speak the name Sir Jules, or call your=
self
a prince."
The boy went silent, again cowed by the fierce
tone of his captor. Presently he began to whimper, for he was tired and hun=
gry
and frightened--just a poor little baby, helpless and hopeless in the hands=
of
this cruel enemy--all his royalty as nothing, all gone with the silken fine=
ry
which lay in the thick mud at the bottom of the Thames, and presently he
dropped into a fitful sleep in the bottom of the skiff.
When darkness had settled, De Vac pushed the s=
kiff
outward to the side of the dock and, gathering the sleeping child in his ar=
ms,
stood listening, preparatory to mounting to the alley which led to old Til'=
s place.
As he stood thus, a faint sound of clanking ar=
mor
came to his attentive ears; louder and louder it grew until there could be =
no
doubt but that a number of men were approaching.
De Vac resumed his place in the skiff, and aga=
in
drew it far beneath the dock. Scarcely had he done so ere a party of armored
knights and men-at-arms clanked out upon the planks above him from the mout=
h of
the dark alley. Here they stopped as though for consultation and plainly co=
uld
the listener below hear every word of their conversation.
"De Montfort," said one, "what
thinkest thou of it? Can it be that the Queen is right and that Richard lies
dead beneath these black waters?"
"No, De Clare," replied a deep voice,
which De Vac recognized as that of the Earl of Leicester. "The hand th=
at
could steal the Prince from out of the very gardens of his sire without the=
knowledge
of Lady Maud or her companion, which must evidently have been the case, cou=
ld
more easily and safely have dispatched him within the gardens had that been=
the
object of this strange attack. I think, My Lord, that presently we shall he=
ar
from some bold adventurer who holds the little Prince for ransom. God give =
that
such may be the case, for of all the winsome and affectionate little fellow=
s I
have ever seen, not even excepting mine own dear son, the little Richard was
the most to be beloved. Would that I might get my hands upon the foul devil=
who
has done this horrid deed."
Beneath the planks, not four feet from where
Leicester stood, lay the object of his search. The clanking armor, the heavy
spurred feet, and the voices above him had awakened the little Prince and, =
with
a startled cry, he sat upright in the bottom of the skiff. Instantly De Vac=
's
iron band clapped over the tiny mouth, but not before a single faint wail h=
ad reached
the ears of the men above.
"Hark! What was that, My Lord?" cried
one of the men-at-arms.
In tense silence they listened for a repetitio=
n of
the sound and then De Montfort cried out:
"What ho, below there! Who is it beneath =
the
dock? Answer, in the name of the King!"
Richard, recognizing the voice of his favorite
uncle, struggled to free himself, but De Vac's ruthless hand crushed out the
weak efforts of the babe, and all was quiet as the tomb, while those above
stood listening for a repetition of the sound.
"Dock rats," said De Clare, and then=
as
though the devil guided them to protect his own, two huge rats scurried upw=
ard
from between the loose boards, and ran squealing up the dark alley.
"Right you are," said De Montfort,
"but I could have sworn 'twas a child's feeble wail had I not seen the=
two
filthy rodents with mine own eyes. Come, let us to the next vile alley. We =
have
met with no success here, though that old hag who called herself Til seemed
overanxious to bargain for the future information she seemed hopeful of bei=
ng
able to give us."
As they moved off, their voices grew fainter in
the ears of the listeners beneath the dock and soon were lost in the distan=
ce.
"A close shave," thought De Vac, as =
he
again took up the child and prepared to gain the dock. No further noises
occurring to frighten him, he soon reached the door to Til's house and,
inserting the key, crept noiselessly to the garret room which he had rented
from his ill-favored hostess.
There were no stairs from the upper floor to t=
he
garret above, this ascent being made by means of a wooden ladder which De V=
ac
pulled up after him, closing and securing the aperture, through which he
climbed with his burden, by means of a heavy trapdoor equipped with thick b=
ars.
The apartment which they now entered extended
across the entire east end of the building, and had windows upon three side=
s.
These were heavily curtained. The apartment was lighted by a small cresset
hanging from a rafter near the center of the room.
The walls were unplastered and the rafters
unceiled; the whole bearing a most barnlike and unhospitable appearance.
In one corner was a huge bed, and across the r=
oom
a smaller cot; a cupboard, a table, and two benches completed the furnishin=
gs.
These articles De Vac had purchased for the room against the time when he s=
hould
occupy it with his little prisoner.
On the table were a loaf of black bread, an
earthenware jar containing honey, a pitcher of milk and two drinking horns.=
To
these, De Vac immediately gave his attention, commanding the child to parta=
ke
of what he wished.
Hunger for the moment overcame the little Prin=
ce's
fears, and he set to with avidity upon the strange, rough fare, made doubly
coarse by the rude utensils and the bare surroundings, so unlike the royal =
magnificence
of his palace apartments.
While the child ate, De Vac hastened to the lo=
wer
floor of the building in search of Til, whom he now thoroughly mistrusted a=
nd
feared. The words of De Montfort, which he had overheard at the dock, convi=
nced
him that here was one more obstacle to the fulfillment of his revenge which=
must
be removed as had the Lady Maud; but in this instance there was neither you=
th
nor beauty to plead the cause of the intended victim, or to cause the grim
executioner a pang of remorse.
When he found the old hag, she was already dre=
ssed
to go upon the street, in fact he intercepted her at the very door of the
building. Still clad as he was in the mantle and wimple of an old woman, Ti=
l did
not, at first, recognize him, and when he spoke, she burst into a nervous,
cackling laugh, as one caught in the perpetration of some questionable act,=
nor
did her manner escape the shrewd notice of the wily master of fence.
"Whither, old hag?" he asked.
"To visit Mag Tunk at the alley's end, by=
the
river, My Lord," she replied, with more respect than she had been wont=
to
accord him.
"Then, I will accompany you part way, my
friend, and, perchance, you can give me a hand with some packages I left be=
hind
me in the skiff I have moored there."
And so the two walked together through the dark
alley to the end of the rickety, dismantled dock; the one thinking of the v=
ast
reward the King would lavish upon her for the information she felt sure she
alone could give; the other feeling beneath his mantle for the hilt of a lo=
ng
dagger which nestled there.
As they reached the water's edge, De Vac was
walking with his right shoulder behind his companion's left, in his hand was
gripped the keen blade and, as the woman halted on the dock, the point that
hovered just below her left shoulder-blade plunged, soundless, into her hea=
rt
at the same instant that De Vac's left hand swung up and grasped her throat=
in a
grip of steel.
There was no sound, barely a struggle of the
convulsively stiffening old muscles, and then, with a push from De Vac, the
body lunged forward into the Thames, where a dull splash marked the end of =
the
last hope that Prince Richard might be rescued from the clutches of his
Nemesis.
For three years following the disappearance of
Prince Richard, a bent old woman lived in the heart of London within a ston=
e's
throw of the King's palace. In a small back room she lived, high up in the
attic of an old building, and with her was a little boy who never went abro=
ad alone,
nor by day. And upon his left breast was a strange mark which resembled a l=
ily.
When the bent old woman was safely in her attic room, with bolted door behi=
nd
her, she was wont to straighten up, and discard her dingy mantle for more
comfortable and becoming doublet and hose.
For years, she worked assiduously with the lit=
tle
boy's education. There were three subjects in her curriculum; French,
swordsmanship and hatred of all things English, especially the reigning hou=
se
of England.
The old woman had had made a tiny foil and had
commenced teaching the little boy the art of fence when he was but three ye=
ars
old.
"You will be the greatest swordsman in the
world when you are twenty, my son," she was wont to say, "and then
you shall go out and kill many Englishmen. Your name shall be hated and cur=
sed
the length and breadth of England, and when you finally stand with the halt=
er
about your neck, aha, then will I speak. Then shall they know."
The little boy did not understand it all, he o=
nly
knew that he was comfortable, and had warm clothing, and all he required to
eat, and that he would be a great man when he learned to fight with a real =
sword,
and had grown large enough to wield one. He also knew that he hated English=
men,
but why, he did not know.
Way back in the uttermost recesses of his litt=
le,
childish head, he seemed to remember a time when his life and surroundings =
had
been very different; when, instead of this old woman, there had been many
people around him, and a sweet faced woman had held him in her arms and kis=
sed him,
before he was taken off to bed at night; but he could not be sure, maybe it=
was
only a dream he remembered, for he dreamed many strange and wonderful dream=
s.
When the little boy was about six years of age=
, a
strange man came to their attic home to visit the little old woman. It was =
in
the dusk of the evening but the old woman did not light the cresset, and
further, she whispered to the little boy to remain in the shadows of a far
corner of the bare chamber.
The stranger was old and bent and had a great
beard which hid almost his entire face except for two piercing eyes, a great
nose and a bit of wrinkled forehead. When he spoke, he accompanied his words
with many shrugs of his narrow shoulders and with waving of his arms and ot=
her strange
and amusing gesticulations. The child was fascinated. Here was the first
amusement of his little starved life. He listened intently to the conversat=
ion,
which was in French.
"I have just the thing for madame," =
the
stranger was saying. "It be a noble and stately hall far from the beat=
en
way. It was built in the old days by Harold the Saxon, but in later times,
death and poverty and the disfavor of the King have wrested it from his
descendants. A few years since, Henry granted it to that spend-thrift favor=
ite
of his, Henri de Macy, who pledged it to me for a sum he hath been unable to
repay. Today it be my property, and as it be far from Paris, you may have it
for the mere song I have named. It be a wondrous bargain, madame."
"And when I come upon it, I shall find th=
at I
have bought a crumbling pile of ruined masonry, unfit to house a family of
foxes," replied the old woman peevishly.
"One tower hath fallen, and the roof for =
half
the length of one wing hath sagged and tumbled in," explained the old
Frenchman. "But the three lower stories be intact and quite habitable.=
It
be much grander even now than the castles of many of England's noble barons,
and the price, madame--ah, the price be so ridiculously low."
Still the old woman hesitated.
"Come," said the Frenchman, "I =
have
it. Deposit the money with Isaac the Jew--thou knowest him?--and he shall h=
old
it together with the deed for forty days, which will give thee ample time to
travel to Derby and inspect thy purchase. If thou be not entirely satisfied,
Isaac the Jew shall return thy money to thee and the deed to me, but if at =
the
end of forty days thou hast not made demand for thy money, then shall Isaac=
send
the deed to thee and the money to me. Be not this an easy and fair way out =
of
the difficulty?"
The little old woman thought for a moment and =
at
last conceded that it seemed quite a fair way to arrange the matter. And th=
us
it was accomplished.
Several days later, the little old woman called
the child to her.
"We start tonight upon a long journey to =
our
new home. Thy face shall be wrapped in many rags, for thou hast a most grie=
vous
toothache. Dost understand?"
"But I have no toothache. My teeth do not
pain me at all. I--" expostulated the child.
"Tut, tut," interrupted the little o=
ld
woman. "Thou hast a toothache, and so thy face must be wrapped in many
rags. And listen, should any ask thee upon the way why thy face be so wrapp=
ed,
thou art to say that thou hast a toothache. And thou do not do as I say, the
King's men will take us and we shall be hanged, for the King hateth us. If =
thou
hatest the English King and lovest thy life do as I command."
"I hate the King," replied the little
boy. "For this reason I shall do as thou sayest."
So it was that they set out that night upon th=
eir
long journey north toward the hills of Derby. For many days they travelled,
riding upon two small donkeys. Strange sights filled the days for the little
boy who remembered nothing outside the bare attic of his London home and th=
e dirty
London alleys that he had traversed only by night.
They wound across beautiful parklike meadows a=
nd
through dark, forbidding forests, and now and again they passed tiny hamlet=
s of
thatched huts. Occasionally they saw armored knights upon the highway, alon=
e or
in small parties, but the child's companion always managed to hasten into c=
over
at the road side until the grim riders had passed.
Once, as they lay in hiding in a dense wood be=
side
a little open glade across which the road wound, the boy saw two knights en=
ter
the glade from either side. For a moment, they drew rein and eyed each othe=
r in
silence, and then one, a great black mailed knight upon a black charger, cr=
ied
out something to the other which the boy could not catch. The other knight =
made
no response other than to rest his lance upon his thigh and with lowered po=
int,
ride toward his ebon adversary. For a dozen paces their great steeds trotted
slowly toward one another, but presently the knights urged them into full
gallop, and when the two iron men on their iron trapped chargers came toget=
her
in the center of the glade, it was with all the terrific impact of full cha=
rge.
The lance of the black knight smote full upon =
the
linden shield of his foeman, the staggering weight of the mighty black char=
ger
hurtled upon the gray, who went down with his rider into the dust of the
highway. The momentum of the black carried him fifty paces beyond the fallen
horseman before his rider could rein him in, then the black knight turned to
view the havoc he had wrought. The gray horse was just staggering dizzily t=
o his
feet, but his mailed rider lay quiet and still where he had fallen.
With raised visor, the black knight rode back =
to
the side of his vanquished foe. There was a cruel smile upon his lips as he
leaned toward the prostrate form. He spoke tauntingly, but there was no res=
ponse,
then he prodded the fallen man with the point of his spear. Even this elici=
ted
no movement. With a shrug of his iron clad shoulders, the black knight whee=
led
and rode on down the road until he had disappeared from sight within the gl=
oomy
shadows of the encircling forest.
The little boy was spell-bound. Naught like th=
is
had he ever seen or dreamed.
"Some day thou shalt go and do likewise, =
my
son," said the little old woman.
"Shall I be clothed in armor and ride upo=
n a
great black steed?" he asked.
"Yes, and thou shalt ride the highways of
England with thy stout lance and mighty sword, and behind thee thou shalt l=
eave
a trail of blood and death, for every man shalt be thy enemy. But come, we =
must
be on our way."
They rode on, leaving the dead knight where he=
had
fallen, but always in his memory the child carried the thing that he had se=
en,
longing for the day when he should be great and strong like the formidable
black knight.
On another day, as they were biding in a deser=
ted
hovel to escape the notice of a caravan of merchants journeying up-country =
with
their wares, they saw a band of ruffians rush out from the concealing shelt=
er
of some bushes at the far side of the highway and fall upon the surprised a=
nd defenseless
tradesmen.
Ragged, bearded, uncouth villains they were, a=
rmed
mostly with bludgeons and daggers, with here and there a cross-bow. Without
mercy they attacked the old and the young, beating them down in cold blood =
even
when they offered no resistance. Those of the caravan who could, escaped, t=
he
balance the highwaymen left dead or dying in the road, as they hurried away
with their loot.
At first the child was horror-struck, but when=
he
turned to the little old woman for sympathy he found a grim smile upon her =
thin
lips. She noted his expression of dismay.
"It is naught, my son. But English curs
setting upon English swine. Some day thou shalt set upon both--they be only=
fit
for killing."
The boy made no reply, but he thought a great =
deal
about that which he had seen. Knights were cruel to knights--the poor were
cruel to the rich--and every day of the journey had forced upon his childish
mind that everyone must be very cruel and hard upon the poor. He had seen t=
hem
in all their sorrow and misery and poverty--stretching a long, scattering l=
ine
all the way from London town. Their bent backs, their poor thin bodies and
their hopeless, sorrowful faces attesting the weary wretchedness of their
existence.
"Be no one happy in all the world?" =
he
once broke out to the old woman.
"Only he who wields the mightiest
sword," responded the old woman. "You have seen, my son, that all
Englishmen are beasts. They set upon and kill one another for little
provocation or for no provocation at all. When thou shalt be older, thou sh=
alt
go forth and kill them all for unless thou kill them, they will kill
thee."
At length, after tiresome days upon the road, =
they
came to a little hamlet in the hills. Here the donkeys were disposed of and=
a
great horse purchased, upon which the two rode far up into a rough and
uninviting country away from the beaten track, until late one evening they =
approached
a ruined castle.
The frowning walls towered high against the
moonlit sky beyond, and where a portion of the roof had fallen in, the cold
moon, shining through the narrow unglazed windows, gave to the mighty pile =
the likeness
of a huge, many-eyed ogre crouching upon the flank of a deserted world, for
nowhere was there other sign of habitation.
Before this somber pile, the two dismounted. T=
he
little boy was filled with awe and his childish imagination ran riot as they
approached the crumbling barbican on foot, leading the horse after them. Fr=
om
the dark shadows of the ballium, they passed into the moonlit inner court. =
At
the far end the old woman found the ancient stables, and here, with decayin=
g planks,
she penned the horse for the night, pouring a measure of oats upon the floor
for him from a bag which had bung across his rump.
Then she led the way into the dense shadows of=
the
castle, lighting their advance with a flickering pine knot. The old plankin=
g of
the floors, long unused, groaned and rattled beneath their approach. There =
was
a sudden scamper of clawed feet before them, and a red fox dashed by in a
frenzy of alarm toward the freedom of the outer night.
Presently they came to the great hall. The old
woman pushed open the great doors upon their creaking hinges and lit up dim=
ly
the mighty, cavernous interior with the puny rays of their feeble torch. As
they stepped cautiously within, an impalpable dust arose in little spurts f=
rom
the long-rotted rushes that crumbled beneath their feet. A huge bat circled
wildly with loud fluttering wings in evident remonstrance at this rude
intrusion. Strange creatures of the night scurried or wriggled across wall =
and
floor.
But the child was unafraid. Fear had not been a
part of the old woman's curriculum. The boy did not know the meaning of the
word, nor was he ever in his after-life to experience the sensation. With
childish eagerness, he followed his companion as she inspected the interior=
of the
chamber. It was still an imposing room. The boy clapped his hands in deligh=
t at
the beauties of the carved and panelled walls and the oak beamed ceiling,
stained almost black from the smoke of torches and oil cressets that had
lighted it in bygone days, aided, no doubt, by the wood fires which had bur=
ned
in its two immense fireplaces to cheer the merry throng of noble revellers =
that
had so often sat about the great table into the morning hours.
Here they took up their abode. But the bent, o=
ld
woman was no longer an old woman--she had become a straight, wiry, active o=
ld
man.
The little boy's education went on--French,
swordsmanship and hatred of the English--the same thing year after year with
the addition of horsemanship after he was ten years old. At this time the o=
ld
man commenced teaching him to speak English, but with a studied and very ma=
rked
French accent. During all his life now, he could not remember of having spo=
ken
to any living being other than his guardian, whom he had been taught to add=
ress
as father. Nor did the boy have any name--he was just "my son."
His life in the Derby hills was so filled with=
the
hard, exacting duties of his education that he had little time to think of =
the
strange loneliness of his existence; nor is it probable that he missed that=
companionship
of others of his own age of which, never having had experience in it, he co=
uld
scarce be expected to regret or yearn for.
At fifteen, the youth was a magnificent swords=
man
and horseman, and with an utter contempt for pain or danger--a contempt whi=
ch
was the result of the heroic methods adopted by the little old man in the
training of him. Often the two practiced with razor-sharp swords, and witho=
ut
armor or other protection of any description.
"Thus only," the old man was wont to
say, "mayst thou become the absolute master of thy blade. Of such a ni=
cety
must be thy handling of the weapon that thou mayst touch an antagonist at w=
ill
and so lightly, shouldst thou desire, that thy point, wholly under the cont=
rol
of a master hand, mayst be stopped before it inflicts so much as a
scratch."
But in practice, there were many accidents, and
then one or both of them would nurse a punctured skin for a few days. So, w=
hile
blood was often let on both sides, the training produced a fearless swordsm=
an
who was so truly the master of his point that he could stop a thrust within=
a fraction
of an inch of the spot he sought.
At fifteen, he was a very strong and straight =
and
handsome lad. Bronzed and hardy from his outdoor life; of few words, for th=
ere
was none that he might talk with save the taciturn old man; hating the Engl=
ish,
for that he was taught as thoroughly as swordsmanship; speaking French flue=
ntly
and English poorly--and waiting impatiently for the day when the old man sh=
ould
send him out into the world with clanking armor and lance and shield to do
battle with the knights of England.
It was about this time that there occurred the
first important break in the monotony of his existence. Far down the rocky
trail that led from the valley below through the Derby hills to the ruined
castle, three armored knights urged their tired horses late one afternoon o=
f a
chill autumn day. Off the main road and far from any habitation, they had e=
spied
the castle's towers through a rift in the hills, and now they spurred towar=
d it
in search of food and shelter.
As the road led them winding higher into the
hills, they suddenly emerged upon the downs below the castle where a sight =
met
their eyes which caused them to draw rein and watch in admiration. There,
before them upon the downs, a boy battled with a lunging, rearing horse--a =
perfect
demon of a black horse. Striking and biting in a frenzy of rage, it sought =
ever
to escape or injure the lithe figure which clung leech-like to its shoulder=
.
The boy was on the ground. His left hand grasp=
ed
the heavy mane; his right arm lay across the beast's withers and his right =
hand
drew steadily in upon a halter rope with which he had taken a half hitch ab=
out
the horse's muzzle. Now the black reared and wheeled, striking and biting, =
full
upon the youth, but the active figure swung with him--always just behind the
giant shoulder--and ever and ever he drew the great arched neck farther and
farther to the right.
As the animal plunged hither and thither in gr=
eat
leaps, he dragged the boy with him, but all his mighty efforts were unavail=
ing
to loosen the grip upon mane and withers. Suddenly, he reared straight into=
the
air carrying the youth with him, then with a vicious lunge he threw himself=
backward
upon the ground.
"It's death!" exclaimed one of the
knights, "he will kill the youth yet, Beauchamp."
"No!" cried he addressed. "Look=
! He
is up again and the boy still clings as tightly to him as his own black
hide."
"'Tis true," exclaimed another,
"but he hath lost what he had gained upon the halter--he must needs fi=
ght
it all out again from the beginning."
And so the battle went on again as before, the=
boy
again drawing the iron neck slowly to the right--the beast fighting and
squealing as though possessed of a thousand devils. A dozen times, as the h=
ead
bent farther and farther toward him, the boy loosed his hold upon the mane =
and
reached quickly down to grasp the near fore pastern. A dozen times the horse
shook off the new hold, but at length the boy was successful, and the knee =
was
bent and the hoof drawn up to the elbow.
Now the black fought at a disadvantage, for he=
was
on but three feet and his neck was drawn about in an awkward and unnatural
position. His efforts became weaker and weaker. The boy talked incessantly =
to
him in a quiet voice, and there was a shadow of a smile upon his lips. Now =
he
bore heavily upon the black withers, pulling the horse toward him. Slowly t=
he
beast sank upon his bent knee--pulling backward until his off fore leg was
stretched straight before him. Then, with a final surge, the youth pulled h=
im
over upon his side, and, as he fell, slipped prone beside him. One sinewy h=
and
shot to the rope just beneath the black chin--the other grasped a slim, poi=
nted
ear.
For a few minutes the horse fought and kicked =
to
gain his liberty, but with his head held to the earth, he was as powerless =
in
the hands of the boy as a baby would have been. Then he sank panting and
exhausted into mute surrender.
"Well done!" cried one of the knight=
s.
"Simon de Montfort himself never mastered a horse in better order, my =
boy.
Who be thou?"
In an instant, the lad was upon his feet his e=
yes
searching for the speaker. The horse, released, sprang up also, and the two
stood--the handsome boy and the beautiful black--gazing with startled eyes,
like two wild things, at the strange intruder who confronted them.
"Come, Sir Mortimer!" cried the boy,=
and
turning he led the prancing but subdued animal toward the castle and through
the ruined barbican into the court beyond.
"What ho, there, lad!" shouted Paul =
of
Merely. "We wouldst not harm thee--come, we but ask the way to the cas=
tle
of De Stutevill."
The three knights listened but there was no
answer.
"Come, Sir Knights," spoke Paul of
Merely, "we will ride within and learn what manner of churls inhabit t=
his
ancient rookery."
As they entered the great courtyard, magnifice=
nt
even in its ruined grandeur, they were met by a little, grim old man who as=
ked
them in no gentle tones what they would of them there.
"We have lost our way in these devilish D=
erby
hills of thine, old man," replied Paul of Merely. "We seek the ca=
stle
of Sir John de Stutevill."
"Ride down straight to the river road,
keeping the first trail to the right, and when thou hast come there, turn a=
gain
to thy right and ride north beside the river--thou canst not miss the way--=
it
be plain as the nose before thy face," and with that the old man turne=
d to
enter the castle.
"Hold, old fellow!" cried the spokes=
man.
"It be nigh onto sunset now, and we care not to sleep out again this n=
ight
as we did the last. We will tarry with you then till morn that we may take =
up
our journey refreshed, upon rested steeds."
The old man grumbled, and it was with poor gra=
ce
that he took them in to feed and house them over night. But there was nothi=
ng
else for it, since they would have taken his hospitality by force had he
refused to give it voluntarily.
From their guests, the two learned something of
the conditions outside their Derby hills. The old man showed less interest =
than
he felt, but to the boy, notwithstanding that the names he heard meant noth=
ing
to him, it was like unto a fairy tale to hear of the wondrous doings of earl
and baron, bishop and king.
"If the King does not mend his ways,"
said one of the knights, "we will drive his whole accursed pack of for=
eign
blood-suckers into the sea."
"De Montfort has told him as much a dozen
times, and now that all of us, both Norman and Saxon barons, have already m=
et
together and formed a pact for our mutual protection, the King must surely
realize that the time for temporizing be past, and that unless he would hav=
e a
civil war upon his hands, he must keep the promises he so glibly makes, ins=
tead
of breaking them the moment De Montfort's back be turned."
"He fears his brother-in-law,"
interrupted another of the knights, "even more than the devil fears ho=
ly
water. I was in attendance on his majesty some weeks since when he was going
down the Thames upon the royal barge. We were overtaken by as severe a thun=
der
storm as I have ever seen, of which the King was in such abject fear that he
commanded that we land at the Bishop of Durham's palace opposite which we t=
hen
were. De Montfort, who was residing there, came to meet Henry, with all due
respect, observing, 'What do you fear, now, Sire, the tempest has passed?' =
And what
thinkest thou old 'waxen heart' replied? Why, still trembling, he said, 'I =
do
indeed fear thunder and lightning much, but, by the hand of God, I tremble
before you more than for all the thunder in Heaven!'"
"I surmise," interjected the grim, o=
ld
man, "that De Montfort has in some manner gained an ascendancy over the
King. Think you he looks so high as the throne itself?"
"Not so," cried the oldest of the
knights. "Simon de Montfort works for England's weal alone--and methin=
ks,
nay knowest, that he would be first to spring to arms to save the throne for
Henry. He but fights the King's rank and covetous advisers, and though he m=
ust
needs seem to defy the King himself, it be but to save his tottering power =
from
utter collapse. But, gad, how the King hates him. For a time it seemed that
there might be a permanent reconciliation when, for years after the
disappearance of the little Prince Richard, De Montfort devoted much of his
time and private fortune to prosecuting a search through all the world for =
the little
fellow, of whom he was inordinately fond. This self-sacrificing interest on=
his
part won over the King and Queen for many years, but of late his unremitting
hostility to their continued extravagant waste of the national resources has
again hardened them toward him."
The old man, growing uneasy at the turn the
conversation threatened, sent the youth from the room on some pretext, and
himself left to prepare supper.
As they were sitting at the evening meal, one =
of
the nobles eyed the boy intently, for he was indeed good to look upon; his
bright handsome face, clear, intelligent gray eyes, and square strong jaw
framed in a mass of brown waving hair banged at the forehead and falling ab=
out
his ears, where it was again cut square at the sides and back, after the
fashion of the times.
His upper body was clothed in a rough under tu=
nic
of wool, stained red, over which he wore a short leathern jerkin, while his=
doublet
was also of leather, a soft and finely tanned piece of undressed doeskin. H=
is long
hose, fitting his shapely legs as closely as another layer of skin, were of=
the
same red wool as his tunic, while his strong leather sandals were
cross-gartered halfway to his knees with narrow bands of leather.
A leathern girdle about his waist supported a
sword and a dagger and a round skull cap of the same material, to which was
fastened a falcon's wing, completed his picturesque and becoming costume.
"Your son?" he asked, turning to the=
old
man.
"Yes," was the growling response.
"He favors you but little, old fellow, ex=
cept
in his cursed French accent.
"'S blood, Beauchamp," he continued,
turning to one of his companions, "an' were he set down in court, I wa=
ger
our gracious Queen would he hard put to it to tell him from the young Prince
Edward. Dids't ever see so strange a likeness?"
"Now that you speak of it, My Lord, I see=
it
plainly. It is indeed a marvel," answered Beauchamp.
Had they glanced at the old man during this
colloquy, they would have seen a blanched face, drawn with inward fear and
rage.
Presently the oldest member of the party of th=
ree
knights spoke in a grave quiet tone.
"And how old might you be, my son?" =
he
asked the boy.
"I do not know."
"And your name?"
"I do not know what you mean. I have no n=
ame.
My father calls me son and no other ever before addressed me."
At this juncture, the old man arose and left t=
he
room, saving he would fetch more food from the kitchen, but he turned
immediately he had passed the doorway and listened from without.
"The lad appears about fifteen," said
Paul of Merely, lowering his voice, "and so would be the little lost
Prince Richard, if he lives. This one does not know his name, or his age, y=
et
he looks enough like Prince Edward to be his twin."
"Come, my son," he continued aloud,
"open your jerkin and let us have a look at your left breast, we shall
read a true answer there."
"Are you Englishmen?" asked the boy
without making a move to comply with their demand.
"That we be, my son," said Beauchamp=
.
"Then it were better that I die than do y=
our
bidding, for all Englishmen are pigs and I loathe them as becomes a gentlem=
an
of France. I do not uncover my body to the eyes of swine."
The knights, at first taken back by this unexp=
ected
outbreak, finally burst into uproarious laughter.
"Indeed," cried Paul of Merely,
"spoken as one of the King's foreign favorites might speak, and they e=
ver
told the good God's truth. But come lad, we would not harm you--do as I
bid."
"No man lives who can harm me while a bla=
de
hangs at my side," answered the boy, "and as for doing as you bid=
, I
take orders from no man other than my father."
Beauchamp and Greystoke laughed aloud at the
discomfiture of Paul of Merely, but the latter's face hardened in anger, and
without further words he strode forward with outstretched hand to tear open=
the
boy's leathern jerkin, but met with the gleaming point of a sword and a qui=
ck sharp,
"En garde!" from the boy.
There was naught for Paul of Merely to do but =
draw
his own weapon, in self-defense, for the sharp point of the boy's sword was
flashing in and out against his unprotected body, inflicting painful little
jabs, and the boy's tongue was murmuring low-toned taunts and insults as it=
invited
him to draw and defend himself or be stuck "like the English pig you
are."
Paul of Merely was a brave man and he liked not
the idea of drawing against this stripling, but he argued that he could qui=
ckly
disarm him without harming the lad, and he certainly did not care to be fur=
ther
humiliated before his comrades.
But when he had drawn and engaged his youthful
antagonist, he discovered that, far from disarming him, he would have the
devil's own job of it to keep from being killed.
Never in all his long years of fighting had he=
faced
such an agile and dexterous enemy, and as they backed this way and that abo=
ut
the room, great beads of sweat stood upon the brow of Paul of Merely, for h=
e realized
that he was fighting for his life against a superior swordsman.
The loud laughter of Beauchamp and Greystoke s=
oon
subsided to grim smiles, and presently they looked on with startled faces in
which fear and apprehension were dominant.
The boy was fighting as a cat might play with a
mouse. No sign of exertion was apparent, and his haughty confident smile to=
ld
louder than words that he had in no sense let himself out to his full capac=
ity.
Around and around the room they circled, the b=
oy
always advancing, Paul of Merely always retreating. The din of their clashi=
ng
swords and the heavy breathing of the older man were the only sounds, excep=
t as
they brushed against a bench or a table.
Paul of Merely was a brave man, but he shudder=
ed
at the thought of dying uselessly at the hands of a mere boy. He would not =
call
upon his friends for aid, but presently, to his relief, Beauchamp sprang
between them with drawn sword, crying "Enough, gentlemen, enough! You =
have
no quarrel. Sheathe your swords."
But the boy's only response was, "En gard=
e,
cochon," and Beauchamp found himself taking the center of the stage in=
the
place of his friend. Nor did the boy neglect Paul of Merely, but engaged th=
em
both in swordplay that caused the eyes of Greystoke to bulge from their
sockets.
So swiftly moved his flying blade that half the
time it was a sheet of gleaming light, and now he was driving home his thru=
sts
and the smile had frozen upon his lips--grim and stern.
Paul of Merely and Beauchamp were wounded in a
dozen places when Greystoke rushed to their aid, and then it was that a lit=
tle,
wiry, gray man leaped agilely from the kitchen doorway, and with drawn sword
took his place beside the boy. It was now two against three and the three m=
ay have
guessed, though they never knew, that they were pitted against the two grea=
test
swordsmen in the world.
"To the death," cried the little gray
man, "a mort, mon fils." Scarcely had the words left his lips ere=
, as
though it had but waited permission, the boy's sword flashed into the heart=
of
Paul of Merely, and a Saxon gentleman was gathered to his fathers.
The old man engaged Greystoke now, and the boy
turned his undivided attention to Beauchamp. Both these men were considered
excellent swordsmen, but when Beauchamp heard again the little gray man's
"a mort, mon fils," he shuddered, and the little hairs at the nap=
e of
his neck rose up, and his spine froze, for he knew that he had heard the
sentence of death passed upon him; for no mortal had yet lived who could
vanquish such a swordsman as he who now faced him.
As Beauchamp pitched forward across a bench, d=
ead,
the little old man led Greystoke to where the boy awaited him.
"They are thy enemies, my son, and to thee
belongs the pleasure of revenge; a mort, mon fils."
Greystoke was determined to sell his life dear=
ly,
and he rushed the lad as a great bull might rush a teasing dog, but the boy=
gave
back not an inch and, when Greystoke stopped, there was a foot of cold stee=
l protruding
from his back.
Together they buried the knights at the bottom=
of
the dry moat at the back of the ruined castle. First they had stripped them
and, when they took account of the spoils of the combat, they found themsel=
ves
richer by three horses with full trappings, many pieces of gold and silver =
money,
ornaments and jewels, as well as the lances, swords and chain mail armor of
their erstwhile guests.
But the greatest gain, the old man thought to
himself, was that the knowledge of the remarkable resemblance between his w=
ard
and Prince Edward of England had come to him in time to prevent the undoing=
of
his life's work.
The boy, while young, was tall and broad
shouldered, and so the old man had little difficulty in fitting one of the
suits of armor to him, obliterating the devices so that none might guess to
whom it had belonged. This he did, and from then on the boy never rode abro=
ad
except in armor, and when he met others upon the high road, his visor was a=
lways
lowered that none might see his face.
The day following the episode of the three kni=
ghts
the old man called the boy to him, saying,
"It is time, my son, that thou learned an
answer to such questions as were put to thee yestereve by the pigs of Henry.
Thou art fifteen years of age, and thy name be Norman, and so, as this be t=
he
ancient castle of Torn, thou mayst answer those whom thou desire to know it
that thou art Norman of Torn; that thou be a French gentleman whose father
purchased Torn and brought thee hither from France on the death of thy moth=
er, when
thou wert six years old.
"But remember, Norman of Torn, that the b=
est
answer for an Englishman is the sword; naught else may penetrate his thick
wit."
And so was born that Norman of Torn, whose nam=
e in
a few short years was to strike terror to the hearts of Englishmen, and who=
se
power in the vicinity of Torn was greater than that of the King or the baro=
ns.
From now on, the old man devoted himself to the
training of the boy in the handling of his lance and battle-axe, but each d=
ay
also, a period was allotted to the sword, until, by the time the youth had
turned sixteen, even the old man himself was as but a novice by comparison =
with
the marvelous skill of his pupil.
During these days, the boy rode Sir Mortimer
abroad in many directions until he knew every bypath within a radius of fif=
ty
miles of Torn. Sometimes the old man accompanied him, but more often he rode
alone.
On one occasion, he chanced upon a hut at the
outskirts of a small hamlet not far from Torn and, with the curiosity of
boyhood, determined to enter and have speech with the inmates, for by this =
time
the natural desire for companionship was commencing to assert itself. In all
his life, he remembered only the company of the old man, who never spoke ex=
cept
when necessity required.
The hut was occupied by an old priest, and as =
the
boy in armor pushed in, without the usual formality of knocking, the old man
looked up with an expression of annoyance and disapproval.
"What now," he said, "have the
King's men respect neither for piety nor age that they burst in upon the
seclusion of a holy man without so much as a 'by your leave'?"
"I am no king's man," replied the boy
quietly, "I am Norman of Torn, who has neither a king nor a god, and w=
ho
says 'by your leave' to no man. But I have come in peace because I wish to =
talk
to another than my father. Therefore you may talk to me, priest," he
concluded with haughty peremptoriness.
"By the nose of John, but it must be a ki=
ng
has deigned to honor me with his commands," laughed the priest.
"Raise your visor, My Lord, I would fain look upon the countenance from
which issue the commands of royalty."
The priest was a large man with beaming, kindly
eyes, and a round jovial face. There was no bite in the tones of his
good-natured retort, and so, smiling, the boy raised his visor.
"By the ear of Gabriel," cried the g=
ood
father, "a child in armor!"
"A child in years, mayhap," replied =
the
boy, "but a good child to own as a friend, if one has enemies who wear
swords."
"Then we shall be friends, Norman of Torn,
for albeit I have few enemies, no man has too many friends, and I like your
face and your manner, though there be much to wish for in your manners. Sit
down and eat with me, and I will talk to your heart's content, for be there=
one
other thing I more love than eating, it is talking."
With the priest's aid, the boy laid aside his
armor, for it was heavy and uncomfortable, and together the two sat down to=
the
meal that was already partially on the board.
Thus began a friendship which lasted during the
lifetime of the good priest. Whenever he could do so, Norman of Torn visited
his friend, Father Claude. It was he who taught the boy to read and write in
French, English and Latin at a time when but few of the nobles could sign t=
heir
own names.
French was spoken almost exclusively at court =
and
among the higher classes of society, and all public documents were inscribed
either in French or Latin, although about this time the first proclamation
written in the English tongue was issued by an English king to his subjects=
.
Father Claude taught the boy to respect the ri=
ghts
of others, to espouse the cause of the poor and weak, to revere God and to
believe that the principal reason for man's existence was to protect woman.=
All
of virtue and chivalry and true manhood which his old guardian had neglecte=
d to
inculcate in the boy's mind, the good priest planted there, but he could not
eradicate his deep-seated hatred for the English or his belief that the real
test of manhood lay in a desire to fight to the death with a sword.
An occurrence which befell during one of the b=
oy's
earlier visits to his new friend rather decided the latter that no argument=
s he
could bring to bear could ever overcome the bald fact that to this very bel=
ief
of the boy's, and his ability to back it up with acts, the good father owed=
a great
deal, possibly his life.
As they were seated in the priest's hut one
afternoon, a rough knock fell upon the door which was immediately pushed op=
en
to admit as disreputable a band of ruffians as ever polluted the sight of m=
an.
Six of them there were, clothed in dirty leather, and wearing swords and da=
ggers
at their sides.
The leader was a mighty fellow with a great sh=
ock
of coarse black hair and a red, bloated face almost concealed by a huge mat=
ted
black beard. Behind him pushed another giant with red hair and a bristling
mustache; while the third was marked by a terrible scar across his left che=
ek
and forehead and from a blow which had evidently put out his left eye, for =
that
socket was empty, and the sunken eyelid but partly covered the inflamed red=
of
the hollow where his eye had been.
"A ha, my hearties," roared the lead=
er,
turning to his motley crew, "fine pickings here indeed. A swine of God
fattened upon the sweat of such poor, honest devils as we, and a young shoat
who, by his looks, must have pieces of gold in his belt.
"Say your prayers, my pigeons," he
continued, with a vile oath, "for The Black Wolf leaves no evidence be=
hind
him to tie his neck with a halter later, and dead men talk the least."=
"If it be The Black Wolf," whispered
Father Claude to the boy, "no worse fate could befall us for he preys =
ever
upon the clergy, and when drunk, as he now is, he murders his victims. I wi=
ll
throw myself before them while you hasten through the rear doorway to your
horse, and make good your escape." He spoke in French, and held his ha=
nds
in the attitude of prayer, so that he quite entirely misled the ruffians, w=
ho
had no idea that he was communicating with the boy.
Norman of Torn could scarce repress a smile at
this clever ruse of the old priest, and, assuming a similar attitude, he
replied in French:
"The good Father Claude does not know Nor=
man
of Torn if he thinks he runs out the back door like an old woman because a
sword looks in at the front door."
Then rising he addressed the ruffians.
"I do not know what manner of grievance y=
ou
hold against my good friend here, nor neither do I care. It is sufficient t=
hat
he is the friend of Norman of Torn, and that Norman of Torn be here in pers=
on
to acknowledge the debt of friendship. Have at you, sir knights of the great
filth and the mighty stink!" and with drawn sword he vaulted over the
table and fell upon the surprised leader.
In the little room, but two could engage him at
once, but so fiercely did his blade swing and so surely did he thrust that,=
in
a bare moment, The Black Wolf lay dead upon the floor and the red giant,
Shandy, was badly, though not fatally wounded. The four remaining ruffians
backed quickly from the hut, and a more cautious fighter would have let the=
m go
their way in peace, for in the open, four against one are odds no man may p=
it
himself against with impunity. But Norman of Torn saw red when he fought and
the red lured him ever on into the thickest of the fray. Only once before h=
ad
he fought to the death, but that once had taught him the love of it, and ev=
er
after until his death, it marked his manner of fighting; so that men who
loathed and hated and feared him were as one with those who loved him in
acknowledging that never before had God joined in the human frame absolute
supremacy with the sword and such utter fearlessness.
So it was, now, that instead of being satisfied
with his victory, he rushed out after the four knaves. Once in the open, th=
ey
turned upon him, but he sprang into their midst with his seething blade, an=
d it
was as though they faced four men rather than one, so quickly did he parry a
thrust here and return a cut there. In a moment one was disarmed, another d=
own,
and the remaining two fleeing for their lives toward the high road with Nor=
man
of Torn close at their heels.
Young, agile and perfect in health, he outclas=
sed
them in running as well as in swordsmanship, and ere they had made fifty pa=
ces,
both had thrown away their swords and were on their knees pleading for thei=
r lives.
"Come back to the good priest's hut, and =
we
shall see what he may say," replied Norman of Torn.
On the way back, they found the man who had be=
en
disarmed bending over his wounded comrade. They were brothers, named Flory,=
and
one would not desert the other. It was evident that the wounded man was in =
no
danger, so Norman of Torn ordered the others to assist him into the hut, wh=
ere they
found Red Shandy sitting propped against the wall while the good father pou=
red
the contents of a flagon down his eager throat.
The villain's eyes fairly popped from his head
when he saw his four comrades coming, unarmed and prisoners, back to the li=
ttle
room.
"The Black Wolf dead, Red Shandy and John=
Flory
wounded, James Flory, One Eye Kanty and Peter the Hermit prisoners!" he
ejaculated.
"Man or devil! By the Pope's hind leg, who
and what be ye?" he said, turning to Norman of Torn.
"I be your master and ye be my men," said Norman of Torn. "Me ye shall serve in fairer work than ye have selected for yourselves, but with fighting a-plenty and good reward."<= o:p>
The sight of this gang of ruffians banded toge=
ther
to prey upon the clergy had given rise to an idea in the boy's mind, which =
had
been revolving in a nebulous way within the innermost recesses of his subco=
nsciousness
since his vanquishing of the three knights had brought him, so easily, such
riches in the form of horses, arms, armor and gold. As was always his wont =
in
his after life, to think was to act.
"With The Black Wolf dead, and may the de=
vil
pull out his eyes with red hot tongs, we might look farther and fare worse,
mates, in search of a chief," spoke Red Shandy, eyeing his fellows,
"for verily any man, be he but a stripling, who can vanquish six such =
as
we, be fit to command us."
"But what be the duties?" said he wh=
om
they called Peter the Hermit.
"To follow Norman of Torn where he may le=
ad,
to protect the poor and the weak, to lay down your lives in defence of woma=
n,
and to prey upon rich Englishmen and harass the King of England."
The last two clauses of these articles of faith
appealed to the ruffians so strongly that they would have subscribed to
anything, even daily mass, and a bath, had that been necessary to admit the=
m to
the service of Norman of Torn.
"Aye, aye!" they cried. "We be =
your
men, indeed."
"Wait," said Norman of Torn, "t=
here
is more. You are to obey my every command on pain of instant death, and
one-half of all your gains are to be mine. On my side, I will clothe and fe=
ed
you, furnish you with mounts and armor and weapons and a roof to sleep unde=
r,
and fight for and with you with a sword arm which you know to be no mean
protector. Are you satisfied?"
"That we are," and "Long live
Norman of Torn," and "Here's to the chief of the Torns"
signified the ready assent of the burly cut-throats.
"Then swear it as ye kiss the hilt of my
sword and this token," pursued Norman of Torn catching up a crucifix f=
rom
the priest's table.
With these formalities was born the Clan Torn,
which grew in a few years to number a thousand men, and which defied a king=
's
army and helped to make Simon de Montfort virtual ruler of England.
Almost immediately commenced that series of ou=
tlaw
acts upon neighboring barons, and chance members of the gentry who happened=
to
be caught in the open by the outlaws, that filled the coffers of Norman of =
Torn
with many pieces of gold and silver, and placed a price upon his head ere h=
e had
scarce turned eighteen.
That he had no fear of or desire to avoid
responsibility for his acts, he grimly evidenced by marking with a dagger's
point upon the foreheads of those who fell before his own sword the initials
NT.
As his following and wealth increased, he rebu=
ilt
and enlarged the grim Castle of Torn, and again dammed the little stream wh=
ich
had furnished the moat with water in bygone days.
Through all the length and breadth of the coun=
try
that witnessed his activities, his very name was worshipped by poor and low=
ly
and oppressed. The money he took from the King's tax gatherers, he returned=
to
the miserable peasants of the district, and once when Henry III sent a litt=
le
expedition against him, he surrounded and captured the entire force, and,
stripping them, gave their clothing to the poor, and escorted them, naked, =
back
to the very gates of London.
By the time he was twenty, Norman the Devil, as
the King himself had dubbed him, was known by reputation throughout all
England, though no man had seen his face and lived other than his friends a=
nd
followers. He had become a power to reckon with in the fast culminating qua=
rrel
between King Henry and his foreign favorites on one side, and the Saxon and
Norman barons on the other.
Neither side knew which way his power might be
turned, for Norman of Torn had preyed almost equally upon royalist and insu=
rgent.
Personally, he had decided to join neither party, but to take advantage of =
the turmoil
of the times to prey without partiality upon both.
As Norman of Torn approached his grim castle h=
ome
with his five filthy, ragged cut-throats on the day of his first meeting wi=
th
them, the old man of Torn stood watching the little party from one of the s=
mall
towers of the barbican.
Halting beneath this outer gate, the youth win=
ded
the horn which hung at his side in mimicry of the custom of the times.
"What ho, without there!" challenged=
the
old man entering grimly into the spirit of the play.
"'Tis Sir Norman of Torn," spoke up =
Red
Shandy, "with his great host of noble knights and men-at-arms and squi=
res
and lackeys and sumpter beasts. Open in the name of the good right arm of S=
ir
Norman of Torn."
"What means this, my son?" said the =
old
man as Norman of Torn dismounted within the ballium.
The youth narrated the events of the morning,
concluding with, "These, then, be my men, father; and together we shall
fare forth upon the highways and into the byways of England, to collect from
the rich English pigs that living which you have ever taught me was owing
us."
"'Tis well, my son, and even as I myself
would have it; together we shall ride out, and where we ride, a trail of bl=
ood
shall mark our way.
"From now, henceforth, the name and fame =
of
Norman of Torn shall grow in the land, until even the King shall tremble wh=
en
he hears it, and shall hate and loathe ye as I have even taught ye to hate =
and
loathe him.
"All England shall curse ye and the blood=
of
Saxon and Norman shall never dry upon your blade."
As the old man walked away toward the great ga=
te
of the castle after this outbreak, Shandy, turning to Norman of Torn, with a
wide grin, said:
"By the Pope's hind leg, but thy amiable
father loveth the English. There should be great riding after such as he.&q=
uot;
"Ye ride after ME, varlet," cried No=
rman
of Torn, "an' lest ye should forget again so soon who be thy master, t=
ake
that, as a reminder," and he struck the red giant full upon the mouth =
with
his clenched fist--so that the fellow tumbled heavily to the earth.
He was on his feet in an instant, spitting blo=
od,
and in a towering rage. As he rushed, bull-like, toward Norman of Torn, the
latter made no move to draw; he but stood with folded arms, eyeing Shandy w=
ith
cold, level gaze; his head held high, haughty face marked by an arrogant sn=
eer of
contempt.
The great ruffian paused, then stopped, slowly=
a
sheepish smile overspread his countenance and, going upon one knee, he took=
the
hand of Norman of Torn and kissed it, as some great and loyal noble knight
might have kissed his king's hand in proof of his love and fealty. There wa=
s a
certain rude, though chivalrous grandeur in the act; and it marked not only=
the
beginning of a lifelong devotion and loyalty on the part of Shandy toward h=
is
young master, but was prophetic of the attitude which Norman of Torn was to
inspire in all the men who served him during the long years that saw thousa=
nds
pass the barbicans of Torn to crave a position beneath his grim banner.
As Shandy rose, one by one, John Flory, James,=
his
brother, One Eye Kanty, and Peter the Hermit knelt before their young lord =
and
kissed his hand. From the Great Court beyond, a little, grim, gray, old man=
had
watched this scene, a slight smile upon his old, malicious face.
"'Tis to transcend even my dearest
dreams," he muttered. "'S death, but he be more a king than Henry
himself. God speed the day of his coronation, when, before the very eyes of=
the
Plantagenet hound, a black cap shall be placed upon his head for a crown;
beneath his feet the platform of a wooden gibbet for a throne."
It was a beautiful spring day in May, 1262, th=
at
Norman of Torn rode alone down the narrow trail that led to the pretty cott=
age
with which he had replaced the hut of his old friend, Father Claude.
As was his custom, he rode with lowered visor,=
and
nowhere upon his person or upon the trappings of his horse were sign or
insignia of rank or house. More powerful and richer than many nobles of the
court, he was without rank or other title than that of outlaw and he seemed=
to
assume what in reality he held in little esteem.
He wore armor because his old guardian had urg=
ed
him to do so, and not because he craved the protection it afforded. And, for
the same cause, he rode always with lowered visor, though he could never
prevail upon the old man to explain the reason which necessitated this
precaution.
"It is enough that I tell you, my son,&qu=
ot;
the old fellow was wont to say, "that for your own good as well as min=
e,
you must not show your face to your enemies until I so direct. The time will
come and soon now, I hope, when you shall uncover your countenance to all
England."
The young man gave the matter but little thoug=
ht,
usually passing it off as the foolish whim of an old dotard; but he humored=
it
nevertheless.
Behind him, as he rode down the steep declivity
that day, loomed a very different Torn from that which he had approached
sixteen years before, when, as a little boy he had ridden through the darke=
ning
shadows of the night, perched upon a great horse behind the little old woma=
n,
whose metamorphosis to the little grim, gray, old man of Torn their advent =
to the
castle had marked.
Today the great, frowning pile loomed larger a=
nd
more imposing than ever in the most resplendent days of its past grandeur. =
The
original keep was there with its huge, buttressed Saxon towers whose mighty
fifteen foot walls were pierced with stairways and vaulted chambers, lighte=
d by
embrasures which, mere slits in the outer periphery of the walls, spread to
larger dimensions within, some even attaining the area of small triangular
chambers.
The moat, widened and deepened, completely
encircled three sides of the castle, running between the inner and outer wa=
lls,
which were set at intervals with small projecting towers so pierced that a
flanking fire from long bows, cross bows and javelins might be directed aga=
inst
a scaling party.
The fourth side of the walled enclosure overhu=
ng a
high precipice, which natural protection rendered towers unnecessary upon t=
his
side.
The main gateway of the castle looked toward t=
he
west and from it ran the tortuous and rocky trail, down through the mountai=
ns
toward the valley below. The aspect from the great gate was one of quiet and
rugged beauty. A short stretch of barren downs in the foreground only spars=
ely studded
with an occasional gnarled oak gave an unobstructed view of broad and lovely
meadowland through which wound a sparkling tributary of the Trent.
Two more gateways let into the great fortress,=
one
piercing the north wall and one the east. All three gates were strongly
fortified with towered and buttressed barbicans which must be taken before =
the
main gates could be reached. Each barbican was portcullised, while the inne=
r gates
were similarly safeguarded in addition to the drawbridges which, spanning t=
he
moat when lowered, could be drawn up at the approach of an enemy, effectual=
ly
stopping his advance.
The new towers and buildings added to the anci=
ent
keep under the direction of Norman of Torn and the grim, old man whom he ca=
lled
father, were of the Norman type of architecture, the windows were larger, t=
he carving
more elaborate, the rooms lighter and more spacious.
Within the great enclosure thrived a fair sized
town, for, with his ten hundred fighting-men, the Outlaw of Torn required m=
any
squires, lackeys, cooks, scullions, armorers, smithies, farriers, hostlers =
and
the like to care for the wants of his little army.
Fifteen hundred war horses, beside five hundred
sumpter beasts, were quartered in the great stables, while the east court w=
as
alive with cows, oxen, goats, sheep, pigs, rabbits and chickens.
Great wooden carts drawn by slow, plodding oxen
were daily visitors to the grim pile, fetching provender for man and beast =
from
the neighboring farm lands of the poor Saxon peasants, to whom Norman of To=
rn
paid good gold for their crops.
These poor serfs, who were worse than slaves to
the proud barons who owned the land they tilled, were forbidden by royal ed=
ict
to sell or give a pennysworth of provisions to the Outlaw of Torn, upon pai=
n of
death, but nevertheless his great carts made their trips regularly and alwa=
ys
returned full laden, and though the husbandmen told sad tales to their
overlords of the awful raids of the Devil of Torn in which he seized upon t=
heir
stuff by force, their tongues were in their cheeks as they spoke and the
Devil's gold in their pockets.
And so, while the barons learned to hate him t=
he
more, the peasants' love for him increased. Them he never injured; their fe=
nces,
their stock, their crops, their wives and daughters were safe from molestat=
ion even
though the neighboring castle of their lord might be sacked from the wine
cellar to the ramparts of the loftiest tower. Nor did anyone dare ride rough
shod over the territory which Norman of Torn patrolled. A dozen bands of
cut-throats he had driven from the Derby hills, and though the barons would
much rather have had all the rest than he, the peasants worshipped him as a
deliverer from the lowborn murderers who had been wont to despoil the weak =
and
lowly and on whose account the women of the huts and cottages had never been
safe.
Few of them had seen his face and fewer still =
had
spoken with him, but they loved his name and his prowess and in secret they
prayed for him to their ancient god, Wodin, and the lesser gods of the fore=
st
and the meadow and the chase, for though they were confessed Christians, st=
ill in
the hearts of many beat a faint echo of the old superstitions of their
ancestors; and while they prayed also to the Lord Jesus and to Mary, yet th=
ey
felt it could do no harm to be on the safe side with the others, in case th=
ey
did happen to exist.
A poor, degraded, downtrodden, ignorant,
superstitious people, they were; accustomed for generations to the heel of =
first
one invader and then another and in the interims, when there were any, the
heels of their feudal lords and their rapacious monarchs.
No wonder then that such as these worshipped t=
he
Outlaw of Torn, for since their fierce Saxon ancestors had come, themselves=
as
conquerors, to England, no other hand had ever been raised to shield them f=
rom oppression.
On this policy of his toward the serfs and
freedmen, Norman of Torn and the grim, old man whom he called father had ne=
ver
agreed. The latter was for carrying his war of hate against all Englishmen,=
but
the young man would neither listen to it, nor allow any who rode out from T=
orn
to molest the lowly. A ragged tunic was a surer defence against this wild h=
orde
than a stout lance or an emblazoned shield.
So, as Norman of Torn rode down from his mighty
castle to visit Father Claude, the sunlight playing on his clanking armor a=
nd
glancing from the copper boss of his shield, the sight of a little group of
woodmen kneeling uncovered by the roadside as he passed was not so remarkab=
le after
all.
Entering the priest's study, Norman of Torn
removed his armor and lay back moodily upon a bench with his back against a
wall and his strong, lithe legs stretched out before him.
"What ails you, my son?" asked the
priest, "that you look so disconsolate on this beautiful day?"
"I do not know, Father," replied Nor=
man
of Torn, "unless it be that I am asking myself the question, 'What it =
is
all for?' Why did my father train me ever to prey upon my fellows? I like to
fight, but there is plenty of fighting which is legitimate, and what good m=
ay
all my stolen wealth avail me if I may not enter the haunts of men to spend=
it?
Should I stick my head into London town, it would doubtless stay there, hel=
d by
a hempen necklace.
"What quarrel have I with the King or the
gentry? They have quarrel enough with me it is true, but, nathless, I do not
know why I should have hated them so before I was old enough to know how ro=
tten
they really are. So it seems to me that I am but the instrument of an old m=
an's
spite, not even knowing the grievance to the avenging of which my life has =
been
dedicated by another.
"And at times, Father Claude, as I grow
older, I doubt much that the nameless old man of Torn is my father, so litt=
le
do I favor him, and never in all my life have I heard a word of fatherly
endearment or felt a caress, even as a little child. What think you, Father
Claude?"
"I have thought much of it, my son,"
answered the priest. "It has ever been a sore puzzle to me, and I have=
my
suspicions, which I have held for years, but which even the thought of so
frightens me that I shudder to speculate upon the consequences of voicing t=
hem
aloud. Norman of Torn, if you are not the son of the old man you call fathe=
r,
may God forfend that England ever guesses your true parentage. More than th=
is,
I dare not say except that, as you value your peace of mind and your life, =
keep
your visor down and keep out of the clutches of your enemies."
"Then you know why I should keep my visor
down?"
"I can only guess, Norman of Torn, becaus=
e I
have seen another whom you resemble."
The conversation was interrupted by a commotion
from without; the sound of horses' hoofs, the cries of men and the clash of
arms. In an instant, both men were at the tiny unglazed window. Before them=
, on
the highroad, five knights in armor were now engaged in furious battle with=
a
party of ten or a dozen other steel-clad warriors, while crouching breathle=
ss
on her palfry, a young woman sat a little apart from the contestants.
Presently, one of the knights detached himself
from the melee and rode to her side with some word of command, at the same =
time
grasping roughly at her bridle rein. The girl raised her riding whip and st=
ruck
repeatedly but futilely against the iron headgear of her assailant while he
swung his horse up the road, and, dragging her palfrey after him, galloped
rapidly out of sight.
Norman of Torn sprang to the door, and, reckle=
ss
of his unarmored condition, leaped to Sir Mortimer's back and spurred swift=
ly
in the direction taken by the girl and her abductor.
The great black was fleet, and, unencumbered by
the usual heavy armor of his rider, soon brought the fugitives to view. Sca=
rce
a mile had been covered ere the knight, turning to look for pursuers, saw t=
he
face of Norman of Torn not ten paces behind him.
With a look of mingled surprise, chagrin and
incredulity the knight reined in his horse, exclaiming as he did so, "=
Mon
Dieu, Edward!"
"Draw and defend yourself," cried No=
rman
of Torn.
"But, Your Highness," stammered the
knight.
"Draw, or I stick you as I have stuck an
hundred other English pigs," cried Norman of Torn.
The charging steed was almost upon him and the
knight looked to see the rider draw rein, but, like a black bolt, the mighty
Sir Mortimer struck the other horse full upon the shoulder, and man and ste=
ed
rolled in the dust of the roadway.
The knight arose, unhurt, and Norman of Torn
dismounted to give fair battle upon even terms. Though handicapped by the
weight of his armor, the knight also had the advantage of its protection, so
that the two fought furiously for several minutes without either gaining an=
advantage.
The girl sat motionless and wide-eyed at the s=
ide
of the road watching every move of the two contestants. She made no effort =
to
escape, but seemed riveted to the spot by the very fierceness of the battle=
she
was beholding, as well, possibly, as by the fascination of the handsome gia=
nt
who had espoused her cause. As she looked upon her champion, she saw a lith=
e,
muscular, brown-haired youth whose clear eyes and perfect figure, unconceal=
ed
by either bassinet or hauberk, reflected the clean, athletic life of the
trained fighting man.
Upon his face hovered a faint, cold smile of haughty pride as the sword arm, displaying its mighty strength and skill in every move, played with the sweating, puffing, steel-clad enemy who hacked = and hewed so futilely before him. For all the din of clashing blades and rattli= ng armor, neither of the contestants had inflicted much damage, for the knight= could neither force nor insinuate his point beyond the perfect guard of his unarm= ored foe, who, for his part, found difficulty in penetrating the other's armor.<= o:p>
Finally, by dint of his mighty strength, Norma=
n of
Torn drove his blade through the meshes of his adversary's mail, and the
fellow, with a cry of anguish, sank limply to the ground.
"Quick, Sir Knight!" cried the girl.
"Mount and flee; yonder come his fellows."
And surely, as Norman of Torn turned in the
direction from which he had just come, there, racing toward him at full til=
t,
rode three steel-armored men on their mighty horses.
"Ride, madam," cried Norman of Torn,
"for fly I shall not, nor may I, alone, unarmored, and on foot hope mo=
re
than to momentarily delay these three fellows, but in that time you should
easily make your escape. Their heavy-burdened animals could never o'ertake =
your
fleet palfrey."
As he spoke, he took note for the first time of
the young woman. That she was a lady of quality was evidenced not alone by =
the
richness of her riding apparel and the trappings of her palfrey, but as wel=
l in
her noble and haughty demeanor and the proud expression of her beautiful fa=
ce.
Although at this time nearly twenty years had
passed over the head of Norman of Torn, he was without knowledge or experie=
nce
in the ways of women, nor had he ever spoken with a female of quality or
position. No woman graced the castle of Torn nor had the boy, within his
memory, ever known a mother.
His attitude therefore was much the same toward
women as it was toward men, except that he had sworn always to protect them.
Possibly, in a way, he looked up to womankind, if it could be said that Nor=
man
of Torn looked up to anything: God, man or devil--it being more his way to =
look
down upon all creatures whom he took the trouble to notice at all.
As his glance rested upon this woman, whom fate
had destined to alter the entire course of his life, Norman of Torn saw that
she was beautiful, and that she was of that class against whom he had preyed
for years with his band of outlaw cut-throats. Then he turned once more to =
face
her enemies with the strange inconsistency which had ever marked his method=
s.
Tomorrow he might be assaulting the ramparts of
her father's castle, but today he was joyously offering to sacrifice his li=
fe
for her--had she been the daughter of a charcoal burner he would have done =
no
less. It was enough that she was a woman and in need of protection.
The three knights were now fairly upon him, and
with fine disregard for fair play, charged with couched spears the unarmored
man on foot. But as the leading knight came close enough to behold his face=
, he
cried out in surprise and consternation:
"Mon Dieu, le Prince!" He wheeled his
charging horse to one side. His fellows, hearing his cry, followed his exam=
ple,
and the three of them dashed on down the high road in as evident anxiety to
escape as they had been keen to attack.
"One would think they had met the
devil," muttered Norman of Torn, looking after them in unfeigned
astonishment.
"What means it, lady?" he asked turn=
ing
to the damsel, who had made no move to escape.
"It means that your face is well known in
your father's realm, my Lord Prince," she replied. "And the King's
men have no desire to antagonize you, even though they may understand as li=
ttle
as I why you should espouse the cause of a daughter of Simon de Montfort.&q=
uot;
"Am I then taken for Prince Edward of
England?" he asked.
"An' who else should you be taken for, my
Lord?"
"I am not the Prince," said Norman of
Torn. "It is said that Edward is in France."
"Right you are, sir," exclaimed the
girl. "I had not thought on that; but you be enough of his likeness th=
at
you might well deceive the Queen herself. And you be of a bravery fit for a
king's son. Who are you then, Sir Knight, who has bared your steel and faced
death for Bertrade, daughter of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester?"=
"Be you De Montfort's daughter, niece of =
King
Henry?" queried Norman of Torn, his eyes narrowing to mere slits and f=
ace
hardening.
"That I be," replied the girl, "=
;an'
from your face I take it you have little love for a De Montfort," she
added, smiling.
"An' whither may you be bound, Lady Bertr=
ade
de Montfort? Be you niece or daughter of the devil, yet still you be a woma=
n,
and I do not war against women. Wheresoever you would go will I accompany y=
ou
to safety."
"I was but now bound, under escort of fiv=
e of
my father's knights, to visit Mary, daughter of John de Stutevill of
Derby."
"I know the castle well," answered
Norman of Torn, and the shadow of a grim smile played about his lips, for
scarce sixty days had elapsed since he had reduced the stronghold, and levi=
ed
tribute on the great baron. "Come, you have not far to travel now, and=
if
we make haste you shall sup with your friend before dark."
So saying, he mounted his horse and was turnin=
g to
retrace their steps down the road when he noticed the body of the dead knig=
ht
lying where it had fallen.
"Ride on," he called to Bertrade de
Montfort, "I will join you in an instant."
Again dismounting, he returned to the side of =
his
late adversary, and lifting the dead knight's visor, drew upon the forehead
with the point of his dagger the letters NT.
The girl turned to see what detained him, but =
his
back was toward her and he knelt beside his fallen foeman, and she did not =
see
his act. Brave daughter of a brave sire though she was, had she seen what h=
e did,
her heart would have quailed within her and she would have fled in terror f=
rom
the clutches of this scourge of England, whose mark she had seen on the dead
foreheads of a dozen of her father's knights and kinsmen.
Their way to Stutevill lay past the cottage of
Father Claude, and here Norman of Torn stopped to don his armor. Now he rode
once more with lowered visor, and in silence, a little to the rear of Bertr=
ade
de Montfort that he might watch her face, which, of a sudden, had excited h=
is
interest.
Never before, within the scope of his memory, =
had
he been so close to a young and beautiful woman for so long a period of tim=
e,
although he had often seen women in the castles that had fallen before his
vicious and terrible attacks. While stories were abroad of his vile treatme=
nt
of women captives, there was no truth in them. They were merely spread by h=
is
enemies to incite the people against him. Never had Norman of Torn laid vio=
lent
hand upon a woman, and his cut-throat band were under oath to respect and
protect the sex, on penalty of death.
As he watched the semi-profile of the lovely f=
ace
before him, something stirred in his heart which had been struggling for
expression for years. It was not love, nor was it allied to love, but a deep
longing for companionship of such as she, and such as she represented. Norm=
an
of Torn could not have translated this feeling into words for he did not kn=
ow,
but it was the far faint cry of blood for blood and with it, mayhap, was mi=
xed
not alone the longing of the lion among jackals for other lions, but for his
lioness.
They rode for many miles in silence when sudde=
nly
she turned, saying:
"You take your time, Sir Knight, in answe=
ring
my query. Who be ye?"
"I am Nor--" and then he stopped. Al=
ways
before he had answered that question with haughty pride. Why should he
hesitate, he thought. Was it because he feared the loathing that name would
inspire in the breast of this daughter of the aristocracy he despised? Did
Norman of Torn fear to face the look of seem and repugnance that was sure t=
o be
mirrored in that lovely face?
"I am from Normandy," he went on
quietly. "A gentleman of France."
"But your name?" she said peremptori=
ly.
"Are you ashamed of your name?"
"You may call me Roger," he answered.
"Roger de Conde."
"Raise your visor, Roger de Conde," =
she
commanded. "I do not take pleasure in riding with a suit of armor; I w=
ould
see that there is a man within."
Norman of Torn smiled as he did her bidding, a=
nd
when he smiled thus, as he rarely did, he was good to look upon.
"It is the first command I have obeyed si=
nce
I turned sixteen, Bertrade de Montfort," he said.
The girl was about nineteen, full of the vigor=
and
gaiety of youth and health; and so the two rode on their journey talking and
laughing as they might have been friends of long standing.
She told him of the reason for the attack upon=
her
earlier in the day, attributing it to an attempt on the part of a certain
baron, Peter of Colfax, to abduct her, his suit for her hand having been
peremptorily and roughly denied by her father.
Simon de Montfort was no man to mince words, a=
nd
it is doubtless that the old reprobate who sued for his daughter's hand hea=
rd
some unsavory truths from the man who had twice scandalized England's nobil=
ity
by his rude and discourteous, though true and candid, speeches to the King.=
"This Peter of Colfax shall be looked
to," growled Norman of Torn. "And, as you have refused his heart =
and
hand, his head shall be yours for the asking. You have but to command, Bert=
rade
de Montfort."
"Very well," she laughed, thinking it
but the idle boasting so much indulged in in those days. "You may brin=
g me
his head upon a golden dish, Roger de Conde."
"And what reward does the knight earn who
brings to the feet of his princess the head of her enemy?" he asked
lightly.
"What boon would the knight ask?"
"That whatsoever a bad report you hear of
your knight, of whatsoever calumnies may be heaped upon him, you shall yet =
ever
be his friend, and believe in his honor and his loyalty."
The girl laughed gaily as she answered, though
something seemed to tell her that this was more than play.
"It shall be as you say, Sir Knight,"
she replied. "And the boon once granted shall be always kept."
Quick to reach decisions and as quick to act,
Norman of Torn decided that he liked this girl and that he wished her
friendship more than any other thing he knew of. And wishing it, he determi=
ned
to win it by any means that accorded with his standard of honor; an honor w=
hich
in many respects was higher than that of the nobles of his time.
They reached the castle of De Stutevill late in
the afternoon, and there, Norman of Torn was graciously welcomed and urged =
to
accept the Baron's hospitality overnight.
The grim humor of the situation was too much f=
or
the outlaw, and, when added to his new desire to be in the company of Bertr=
ade
de Montfort, he made no effort to resist, but hastened to accept the warm
welcome.
At the long table upon which the evening meal =
was
spread sat the entire household of the Baron, and here and there among the =
men
were evidences of painful wounds but barely healed, while the host himself
still wore his sword arm in a sling.
"We have been through grievous times,&quo=
t;
said Sir John, noticing that his guest was glancing at the various evidence=
s of
conflict. "That fiend, Norman the Devil, with his filthy pack of
cut-throats, besieged us for ten days, and then took the castle by storm and
sacked it. Life is no longer safe in England with the King spending his time
and money with foreign favorites and buying alien soldiery to fight against=
his
own barons, instead of insuring the peace and protection which is the right=
of
every Englishman at home.
"But," he continued, "this outl=
aw
devil will come to the end of a short halter when once our civil strife is
settled, for the barons themselves have decided upon an expedition against =
him,
if the King will not subdue him."
"An' he may send the barons naked home as=
he
did the King's soldiers," laughed Bertrade de Montfort. "I should
like to see this fellow; what may he look like--from the appearance of
yourself, Sir John, and many of your men-at-arms, there should be no few he=
re
but have met him."
"Not once did he raise his visor while he=
was
among us," replied the Baron, "but there are those who claim they=
had
a brief glimpse of him and that he is of horrid countenance, wearing a great
yellow beard and having one eye gone, and a mighty red scar from his forehe=
ad
to his chin."
"A fearful apparition," murmured Nor=
man
of Torn. "No wonder he keeps his helm closed."
"But such a swordsman," spoke up a s=
on
of De Stutevill. "Never in all the world was there such swordplay as I=
saw
that day in the courtyard."
"I, too, have seen some wonderful
swordplay," said Bertrade de Montfort, "and that today. O he!&quo=
t;
she cried, laughing gleefully, "verily do I believe I have captured the
wild Norman of Torn, for this very knight, who styles himself Roger de Cond=
e,
fights as I ne'er saw man fight before, and he rode with his visor down unt=
il I
chide him for it."
Norman of Torn led in the laugh which followed,
and of all the company he most enjoyed the joke.
"An' speaking of the Devil," said the
Baron, "how think you he will side should the King eventually force war
upon the barons? With his thousand hell-hounds, the fate of England might w=
ell
be in the palm of his bloody hand."
"He loves neither King nor baron," s=
poke
Mary de Stutevill, "and I rather lean to the thought that he will serve
neither, but rather plunder the castles of both rebel and royalist whilst t=
heir
masters be absent at war."
"It be more to his liking to come while t=
he
master be home to welcome him," said De Stutevill, ruthfully. "But
yet I am always in fear for the safety of my wife and daughters when I be a=
way
from Derby for any time. May the good God soon deliver England from this De=
vil of
Torn."
"I think you may have no need of fear on =
that
score," spoke Mary, "for Norman of Torn offered no violence to any
woman within the wall of Stutevill, and when one of his men laid a heavy ha=
nd
upon me, it was the great outlaw himself who struck the fellow such a blow =
with
his mailed hand as to crack the ruffian's helm, saying at the time, 'Know y=
ou, fellow,
Norman of Torn does not war upon women?'"
Presently the conversation turned to other
subjects and Norman of Torn heard no more of himself during that evening.
His stay at the castle of Stutevill was drawn =
out
to three days, and then, on the third day, as he sat with Bertrade de Montf=
ort
in an embrasure of the south tower of the old castle, he spoke once more of=
the
necessity for leaving and once more she urged him to remain.
"To be with you, Bertrade of Montfort,&qu=
ot;
he said boldly, "I would forego any other pleasure, and endure any
privation, or face any danger, but there are others who look to me for guid=
ance
and my duty calls me away from you. You shall see me again, and at the cast=
le
of your father, Simon de Montfort, in Leicester. Provided," he added,
"that you will welcome me there."
"I shall always welcome you, wherever I m=
ay
be, Roger de Conde," replied the girl.
"Remember that promise," he said
smiling. "Some day you may be glad to repudiate it."
"Never," she insisted, and a light t=
hat
shone in her eyes as she said it would have meant much to a man better vers=
ed
in the ways of women than was Norman of Torn.
"I hope not," he said gravely. "=
;I
cannot tell you, being but poorly trained in courtly ways, what I should li=
ke
to tell you, that you might know how much your friendship means to me. Good=
bye,
Bertrade de Montfort," and he bent to one knee, as he raised her finge=
rs
to his lips.
As he passed over the drawbridge and down towa=
rd
the highroad a few minutes later on his way back to Torn, he turned for one
last look at the castle and there, in an embrasure in the south tower, stoo=
d a young
woman who raised her hand to wave, and then, as though by sudden impulse, t=
hrew
a kiss after the departing knight, only to disappear from the embrasure with
the act.
As Norman of Torn rode back to his grim castle=
in
the hills of Derby, he had much food for thought upon the way. Never till n=
ow
had he realized what might lie in another manner of life, and he felt a twi=
nge
of bitterness toward the hard, old man whom he called father, and whose tea=
chings
from the boy's earliest childhood had guided him in the ways that had cut h=
im
off completely from the society of other men, except the wild horde of outl=
aws,
ruffians and adventurers that rode beneath the grisly banner of the young c=
hief
of Torn.
Only in an ill-defined, nebulous way did he fe=
el
that it was the girl who had come into his life that caused him for the fir=
st time
to feel shame for his past deeds. He did not know the meaning of love, and =
so
he could not know that he loved Bertrade de Montfort.
And another thought which now filled his mind =
was
the fact of his strange likeness to the Crown Prince of England. This, toge=
ther
with the words of Father Claude, puzzled him sorely. What might it mean? Wa=
s it
a heinous offence to own an accidental likeness to a king's son?
But now that he felt he had solved the reason =
that
he rode always with closed helm, he was for the first time anxious himself =
to
hide his face from the sight of men. Not from fear, for he knew not fear, b=
ut
from some inward impulse which he did not attempt to fathom.
As Norman of Torn rode out from the castle of =
De
Stutevill, Father Claude dismounted from his sleek donkey within the balliu=
m of
Torn. The austere stronghold, notwithstanding its repellent exterior and
unsavory reputation, always extended a warm welcome to the kindly, genial
priest; not alone because of the deep friendship which the master of Torn f=
elt for
the good father, but through the personal charm, and lovableness of the holy
man's nature, which shone alike on saint and sinner.
It was doubtless due to his unremitting labors
with the youthful Norman, during the period that the boy's character was mo=
st
amenable to strong impressions, that the policy of the mighty outlaw was in
many respects pure and lofty. It was this same influence, though, which won=
for
Father Claude his only enemy in Torn; the little, grim, gray, old man whose=
sole
aim in life seemed to have been to smother every finer instinct of chivalry=
and
manhood in the boy, to whose training he had devoted the past nineteen year=
s of
his life.
As Father Claude climbed down from his donkey-=
-fat
people do not "dismount"--a half dozen young squires ran forward =
to
assist him, and to lead the animal to the stables.
The good priest called each of his willing hel=
pers
by name, asking a question here, passing a merry joke there with the ease a=
nd
familiarity that bespoke mutual affection and old acquaintance.
As he passed in through the great gate, the
men-at-arms threw him laughing, though respectful, welcomes and within the
great court, beautified with smooth lawn, beds of gorgeous plants, fountain=
s,
statues and small shrubs and bushes, he came upon the giant, Red Shandy, now
the principal lieutenant of Norman of Torn.
"Good morrow, Saint Claude!" cried t=
he
burly ruffian. "Hast come to save our souls, or damn us? What manner of
sacrilege have we committed now, or have we merited the blessings of Holy
Church? Dost come to scold, or praise?"
"Neither, thou unregenerate villain,"
cried the priest, laughing. "Though methinks ye merit chiding for the
grievous poor courtesy with which thou didst treat the great Bishop of Norw=
ich
the past week."
"Tut, tut, Father," replied Red Shan=
dy.
"We did but aid him to adhere more closely to the injunctions and prec=
epts
of Him whose servant and disciple he claims to be. Were it not better for an
Archbishop of His Church to walk in humility and poverty among His people, =
than
to be ever surrounded with the temptations of fine clothing, jewels and much
gold, to say nothing of two sumpter beasts heavy laden with runlets of
wine?"
"I warrant his temptations were less by at
least as many runlets of wine as may be borne by two sumpter beasts when th=
ou,
red robber, had finished with him," exclaimed Father Claude.
"Yes, Father," laughed the great fel=
low,
"for the sake of Holy Church, I did indeed confiscate that temptation
completely, and if you must needs have proof in order to absolve me from my
sins, come with me now and you shall sample the excellent discrimination wh=
ich
the Bishop of Norwich displays in the selection of his temptations."
"They tell me you left the great man quite
destitute of finery, Red Shandy," continued Father Claude, as he locked
his arm in that of the outlaw and proceeded toward the castle.
"One garment was all that Norman of Torn
would permit him, and as the sun was hot overhead, he selected for the Bish=
op a
bassinet for that single article of apparel, to protect his tonsured pate f=
rom
the rays of old sol. Then, fearing that it might be stolen from him by some
vandals of the road, he had One Eye Kanty rivet it at each side of the gorg=
et
so that it could not be removed by other than a smithy, and thus, strapped =
face
to tail upon a donkey, he sent the great Bishop of Norwich rattling down the
dusty road with his head, at least, protected from the idle gaze of whomsoe=
ver
he might chance to meet. Forty stripes he gave to each of the Bishop's reti=
nue
for being abroad in bad company; but come, here we are where you shall have=
the
wine as proof of my tale."
As the two sat sipping the Bishop's good Canar=
y,
the little old man of Torn entered. He spoke to Father Claude in a surly to=
ne,
asking him if he knew aught of the whereabouts of Norman of Torn.
"We have seen nothing of him since, some
three days gone, he rode out in the direction of your cottage," he
concluded.
"Why, yes," said the priest, "I=
saw
him that day. He had an adventure with several knights from the castle of P=
eter
of Colfax, from whom he rescued a damsel whom I suspect from the trappings =
of
her palfrey to be of the house of Montfort. Together they rode north, but t=
hy
son did not say whither or for what purpose. His only remark, as he donned =
his armor,
while the girl waited without, was that I should now behold the falcon guar=
ding
the dove. Hast he not returned?"
"No," said the old man, "and
doubtless his adventure is of a nature in line with thy puerile and effemin=
ate
teachings. Had he followed my training, without thy accurst priestly
interference, he had made an iron-barred nest in Torn for many of the doves=
of
thy damned English nobility. An' thou leave him not alone, he will soon be
seeking service in the household of the King."
"Where, perchance, he might be more at ho=
me
than here," said the priest quietly.
"Why say you that?" snapped the litt=
le
old man, eyeing Father Claude narrowly.
"Oh," laughed the priest, "beca=
use
he whose power and mien be even more kingly than the King's would rightly g=
race
the royal palace," but he had not failed to note the perturbation his
remark had caused, nor did his off-hand reply entirely deceive the old man.=
At this juncture, a squire entered to say that
Shandy's presence was required at the gates, and that worthy, with a sorrow=
ing
and regretful glance at the unemptied flagon, left the room.
For a few moments, the two men sat in meditati=
ve
silence, which was presently broken by the old man of Torn.
"Priest," he said, "thy ways wi=
th
my son are, as you know, not to my liking. It were needless that he should =
have
wasted so much precious time from swordplay to learn the useless art of
letters. Of what benefit may a knowledge of Latin be to one whose doom looms
large before him. It may be years and again it may be but months, but as su=
re
as there be a devil in hell, Norman of Torn will swing from a king's gibbet.
And thou knowst it, and he too, as well as I. The things which thou hast ta=
ught
him be above his station, and the hopes and ambitions they inspire will but
make his end the bitterer for him. Of late I have noted that he rides upon =
the
highway with less enthusiasm than was his wont, but he has gone too far eve=
r to
go back now; nor is there where to go back to. What has he ever been other =
than
outcast and outlaw? What hopes could you have engendered in his breast grea=
ter
than to be hated and feared among his blood enemies?"
"I knowst not thy reasons, old man,"
replied the priest, "for devoting thy life to the ruining of his, and =
what
I guess at be such as I dare not voice; but let us understand each other on=
ce
and for all. For all thou dost and hast done to blight and curse the noblen=
ess
of his nature, I have done and shall continue to do all in my power to
controvert. As thou hast been his bad angel, so shall I try to be his good
angel, and when all is said and done and Norman of Torn swings from the Kin=
g's gibbet,
as I only too well fear he must, there will be more to mourn his loss than
there be to curse him.
"His friends are from the ranks of the lo=
wly,
but so too were the friends and followers of our Dear Lord Jesus; so that s=
hall
be more greatly to his honor than had he preyed upon the already unfortunat=
e.
"Women have never been his prey; that also
will be spoken of to his honor when he is gone, and that he has been cruel =
to
men will be forgotten in the greater glory of his mercy to the weak.
"Whatever be thy object: whether revenge =
or
the natural bent of a cruel and degraded mind, I know not; but if any be cu=
rst
because of the Outlaw of Torn, it will be thou--I had almost said, unnatural
father; but I do not believe a single drop of thy debased blood flows in the
veins of him thou callest son."
The grim old man of Torn had sat motionless
throughout this indictment, his face, somewhat pale, was drawn into lines of
malevolent hatred and rage, but he permitted Father Claude to finish without
interruption.
"Thou hast made thyself and thy opinions
quite clear," he said bitterly, "but I be glad to know just how t=
hou
standeth. In the past there has been peace between us, though no love; now =
let
us both understand that it be war and hate. My life work is cut out for me.
Others, like thyself, have stood in my path, yet today I am here, but where=
are
they? Dost understand me, priest?" And the old man leaned far across t=
he
table so that his eyes, burning with an insane fire of venom, blazed but a =
few inches
from those of the priest.
Father Claude returned the look with calm level
gaze.
"I understand," he said, and, rising,
left the castle.
Shortly after he had reached his cottage, a lo=
ud
knock sounded at the door, which immediately swung open without waiting the
formality of permission. Father Claude looked up to see the tall figure of
Norman of Torn, and his face lighted with a pleased smile of welcome.
"Greetings, my son," said the priest=
.
"And to thee, Father," replied the
outlaw, "And what may be the news of Torn. I have been absent for seve=
ral
days. Is all well at the castle?"
"All be well at the castle," replied
Father Claude, "if by that you mean have none been captured or hanged =
for
their murders. Ah, my boy, why wilt thou not give up this wicked life of th=
ine?
It has never been my way to scold or chide thee, yet always hath my heart a=
ched
for each crime laid at the door of Norman of Torn."
"Come, come, Father," replied the
outlaw, "what dost I that I have not good example for from the barons,=
and
the King, and Holy Church. Murder, theft, rapine! Passeth a day over England
which sees not one or all perpetrated in the name of some of these?
"Be it wicked for Norman of Torn to prey =
upon
the wolf, yet righteous for the wolf to tear the sheep? Methinks not. Only =
do I
collect from those who have more than they need, from my natural enemies; w=
hile
they prey upon those who have naught.
"Yet," and his manner suddenly chang=
ed,
"I do not love it, Father. That thou know. I would that there might be
some way out of it, but there is none.
"If I told you why I wished it, you would=
be
surprised indeed, nor can I myself understand; but, of a verity, my greatest
wish to be out of this life is due to the fact that I crave the association=
of
those very enemies I have been taught to hate. But it is too late, Father,
there can be but one end and that the lower end of a hempen rope."
"No, my son, there is another way, an
honorable way," replied the good Father. "In some foreign clime t=
here
be opportunities abundant for such as thee. France offers a magnificent fut=
ure
to such a soldier as Norman of Torn. In the court of Louis, you would take =
your
place among the highest of the land. You be rich and brave and handsome. Na=
y do
not raise your hand. You be all these and more, for you have learning far b=
eyond
the majority of nobles, and you have a good heart and a true chivalry of
character. With such wondrous gifts, naught could bar your way to the highe=
st
pinnacles of power and glory, while here you have no future beyond the halt=
er.
Canst thou hesitate, Norman of Torn?"
The young man stood silent for a moment, then =
he
drew his hand across his eyes as though to brush away a vision.
"There be a reason, Father, why I must re=
main
in England for a time at least, though the picture you put is indeed wondro=
us
alluring."
And the reason was Bertrade de Montfort.
The visit of Bertrade de Montfort with her fri=
end
Mary de Stutevill was drawing to a close. Three weeks had passed since Roge=
r de
Conde had ridden out from the portals of Stutevill and many times the hands=
ome young
knight's name had been on the lips of his fair hostess and her fairer frien=
d.
Today the two girls roamed slowly through the
gardens of the great court, their arms about each other's waists, pouring t=
he
last confidences into each other's ears, for tomorrow Bertrade had elected =
to return
to Leicester.
"Methinks thou be very rash indeed, my
Bertrade," said Mary. "Wert my father here he would, I am sure, n=
ot
permit thee to leave with only the small escort which we be able to give.&q=
uot;
"Fear not, Mary," replied Bertrade.
"Five of thy father's knights be ample protection for so short a journ=
ey.
By evening it will have been accomplished; and, as the only one I fear in t=
hese
parts received such a sound set back from Roger de Conde recently, I do not
think he will venture again to molest me."
"But what about the Devil of Torn,
Bertrade?" urged Mary. "Only yestereve, you wot, one of Lord de
Grey's men-at-arms came limping to us with the news of the awful carnage the
foul fiend had wrought on his master's household. He be abroad, Bertrade, a=
nd I
canst think of naught more horrible than to fall into his hands."
"Why, Mary, thou didst but recently say t=
hy
very self that Norman of Torn was most courteous to thee when he sacked thi=
s,
thy father's castle. How be it thou so soon has changed thy mind?"
"Yes, Bertrade, he was indeed respectful
then, but who knows what horrid freak his mind may take, and they do say th=
at
he be cruel beyond compare. Again, forget not that thou be Leicester's daug=
hter
and Henry's niece; against both of whom the Outlaw of Torn openly swears his
hatred and his vengeance. Oh, Bertrade, wait but for a day or so, I be sure=
my
father must return ere then, and fifty knights shall accompany thee instead=
of
five."
"What be fifty knights against Norman of
Torn, Mary? Thy reasoning is on a parity with thy fears, both have flown wi=
de
of the mark.
"If I am to meet with this wild ruffian, =
it
were better that five knights were sacrificed than fifty, for either number
would be but a mouthful to that horrid horde of unhung murderers. No, Mary,=
I
shall start tomorrow and your good knights shall return the following day w=
ith the
best of word from me."
"If thou wilst, thou wilst," cried M=
ary
petulantly. "Indeed it were plain that thou be a De Montfort; that race
whose historic bravery be second only to their historic stubbornness."=
Bertrade de Montfort laughed, and kissed her
friend upon the cheek.
"Mayhap I shall find the brave Roger de C=
onde
again upon the highroad to protect me. Then indeed shall I send back your f=
ive
knights, for of a truth, his blade is more powerful than that of any ten me=
n I
ere saw fight before."
"Methinks," said Mary, still peeved =
at
her friend's determination to leave on the morrow, "that should you me=
et
the doughty Sir Roger all unarmed, that still would you send back my father=
's
knights."
Bertrade flushed, and then bit her lip as she =
felt
the warm blood mount to her cheek.
"Thou be a fool, Mary," she said.
Mary broke into a joyful, teasing laugh; hugely enjoying the discomfiture of the admission the tell-tale flush proclaimed.<= o:p>
"Ah, I did but guess how thy heart and thy
mind tended, Bertrade; but now I seest that I divined all too truly. He be
indeed good to look upon, but what knowest thou of him?"
"Hush, Mary!" commanded Bertrade.
"Thou know not what thou sayest. I would not wipe my feet upon him, I =
care
naught whatever for him, and then--it has been three weeks since he rode out
from Stutevill and no word hath he sent."
"Oh, ho," cried the little plague,
"so there lies the wind? My Lady would not wipe her feet upon him, but=
she
be sore vexed that he has sent her no word. Mon Dieu, but thou hast strange
notions, Bertrade."
"I will not talk with you, Mary," cr=
ied
Bertrade, stamping her sandaled foot, and with a toss of her pretty head she
turned abruptly toward the castle.
In a small chamber in the castle of Colfax two=
men
sat at opposite sides of a little table. The one, Peter of Colfax, was short
and very stout. His red, bloated face, bleary eyes and bulbous nose bespoke=
the
manner of his life; while his thick lips, the lower hanging large and flabb=
y over
his receding chin, indicated the base passions to which his life and been
given. His companion was a little, grim, gray man but his suit of armor and
closed helm gave no hint to his host of whom his guest might be. It was the
little armored man who was speaking.
"Is it not enough that I offer to aid you,
Sir Peter," he said, "that you must have my reasons? Let it go th=
at
my hate of Leicester be the passion which moves me. Thou failed in thy atte=
mpt
to capture the maiden; give me ten knights and I will bring her to you.&quo=
t;
"How knowest thou she rides out tomorrow =
for
her father's castle?" asked Peter of Colfax.
"That again be no concern of thine, my
friend, but I do know it, and, if thou wouldst have her, be quick, for we
should ride out tonight that we may take our positions by the highway in am=
ple
time tomorrow."
Still Peter of Colfax hesitated, he feared this
might be a ruse of Leicester's to catch him in some trap. He did not know h=
is
guest--the fellow might want the girl for himself and be taking this method=
of obtaining
the necessary assistance to capture her.
"Come," said the little, armored man
irritably. "I cannot bide here forever. Make up thy mind; it be nothin=
g to
me other than my revenge, and if thou wilst not do it, I shall hire the
necessary ruffians and then not even thou shalt see Bertrade de Montfort mo=
re."
This last threat decided the Baron.
"It is agreed," he said. "The m=
en
shall ride out with you in half an hour. Wait below in the courtyard."=
When the little man had left the apartment, Pe=
ter
of Colfax summoned his squire whom he had send to him at once one of his
faithful henchmen.
"Guy," said Peter of Colfax, as the =
man
entered, "ye made a rare fizzle of a piece of business some weeks ago.=
Ye
wot of which I speak?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"It chances that on the morrow ye may have
opportunity to retrieve thy blunder. Ride out with ten men where the strang=
er
who waits in the courtyard below shall lead ye, and come not back without t=
hat
which ye lost to a handful of men before. You understand?"
"Yes, My Lord!"
"And, Guy, I half mistrust this fellow who
hath offered to assist us. At the first sign of treachery, fall upon him wi=
th
all thy men and slay him. Tell the others that these be my orders."
"Yes, My Lord. When do we ride?"
"At once. You may go."
The morning that Bertrade de Montfort had chos=
en
to return to her father's castle dawned gray and threatening. In vain did M=
ary
de Stutevill plead with her friend to give up the idea of setting out upon =
such
a dismal day and without sufficient escort, but Bertrade de Montfort was fi=
rm.
"Already have I overstayed my time three
days, and it is not lightly that even I, his daughter, fail in obedience to
Simon de Montfort. I
shall have enough to account for as it be. Do =
not
urge me to add even one more day to my excuses. And again, perchance, my mo=
ther
and my father may be sore distressed by my continued absence. No, Mary, I m=
ust ride
today." And so she did, with the five knights that could be spared from
the castle's defence.
Scarcely half an hour had elapsed before a cold
drizzle set in, so that they were indeed a sorry company that splashed along
the muddy road, wrapped in mantle and surcoat. As they proceeded, the rain =
and
wind increased in volume, until it was being driven into their faces in suc=
h blinding
gusts that they must needs keep their eyes closed and trust to the instinct=
s of
their mounts.
Less than half the journey had been accomplish=
ed.
They were winding across a little hollow toward a low ridge covered with de=
nse
forest, into the somber shadows of which the road wound. There was a glint =
of armor
among the drenched foliage, but the rain-buffeted eyes of the riders saw it
not. On they came, their patient horses plodding slowly through the sticky =
road
and hurtling storm.
Now they were half way up the ridge's side. Th=
ere
was a movement in the dark shadows of the grim wood, and then, without cry =
or
warning, a band of steel-clad horsemen broke forth with couched spears.
Charging at full run down upon them, they overthrew three of the girl's esc=
ort
before a blow could be struck in her defense. Her two remaining guardians
wheeled to meet the return attack, and nobly did they acquit themselves, fo=
r it
took the entire eleven who were pitted against them to overcome and slay the
two.
In the melee, none had noticed the girl, but
presently one of her assailants, a little, grim, gray man, discovered that =
she
had put spurs to her palfrey and escaped. Calling to his companions he set =
out
at a rapid pace in pursuit.
Reckless of the slippery road and the blinding
rain, Bertrade de Montfort urged her mount into a wild run, for she had
recognized the arms of Peter of Colfax on the shields of several of the
attacking party.
Nobly, the beautiful Arab bent to her call for
speed. The great beasts of her pursuers, bred in Normandy and Flanders, mig=
ht
have been tethered in their stalls for all the chance they had of overtaking
the flying white steed that fairly split the gray rain as lightning flies
through the clouds.
But for the fiendish cunning of the little gri=
m,
gray man's foresight, Bertrade de Montfort would have made good her escape =
that
day. As it was, however, her fleet mount had carried her but two hundred ya=
rds
ere, in the midst of the dark wood, she ran full upon a rope stretched acro=
ss the
roadway between two trees.
As the horse fell, with a terrible lunge, trip=
ped
by the stout rope, Bertrade de Montfort was thrown far before him, where she
lay, a little, limp bedraggled figure, in the mud of the road.
There they found her. The little, grim, gray m=
an
did not even dismount, so indifferent was he to her fate; dead or in the ha=
nds
of Peter of Colfax, it was all the same to him. In either event, his purpose
would be accomplished, and Bertrade de Montfort would no longer lure Norman=
of Torn
from the path he had laid out for him.
That such an eventuality threatened, he knew f=
rom
one Spizo the Spaniard, the single traitor in the service of Norman of Torn,
whose mean aid the little grim, gray man had purchased since many months to=
spy
upon the comings and goings of the great outlaw.
The men of Peter of Colfax gathered up the
lifeless form of Bertrade de Montfort and placed it across the saddle before
one of their number.
"Come," said the man called Guy,
"if there be life left in her, we must hasten to Sir Peter before it be
extinct."
"I leave ye here," said the little o=
ld
man. "My part of the business is done."
And so he sat watching them until they had
disappeared in the forest toward the castle of Colfax.
Then he rode back to the scene of the encounter
where lay the five knights of Sir John de Stutevill. Three were already dea=
d,
the other two, sorely but not mortally wounded, lay groaning by the roadsid=
e.
The little grim, gray man dismounted as he came
abreast of them and, with his long sword, silently finished the two wounded
men. Then, drawing his dagger, he made a mark upon the dead foreheads of ea=
ch
of the five, and mounting, rode rapidly toward Torn.
"And if one fact be not enough," he
muttered, "that mark upon the dead will quite effectually stop further
intercourse between the houses of Torn and Leicester."
Henry de Montfort, son of Simon, rode fast and
furious at the head of a dozen of his father's knights on the road to
Stutevill.
Bertrade de Montfort was so long overdue that =
the
Earl and Princess Eleanor, his wife, filled with grave apprehensions, had
posted their oldest son off to the castle of John de Stutevill to fetch her
home.
With the wind and rain at their backs, the lit=
tle
party rode rapidly along the muddy road, until late in the afternoon they c=
ame
upon a white palfrey standing huddled beneath a great oak, his arched back =
toward
the driving storm.
"By God," cried De Montfort, "t=
is
my sister's own Abdul. There be something wrong here indeed." But a ra=
pid
search of the vicinity, and loud calls brought no further evidence of the
girl's whereabouts, so they pressed on toward Stutevill.
Some two miles beyond the spot where the white
palfrey had been found, they came upon the dead bodies of the five knights =
who
had accompanied Bertrade from Stutevill.
Dismounting, Henry de Montfort examined the bo=
dies
of the fallen men. The arms upon shield and helm confirmed his first fear t=
hat
these had been Bertrade's escort from Stutevill.
As he bent over them to see if he recognized a=
ny
of the knights, there stared up into his face from the foreheads of the dead
men the dreaded sign, NT, scratched there with a dagger's point.
"The curse of God be on him!" cried =
De
Montfort. "It be the work of the Devil of Torn, my gentlemen," he
said to his followers. "Come, we need no further guide to our
destination." And, remounting, the little party spurred back toward To=
rn.
When Bertrade de Montfort regained her senses,=
she
was in bed in a strange room, and above her bent an old woman; a repulsive,
toothless old woman, whose smile was but a fangless snarl.
"Ho, ho!" she croaked. "The bri=
de
waketh. I told My Lord that it would take more than a tumble in the mud to =
kill
a De Montfort. Come, come, now, arise and clothe thyself, for the handsome
bridegroom canst scarce restrain his eager desire to fold thee in his arms.
Below in the great hall he paces to and fro, the red blood mantling his
beauteous countenance."
"Who be ye?" cried Bertrade de Montf=
ort,
her mind still dazed from the effects of her fall. "Where am I?" =
and
then, "O, Mon Dieu!" as she remembered the events of the afternoo=
n;
and the arms of Colfax upon the shields of the attacking party. In an insta=
nt
she realized the horror of her predicament; its utter hopelessness.
Beast though he was, Peter of Colfax stood hig=
h in
the favor of the King; and the fact that she was his niece would scarce aid=
her
cause with Henry, for it was more than counter-balanced by the fact that sh=
e was
the daughter of Simon de Montfort, whom he feared and hated.
In the corridor without, she heard the heavy t=
ramp
of approaching feet, and presently a man's voice at the door.
"Within there, Coll! Hast the damsel awak=
ened
from her swoon?"
"Yes, Sir Peter," replied the old wo=
man,
"I was but just urging her to arise and clothe herself, saying that you
awaited her below."
"Haste then, My Lady Bertrade," call=
ed
the man, "no harm will be done thee if thou showest the good sense I g=
ive
thee credit for. I will await thee in the great hall, or, if thou prefer, w=
ilt
come to thee here."
The girl paled, more in loathing and contempt =
than
in fear, but the tones of her answer were calm and level.
"I will see thee below, Sir Peter,
anon," and rising, she hastened to dress, while the receding footsteps=
of
the Baron diminished down the stairway which led from the tower room in whi=
ch
she was imprisoned.
The old woman attempted to draw her into conve=
rsation,
but the girl would not talk. Her whole mind was devoted to weighing each
possible means of escape.
A half hour later, she entered the great hall =
of
the castle of Peter of Colfax. The room was empty. Little change had been
wrought in the apartment since the days of Ethelwolf. As the girl's glance
ranged the hall in search of her jailer it rested upon the narrow, unglazed
windows beyond which lay freedom. Would she ever again breathe God's pure a=
ir outside
these stifling walls? These grimy hateful walls! Black as the inky rafters =
and
wainscot except for occasional splotches a few shades less begrimed, where
repairs had been made. As her eyes fell upon the trophies of war and chase
which hung there her lips curled in scorn, for she knew that they were acqu=
isitions
by inheritance rather than by the personal prowess of the present master of
Colfax.
A single cresset lighted the chamber, while the
flickering light from a small wood fire upon one of the two great hearths
seemed rather to accentuate the dim shadows of the place.
Bertrade crossed the room and leaned against a
massive oak table, blackened by age and hard usage to the color of the beams
above, dented and nicked by the pounding of huge drinking horns and heavy
swords when wild and lusty brawlers had been moved to applause by the lay of
some wandering minstrel, or the sterner call of their mighty chieftains for=
the
oath of fealty.
Her wandering eyes took in the dozen benches a=
nd
the few rude, heavy chairs which completed the rough furnishings of this ro=
ugh
room, and she shuddered. One little foot tapped sullenly upon the disordered
floor which was littered with a miscellany of rushes interspread with such =
bones
and scraps of food as the dogs had rejected or overlooked.
But to none of these surroundings did Bertrade=
de
Montfort give but passing heed; she looked for the man she sought that she
might quickly have the encounter over and learn what fate the future held in
store for her.
Her quick glance had shown her that the room w=
as
quite empty, and that in addition to the main doorway at the lower end of t=
he
apartment, where she had entered, there was but one other door leading from=
the
hall. This was at one side, and as it stood ajar she could see that it led =
into
a small room, apparently a bedchamber.
As she stood facing the main doorway, a panel
opened quietly behind her and directly back of where the thrones had stood =
in
past times. From the black mouth of the aperture stepped Peter of Colfax.
Silently, he closed the panel after him, and with soundless steps, advanced
toward the girl. At the edge of the raised dais he halted, rattling his swo=
rd
to attract her attention.
If his aim had been to unnerve her by the
suddenness and mystery of his appearance, he failed signally, for she did n=
ot
even turn her head as she said:
"What explanation hast thou to make, Sir
Peter, for this base treachery against thy neighbor's daughter and thy
sovereign's niece?"
"When fond hearts be thwarted by a cruel
parent," replied the pot-bellied old beast in a soft and fawning tone,
"love must still find its way; and so thy gallant swain hath dared the
wrath of thy great father and majestic uncle, and lays his heart at thy fee=
t, O
beauteous Bertrade, knowing full well that thine hath been hungering after =
it since
we didst first avow our love to thy hard-hearted sire. See, I kneel to thee=
, my
dove!" And with cracking joints the fat baron plumped down upon his ma=
rrow
bones.
Bertrade turned and as she saw him her haughty
countenance relaxed into a sneering smile.
"Thou art a fool, Sir Peter," she sa=
id,
"and, at that, the worst species of fool--an ancient fool. It is usele=
ss
to pursue thy cause, for I will have none of thee. Let me hence, if thou be=
a
gentleman, and no word of what hath transpired shall ever pass my lips. But=
let
me go, 'tis all I ask, and it is useless to detain me for I cannot give what
you would have. I do not love you, nor ever can I."
Her first words had caused the red of humiliat=
ion
to mottle his already ruby visage to a semblance of purple, and now, as he
attempted to rise with dignity, he was still further covered with confusion=
by
the fact that his huge stomach made it necessary for him to go upon all fou=
rs before
he could rise, so that he got up much after the manner of a cow, raising his
stern high in air in a most ludicrous fashion. As he gained his feet he saw=
the
girl turn her head from him to hide the laughter on her face.
"Return to thy chamber," he thundere=
d.
"I will give thee until tomorrow to decide whether thou wilt accept Pe=
ter
of Colfax as thy husband, or take another position in his household which w=
ill
bar thee for all time from the society of thy kind."
The girl turned toward him, the laugh still
playing on her lips.
"I will be wife to no buffoon; to no clum=
sy
old clown; to no debauched, degraded parody of a man. And as for thy other =
rash
threat, thou hast not the guts to put thy wishes into deeds, thou craven
coward, for well ye know that Simon de Montfort would cut out thy foul heart
with his own hand if he ever suspected thou wert guilty of speaking of such=
to
me, his daughter." And Bertrade de Montfort swept from the great hall,=
and
mounted to her tower chamber in the ancient Saxon stronghold of Colfax.
The old woman kept watch over her during the n=
ight
and until late the following afternoon, when Peter of Colfax summoned his
prisoner before him once more. So terribly had the old hag played upon the
girl's fears that she felt fully certain that the Baron was quite equal to =
his
dire threat, and so she had again been casting about for some means of esca=
pe or
delay.
The room in which she was imprisoned was in the
west tower of the castle, fully a hundred feet above the moat, which the si=
ngle
embrasure overlooked. There was, therefore, no avenue of escape in this
direction. The solitary door was furnished with huge oaken bars, and itself=
composed
of mighty planks of the same wood, cross barred with iron.
If she could but get the old woman out, thought
Bertrade, she could barricade herself within and thus delay, at least, her
impending fate in the hope that succor might come from some source. But her
most subtle wiles proved ineffectual in ridding her, even for a moment, of =
her
harpy jailer; and now that the final summons had come, she was beside herse=
lf for
a lack of means to thwart her captor.
Her dagger had been taken from her, but one hu=
ng
from the girdle of the old woman and this Bertrade determined to have.
Feigning trouble with the buckle of her own
girdle, she called upon the old woman to aid her, and as the hag bent her h=
ead
close to the girl's body to see what was wrong with the girdle clasp, Bertr=
ade
reached quickly to her side and snatched the weapon from its sheath. Quickl=
y she
sprang back from the old woman who, with a cry of anger and alarm, rushed u=
pon
her.
"Back!" cried the girl. "Stand
back, old hag, or thou shalt feel the length of thine own blade."
The woman hesitated and then fell to cursing a=
nd
blaspheming in a most horrible manner, at the same time calling for help.
Bertrade backed to the door, commanding the old
woman to remain where she was, on pain of death, and quickly dropped the mi=
ghty
bars into place. Scarcely had the last great bolt been slipped than Peter o=
f Colfax,
with a dozen servants and men-at-arms, were pounding loudly upon the outsid=
e.
"What's wrong within, Coll," cried t=
he
Baron.
"The wench has wrested my dagger from me =
and
is murdering me," shrieked the old woman.
"An' that I will truly do, Peter of
Colfax," spoke Bertrade, "if you do not immediately send for my
friends to conduct me from thy castle, for I will not step my foot from this
room until I know that mine own people stand without."
Peter of Colfax pled and threatened, commanded=
and
coaxed, but all in vain. So passed the afternoon, and as darkness settled u=
pon
the castle the Baron desisted from his attempts, intending to starve his
prisoner out.
Within the little room, Bertrade de Montfort s=
at
upon a bench guarding her prisoner, from whom she did not dare move her eyes
for a single second. All that long night she sat thus, and when morning daw=
ned,
it found her position unchanged, her tired eyes still fixed upon the hag.
Early in the morning, Peter of Colfax resumed =
his
endeavors to persuade her to come out; he even admitted defeat and promised=
her
safe conduct to her father's castle, but Bertrade de Montfort was not one t=
o be
fooled by his lying tongue.
"Then will I starve you out," he cri=
ed
at length.
"Gladly will I starve in preference to
falling into thy foul hands," replied the girl. "But thy old serv=
ant
here will starve first, for she be very old and not so strong as I. Therefo=
re,
how will it profit you to kill two and still be robbed of thy prey?"
Peter of Colfax entertained no doubt but that =
his
fair prisoner would carry out her threat and so he set his men to work with
cold chisels, axes and saws upon the huge door.
For hours, they labored upon that mighty work =
of
defence, and it was late at night ere they made a little opening large enou=
gh
to admit a hand and arm, but the first one intruded within the room to raise
the bars was drawn quickly back with a howl of pain from its owner. Thus the
keen dagger in the girl's hand put an end to all hopes of entering without
completely demolishing the door.
To this work, the men without then set themsel=
ves
diligently while Peter of Colfax renewed his entreaties, through the small
opening they had made. Bertrade replied but once.
"Seest thou this poniard?" she asked.
"When that door falls, this point enters my heart. There is nothing be=
yond
that door, with thou, poltroon, to which death in this little chamber would=
not
be preferable."
As she spoke, she turned toward the man she was
addressing, for the first time during all those weary, hideous hours removi=
ng
her glance from the old hag. It was enough. Silently, but with the quicknes=
s of
a tigress the old woman was upon her back, one claw-like paw grasping the w=
rist
which held the dagger.
"Quick, My Lord!" she shrieked,
"the bolts, quick."
Instantly Peter of Colfax ran his arm through =
the
tiny opening in the door and a second later four of his men rushed to the a=
id
of the old woman.
Easily they wrested the dagger from Bertrade's
fingers, and at the Baron's bidding, they dragged her to the great hall bel=
ow.
As his retainers left the room at his command,
Peter of Colfax strode back and forth upon the rushes which strewed the flo=
or.
Finally he stopped before the girl standing rigid in the center of the room=
.
"Hast come to thy senses yet, Bertrade de
Montfort?" he asked angrily. "I have offered you your choice; to =
be
the honored wife of Peter of Colfax, or, by force, his mistress. The good
priest waits without, what be your answer now?"
"The same as it has been these past two
days," she replied with haughty scorn. "The same that it shall al=
ways
be. I will be neither wife nor mistress to a coward; a hideous, abhorrent p=
ig
of a man. I would die, it seems, if I felt the touch of your hand upon me. =
You
do not dare to touch me, you craven. I, the daughter of an earl, the niece =
of a
king, wed to the warty toad, Peter of Colfax!"
"Hold, chit!" cried the Baron, livid
with rage. "You have gone too far. Enough of this; and you love me not
now, I shall learn you to love ere the sun rises." And with a vile oat=
h he
grasped the girl roughly by the arm, and dragged her toward the little door=
way
at the side of the room.
For three weeks after his meeting with Bertrad=
e de
Montfort and his sojourn at the castle of John de Stutevill, Norman of Torn=
was
busy with his wild horde in reducing and sacking the castle of John de Grey=
, a royalist
baron who had captured and hanged two of the outlaw's fighting men; and nev=
er
again after his meeting with the daughter of the chief of the barons did No=
rman
of Torn raise a hand against the rebels or their friends.
Shortly after his return to Torn, following the
successful outcome of his expedition, the watch upon the tower reported the
approach of a dozen armed knights. Norman sent Red Shandy to the outer wall=
s to
learn the mission of the party, for visitors seldom came to this inaccessib=
le and
unhospitable fortress; and he well knew that no party of a dozen knights wo=
uld
venture with hostile intent within the clutches of his great band of villai=
ns.
The great red giant soon returned to say that =
it
was Henry de Montfort, oldest son of the Earl of Leicester, who had come un=
der
a flag of truce and would have speech with the master of Torn.
"Admit them, Shandy," commanded Norm=
an
of Torn, "I will speak with them here."
When the party, a few moments later, was usher= ed into his presence it found itself facing a mailed knight with drawn visor.<= o:p>
Henry de Montfort advanced with haughty dignity
until he faced the outlaw.
"Be ye Norman of Torn?" he asked. An=
d,
did he try to conceal the hatred and loathing which he felt, he was poorly
successful.
"They call me so," replied the visor=
ed
knight. "And what may bring a De Montfort after so many years to visit=
his
old neighbor?"
"Well ye know what brings me, Norman of Torn," replied the young man. "It is useless to waste words, and = we cannot resort to arms, for you have us entirely in your power. Name your pr= ice and it shall be paid, only be quick and let me hence with my sister."<= o:p>
"What wild words be these, Henry de Montf=
ort?
Your sister! What mean you?"
"Yes, my sister Bertrade, whom you stole = upon the highroad two days since, after murdering the knights of John de Stutevi= ll who were fetching her home from a visit upon the Baron's daughter. We know = that it was you for the foreheads of the dead men bore your devil's mark."<= o:p>
"Shandy!" roared Norman of Torn.
"WHAT MEANS THIS? Who has been upon the road, attacking women, in my
absence? You were here and in charge during my visit to my Lord de Grey. As=
you
value your hide, Shandy, the truth!"
"Since you laid me low in the hut of the =
good
priest, I have served you well, Norman of Torn. You should know my loyalty =
by
this time and that never have I lied to you. No man of yours has done this
thing, nor is it the first time that vile scoundrels have placed your mark =
upon
their dead that they might thus escape suspicion, themselves."
"Henry de Montfort," said Norman of
Torn, turning to his visitor, "we of Torn bear no savory name, that I =
know
full well, but no man may say that we unsheath our swords against women. Yo=
ur
sister is not here. I give you the word of honor of Norman of Torn. Is it n=
ot
enough?"
"They say you never lie," replied De
Montfort. "Would to God I knew who had done this thing, or which way to
search for my sister."
Norman of Torn made no reply, his thoughts wer=
e in
wild confusion, and it was with difficulty that he hid the fierce anxiety of
his heart or his rage against the perpetrators of this dastardly act which =
tore
his whole being.
In silence De Montfort turned and left, nor had
his party scarce passed the drawbridge ere the castle of Torn was filled wi=
th
hurrying men and the noise and uproar of a sudden call to arms.
Some thirty minutes later, five hundred iron-c=
lad
horses carried their mailed riders beneath the portcullis of the grim pile,=
and
Norman the Devil, riding at their head, spurred rapidly in the direction of=
the
castle of Peter of Colfax.
The great troop, winding down the rocky trail =
from
Torn's buttressed gates, presented a picture of wild barbaric splendor.
The armor of the men was of every style and me=
tal
from the ancient banded mail of the Saxon to the richly ornamented plate ar=
mor
of Milan. Gold and silver and precious stones set in plumed crest and
breastplate and shield, and even in the steel spiked chamfrons of the horse=
s'
head armor showed the rich loot which had fallen to the portion of Norman o=
f Torn's
wild raiders.
Fluttering pennons streamed from five hundred
lance points, and the gray banner of Torn, with the black falcon's wing, fl=
ew
above each of the five companies. The great linden wood shields of the men =
were
covered with gray leather and, in the upper right hand corner of each, was =
the black
falcon's wing. The surcoats of the riders were also uniform, being of dark =
gray
villosa faced with black wolf skin, so that notwithstanding the richness of=
the
armor and the horse trappings, there was a grim, gray warlike appearance to
these wild companies that comported well with their reputation.
Recruited from all ranks of society and from e=
very
civilized country of Europe, the great horde of Torn numbered in its ten
companies serf and noble; Britain, Saxon, Norman, Dane, German, Italian and
French, Scot, Pict and Irish.
Here birth caused no distinctions; the escaped
serf, with the gall marks of his brass collar still visible about his neck,
rode shoulder to shoulder with the outlawed scion of a noble house. The only
requisites for admission to the troop were willingness and ability to fight,
and an oath to obey the laws made by Norman of Torn.
The little army was divided into ten companies=
of
one hundred men, each company captained by a fighter of proven worth and
ability.
Our old friends Red Shandy, and John and James
Flory led the first three companies, the remaining seven being under comman=
d of
other seasoned veterans of a thousand fights.
One Eye Kanty, owing to his early trade, held =
the
always important post of chief armorer, while Peter the Hermit, the last of=
the
five cut-throats whom Norman of Torn had bested that day, six years before,=
in
the hut of Father Claude, had become majordomo of the great castle of Torn,
which post included also the vital functions of quartermaster and commissar=
y.
The old man of Torn attended to the training of
serf and squire in the art of war, for it was ever necessary to fill the ga=
ps
made in the companies, due to their constant encounters upon the highroad a=
nd
their battles at the taking of some feudal castle; in which they did not al=
ways
come off unscathed, though usually victorious.
Today, as they wound west across the valley,
Norman of Torn rode at the head of the cavalcade, which strung out behind h=
im
in a long column. Above his gray steel armor, a falcon's wing rose from his=
crest.
It was the insignia which always marked him to his men in the midst of batt=
le. Where
it waved might always be found the fighting and the honors, and about it th=
ey
were wont to rally.
Beside Norman of Torn rode the grim, gray, old
man, silent and taciturn; nursing his deep hatred in the depths of his mali=
gn
brain.
At the head of their respective companies rode=
the
five captains: Red Shandy; John Flory; Edwild the Serf; Emilio, Count de
Gropello of Italy; and Sieur Ralph de la Campnee, of France.
The hamlets and huts which they passed in the
morning and early afternoon brought forth men, women and children to cheer =
and
wave God-speed to them; but as they passed farther from the vicinity of Tor=
n, where
the black falcon wing was known more by the ferocity of its name than by the
kindly deeds of the great outlaw to the lowly of his neighborhood, they saw
only closed and barred doors with an occasional frightened face peering fro=
m a
tiny window.
It was midnight ere they sighted the black tow=
ers
of Colfax silhouetted against the starry sky. Drawing his men into the shad=
ows
of the forest a half mile from the castle, Norman of Torn rode forward with
Shandy and some fifty men to a point as close as they could come without be=
ing observed.
Here they dismounted and Norman of Torn crept stealthily forward alone.
Taking advantage of every cover, he approached=
to
the very shadows of the great gate without being detected. In the castle, a
light shone dimly from the windows of the great hall, but no other sign of =
life
was apparent. To his intense surprise, Norman of Torn found the drawbridge =
lowered
and no sign of watchmen at the gate or upon the walls.
As he had sacked this castle some two years si=
nce,
he was familiar with its internal plan, and so he knew that through the
scullery he could reach a small antechamber above, which let directly into =
the
great hall.
And so it happened that, as Peter of Colfax
wheeled toward the door of the little room, he stopped short in terror, for
there before him stood a strange knight in armor, with lowered visor and dr=
awn
sword. The girl saw him too, and a look of hope and renewed courage overspr=
ead
her face.
"Draw!" commanded a low voice in
English, "unless you prefer to pray, for you are about to die."
"Who be ye, varlet?" cried the Baron.
"Ho, John! Ho, Guy! To the rescue, quick!" he shrieked, and drawi=
ng
his sword, he attempted to back quickly toward the main doorway of the hall;
but the man in armor was upon him and forcing him to fight ere he had taken
three steps.
It had been short shrift for Peter of Colfax t=
hat
night had not John and Guy and another of his henchmen rushed into the room
with drawn swords.
"Ware! Sir Knight," cried the girl, =
as
she saw the three knaves rushing to the aid of their master.
Turning to meet their assault, the knight was
forced to abandon the terror-stricken Baron for an instant, and again he had
made for the doorway bent only on escape; but the girl had divined his
intentions, and running quickly to the entrance, she turned the great lock =
and
threw the key with all her might to the far corner of the hall. In an insta=
nt she
regretted her act, for she saw that where she might have reduced her rescue=
r's
opponents by at least one, she had now forced the cowardly Baron to remain,=
and
nothing fights more fiercely than a cornered rat.
The knight was holding his own splendidly with=
the
three retainers, and for an instant Bertrade de Montfort stood spell-bound =
by
the exhibition of swordsmanship she was witnessing.
Fighting the three alternately, in pairs and a=
gain
all at the same time, the silent knight, though weighted by his heavy armor,
forced them steadily back; his flashing blade seeming to weave a net of ste=
el
about them. Suddenly his sword stopped just for an instant, stopped in the =
heart
of one of his opponents, and as the man lunged to the floor, it was flashing
again close to the breasts of the two remaining men-at-arms.
Another went down less than ten seconds later,=
and
then the girl's attention was called to the face of the horrified Baron; Pe=
ter
of Colfax was moving--slowly and cautiously, he was creeping, from behind,
toward the visored knight, and in his raised hand flashed a sharp dagger.
For an instant, the girl stood frozen with hor=
ror,
unable to move a finger or to cry out; but only for an instant, and then,
regaining control of her muscles, she stooped quickly and, grasping a heavy=
foot-stool,
hurled it full at Peter of Colfax.
It struck him below the knees and toppled him =
to
the floor just as the knight's sword passed through the throat of his final
antagonist.
As the Baron fell, he struck heavily upon a ta=
ble
which supported the only lighted cresset within the chamber. In an instant,=
all
was darkness. There was a rapid shuffling sound as of the scurrying of rats=
and
then the quiet of the tomb settled upon the great hall.
"Are you safe and unhurt, my Lady
Bertrade?" asked a grave English voice out of the darkness.
"Quite, Sir Knight," she replied,
"and you?"
"Not a scratch, but where is our good fri=
end
the Baron?"
"He lay here upon the floor but a moment
since, and carried a thin long dagger in his hand. Have a care, Sir Knight,=
he
may even now be upon you."
The knight did not answer, but she heard him
moving boldly about the room. Soon he had found another lamp and made a lig=
ht.
As its feeble rays slowly penetrated the black gloom, the girl saw the bodi=
es
of the three men-at-arms, the overturned table and lamp, and the visored kn=
ight;
but Peter of Colfax was gone.
The knight perceived his absence at the same t=
ime,
but he only laughed a low, grim laugh.
"He will not go far, My Lady Bertrade,&qu=
ot;
he said.
"How know you my name?" she asked.
"Who may you be? I do not recognize your armor, and your breastplate b=
ears
no arms."
He did not answer at once and her heart rose in
her breast as it filled with the hope that her brave rescuer might be the s=
ame
Roger de Conde who had saved her from the hirelings of Peter of Colfax but a
few short weeks since. Surely it was the same straight and mighty figure, a=
nd there
was the marvelous swordplay as well. It must be he, and yet Roger de Conde =
had
spoken no English while this man spoke it well, though, it was true, with a
slight French accent.
"My Lady Bertrade, I be Norman of Torn,&q=
uot;
said the visored knight with quiet dignity.
The girl's heart sank, and a feeling of cold f=
ear
crept through her. For years that name had been the symbol of fierce cruelt=
y,
and mad hatred against her kind. Little children were frightened into obedi=
ence
by the vaguest hint that the Devil of Torn would get them, and grown men ha=
d come
to whisper the name with grim, set lips.
"Norman of Torn!" she whispered.
"May God have mercy on my soul!"
Beneath the visored helm, a wave of pain and
sorrow surged across the countenance of the outlaw, and a little shudder, a=
s of
a chill of hopelessness, shook his giant frame.
"You need not fear, My Lady," he said
sadly. "You shall be in your father's castle of Leicester ere the sun
marks noon. And you will be safer under the protection of the hated Devil of
Torn than with your own mighty father, or your royal uncle."
"It is said that you never lie, Norman of
Torn," spoke the girl, "and I believe you, but tell me why you th=
us
befriend a De Montfort."
"It is not for love of your father or your
brothers, nor yet hatred of Peter of Colfax, nor neither for any reward wha=
tsoever.
It pleases me to do as I do, that is all. Come."
He led her in silence to the courtyard and acr=
oss
the lowered drawbridge, to where they soon discovered a group of horsemen, =
and
in answer to a low challenge from Shandy, Norman of Torn replied that it was
he.
"Take a dozen men, Shandy, and search yon
hellhole. Bring out to me, alive, Peter of Colfax, and My Lady's cloak and a
palfrey--and Shandy, when all is done as I say, you may apply the torch! Bu=
t no
looting, Shandy."
Shandy looked in surprise upon his leader, for=
the
torch had never been a weapon of Norman of Torn, while loot, if not always =
the
prime object of his many raids, was at least a very important consideration=
.
The outlaw noticed the surprised hesitation of=
his
faithful subaltern and signing him to listen, said:
"Red Shandy, Norman of Torn has fought and
sacked and pillaged for the love of it, and for a principle which was at be=
st
but a vague generality. Tonight we ride to redress a wrong done to My Lady
Bertrade de Montfort, and that, Shandy, is a different matter. The torch,
Shandy, from tower to scullery, but in the service of My Lady, no
looting."
"Yes, My Lord," answered Shandy, and
departed with his little detachment.
In a half hour he returned with a dozen prison=
ers,
but no Peter of Colfax.
"He has flown, My Lord," the big fel=
low
reported, and indeed it was true. Peter of Colfax had passed through the va=
ults
beneath his castle and, by a long subterranean passage, had reached the
quarters of some priests without the lines of Norman of Torn. By this time,=
he
was several miles on his way to the coast and France; for he had recognized=
the
swordsmanship of the outlaw, and did not care to remain in England and face=
the
wrath of both Norman of Torn and Simon de Montfort.
"He will return," was the outlaw's o=
nly
comment, when he had been fully convinced that the Baron had escaped.
They watched until the castle had burst into
flames in a dozen places, the prisoners huddled together in terror and
apprehension, fully expecting a summary and horrible death.
When Norman of Torn had assured himself that no
human power could now save the doomed pile, he ordered that the march be ta=
ken
up, and the warriors filed down the roadway behind their leader and Bertrad=
e de
Montfort, leaving their erstwhile prisoners sorely puzzled but unharmed and
free.
As they looked back, they saw the heavens red =
with
the great flames that sprang high above the lofty towers. Immense volumes of
dense smoke rolled southward across the sky line. Occasionally it would cle=
ar
away from the burning castle for an instant to show the black walls pierced=
by
their hundreds of embrasures, each lit up by the red of the raging fire wit=
hin.
It was a gorgeous, impressive spectacle, but one so common in those fierce,
wild days, that none thought it worthy of more than a passing backward glan=
ce.
Varied emotions filled the breasts of the seve=
ral
riders who wended their slow way down the mud-slippery road. Norman of Torn=
was
both elated and sad. Elated that he had been in time to save this girl who =
awakened
such strange emotions in his breast; sad that he was a loathesome thing in =
her
eyes. But that it was pure happiness just to be near her, sufficed him for =
the
time; of the morrow, what use to think! The little, grim, gray, old man of =
Torn
nursed the spleen he did not dare vent openly, and cursed the chance that h=
ad
sent Henry de Montfort to Torn to search for his sister; while the follower=
s of
the outlaw swore quietly over the vagary which had brought them on this long
ride without either fighting or loot.
Bertrade de Montfort was but filled with wonder
that she should owe her life and honor to this fierce, wild cut-throat who =
had
sworn especial hatred against her family, because of its relationship to the
house of Plantagenet. She could not fathom it, and yet, he seemed fair spok=
en for
so rough a man; she wondered what manner of countenance might lie beneath t=
hat
barred visor.
Once the outlaw took his cloak from its fasten=
ings
at his saddle's cantel and threw it about the shoulders of the girl, for the
night air was chilly, and again he dismounted and led her palfrey around a =
bad place
in the road, lest the beast might slip and fall.
She thanked him in her courtly manner for these
services, but beyond that, no word passed between them, and they came, in
silence, about midday within sight of the castle of Simon de Montfort.
The watch upon the tower was thrown into confu=
sion
by the approach of so large a party of armed men, so that, by the time they
were in hailing distance, the walls of the great structure were crowded with
fighting men.
Shandy rode ahead with a flag of truce, and wh=
en
he was beneath the castle walls Simon de Montfort called forth:
"Who be ye and what your mission? Peace or
war?"
"It is Norman of Torn, come in peace, and=
in
the service of a De Montfort," replied Shandy. "He would enter wi=
th
one companion, my Lord Earl."
"Dares Norman of Torn enter the castle of
Simon de Montfort--thinks he that I keep a robbers' roost!" cried the
fierce old warrior.
"Norman of Torn dares ride where he will =
in
all England," boasted the red giant. "Will you see him in peace, =
My
Lord?"
"Let him enter," said De Montfort,
"but no knavery, now, we are a thousand men here, well armed and ready
fighters."
Shandy returned to his master with the reply, =
and
together, Norman of Torn and Bertrade de Montfort clattered across the
drawbridge beneath the portcullis of the castle of the Earl of Leicester,
brother-in-law of Henry III of England.
The girl was still wrapped in the great cloak =
of
her protector, for it had been raining, so that she rode beneath the eyes of
her father's men without being recognized. In the courtyard, they were met =
by
Simon de Montfort, and his sons Henry and Simon.
The girl threw herself impetuously from her mo=
unt,
and, flinging aside the outlaw's cloak, rushed toward her astounded parent.=
"What means this," cried De Montfort,
"has the rascal offered you harm or indignity?"
"You craven liar," cried Henry de
Montfort, "but yesterday you swore upon your honor that you did not ho=
ld
my sister, and I, like a fool, believed." And with his words, the young
man flung himself upon Norman of Torn with drawn sword.
Quicker than the eye could see, the sword of t=
he
visored knight flew from its scabbard, and, with a single lightning-like mo=
ve,
sent the blade of young De Montfort hurtling cross the courtyard; and then,=
before
either could take another step, Bertrade de Montfort had sprung between them
and placing a hand upon the breastplate of the outlaw, stretched forth the
other with palm out-turned toward her kinsmen as though to protect Norman of
Torn from further assault.
"Be he outlaw or devil," she cried,
"he is a brave and courteous knight, and he deserves from the hands of=
the
De Montforts the best hospitality they can give, and not cold steel and
insults." Then she explained briefly to her astonished father and brot=
hers
what had befallen during the past few days.
Henry de Montfort, with the fine chivalry that
marked him, was the first to step forward with outstretched hand to thank
Norman of Torn, and to ask his pardon for his rude words and hostile act.
The outlaw but held up his open palm, as he sa=
id,
"Let the De Montforts think well ere they
take the hand of Norman of Torn. I give not my hand except in friendship, a=
nd
not for a passing moment; but for life. I appreciate your present feelings =
of
gratitude, but let them not blind you to the fact that I am still Norman the
Devil, and that you have seen my mark upon the brows of your dead. I would =
gladly
have your friendship, but I wish it for the man, Norman of Torn, with all h=
is
faults, as well as what virtues you may think him to possess."
"You are right, sir," said the Earl,
"you have our gratitude and our thanks for the service you have render=
ed
the house of Montfort, and ever during our lives you may command our favors=
. I
admire your bravery and your candor, but while you continue the Outlaw of T=
orn,
you may not break bread at the table of De Montfort as a friend would have =
the
right to do."
"Your speech is that of a wise and careful
man," said Norman of Torn quietly. "I go, but remember that from =
this
day, I have no quarrel with the House of Simon de Montfort, and that should=
you
need my arms, they are at your service, a thousand strong. Goodbye." B=
ut
as he turned to go, Bertrade de Montfort confronted him with outstretched h=
and.
"You must take my hand in friendship,&quo=
t;
she said, "for, to my dying day, I must ever bless the name of Norman =
of
Torn because of the horror from which he has rescued me."
He took the little fingers in his mailed hand,=
and
bending upon one knee raised them to his lips.
"To no other--woman, man, king, God, or
devil--has Norman of Torn bent the knee. If ever you need him, My Lady
Bertrade, remember that his services are yours for the asking."
And turning, he mounted and rode in silence fr=
om
the courtyard of the castle of Leicester. Without a backward glance, and wi=
th
his five hundred men at his back, Norman of Torn disappeared beyond a turni=
ng
in the roadway.
"A strange man," said Simon de Montf=
ort,
"both good and bad, but from today, I shall ever believe more good than
bad. Would that he were other than he be, for his arm would wield a heavy s=
word
against the enemies of England, an he could be persuaded to our cause."=
;
"Who knows," said Henry de Montfort,
"but that an offer of friendship might have won him to a better life. =
It
seemed that in his speech was a note of wistfulness. I wish, father, that we
had taken his hand."
Several days after Norman of Torn's visit to t=
he
castle of Leicester, a young knight appeared before the Earl's gates demand=
ing
admittance to have speech with Simon de Montfort. The Earl received him, an=
d as
the young man entered his presence, Simon de Montfort, sprang to his feet i=
n astonishment.
"My Lord Prince," he cried. "Wh=
at
do ye here, and alone?"
The young man smiled.
"I be no prince, My Lord," he said,
"though some have said that I favor the King's son. I be Roger de Cond=
e,
whom it may have pleased your gracious daughter to mention. I have come to =
pay
homage to Bertrade de Montfort."
"Ah," said De Montfort, rising to gr=
eet
the young knight cordially, "an you be that Roger de Conde who rescued=
my
daughter from the fellows of Peter of Colfax, the arms of the De Montforts =
are
open to you.
"Bertrade has had your name upon her tong=
ue
many times since her return. She will be glad indeed to receive you, as is =
her
father. She has told us of your valiant espousal of her cause, and the than=
ks
of her brothers and mother await you, Roger de Conde.
"She also told us of your strange likenes=
s to
Prince Edward, but until I saw you, I could not believe two men could be bo=
rn
of different mothers and yet be so identical. Come, we will seek out my
daughter and her mother."
De Montfort led the young man to a small chamb=
er
where they were greeted by Princess Eleanor, his wife, and by Bertrade de
Montfort. The girl was frankly glad to see him once more and laughingly chi=
de
him because he had allowed another to usurp his prerogative and rescue her =
from
Peter of Colfax.
"And to think," she cried, "tha=
t it
should have been Norman of Torn who fulfilled your duties for you. But he d=
id
not capture Sir Peter's head, my friend; that is still at large to be broug=
ht
to me upon a golden dish."
"I have not forgotten, Lady Bertrade,&quo=
t;
said Roger de Conde. "Peter of Colfax will return."
The girl glanced at him quickly.
"The very words of the Outlaw of Torn,&qu=
ot;
she said. "How many men be ye, Roger de Conde? With raised visor, you
could pass in the King's court for the King's son; and in manner, and form,=
and
swordsmanship, and your visor lowered, you might easily be hanged for Norma=
n of
Torn."
"And which would it please ye most that I
be?" he laughed.
"Neither," she answered, "I be
satisfied with my friend, Roger de Conde."
"So ye like not the Devil of Torn?" =
he
asked.
"He has done me a great service, and I be
under monstrous obligations to him, but he be, nathless, the Outlaw of Torn=
and
I the daughter of an earl and a king's sister."
"A most unbridgeable gulf indeed,"
commented Roger de Conde, drily. "Not even gratitude could lead a king=
's
niece to receive Norman of Torn on a footing of equality."
"He has my friendship, always," said=
the
girl, "but I doubt me if Norman of Torn be the man to impose upon
it."
"One can never tell," said Roger de
Conde, "what manner of fool a man may be. When a man's head be filled =
with
a pretty face, what room be there for reason?"
"Soon thou wilt be a courtier, if thou ke=
ep
long at this turning of pretty compliments," said the girl coldly;
"and I like not courtiers, nor their empty, hypocritical chatter."=
;
The man laughed.
"If I turned a compliment, I did not know
it," he said. "What I think, I say. It may not be a courtly speec=
h or
it may. I know nothing of courts and care less, but be it man or maid to wh=
om I
speak, I say what is in my mind or I say nothing. I did not, in so many wor=
ds,
say that you are beautiful, but I think it nevertheless, and ye cannot be a=
ngry
with my poor eyes if they deceive me into believing that no fairer woman br=
eathes
the air of England. Nor can you chide my sinful brain that it gladly believ=
es
what mine eyes tell it. No, you may not be angry so long as I do not tell y=
ou
all this."
Bertrade de Montfort did not know how to answe=
r so
ridiculous a sophistry; and, truth to tell, she was more than pleased to he=
ar
from the lips of Roger de Conde what bored her on the tongues of other men.=
De Conde was the guest of the Earl of Leicester
for several days, and before his visit was terminated, the young man had so=
won
his way into the good graces of the family that they were loath to see him
leave.
Although denied the society of such as these
throughout his entire life, yet it seemed that he fell as naturally into the
ways of their kind as though he had always been among them. His starved sou=
l,
groping through the darkness of the empty past, yearned toward the feasting=
and
the light of friendship, and urged him to turn his back upon the old life, =
and
remain ever with these people, for Simon de Montfort had offered the young =
man
a position of trust and honor in his retinue.
"Why refused you the offer of my father?&=
quot;
said Bertrade to him as he was come to bid her farewell. "Simon de
Montfort is as great a man in England as the King himself, and your future =
were
assured did you attach your self to his person. But what am I saying! Did R=
oger
de Conde not wish to be elsewhere, he had accepted and, as he did not accep=
t,
it is proof positive that he does not wish to bide among the De
Montforts."
"I would give my soul to the devil,"
said Norman of Torn, "would it buy me the right to remain ever at the =
feet
of Bertrade Montfort."
He raised her hand to his lips in farewell as =
he
started to speak, but something--was it an almost imperceptible pressure of=
her
little fingers, a quickening of her breath or a swaying of her body toward =
him?--caused
him to pause and raise his eyes to hers.
For an instant they stood thus, the eyes of the
man sinking deep into the eyes of the maid, and then hers closed and with a
little sigh that was half gasp, she swayed toward him, and the Devil of Torn
folded the King's niece in his mighty arms and his lips placed the seal of a
great love upon those that were upturned to him.
The touch of those pure lips brought the man to
himself.
"Ah, Bertrade, my Bertrade," he crie=
d,
"what is this thing that I have done! Forgive me, and let the greatnes=
s and
the purity of my love for you plead in extenuation of my act."
She looked up into his face in surprise, and t=
hen
placing her strong white hands upon his shoulders, she whispered:
"See, Roger, I am not angry. It is not wr=
ong
that we love; tell me it is not, Roger."
"You must not say that you love me, Bertr=
ade.
I am a coward, a craven poltroon; but, God, how I love you."
"But," said the girl, "I do
love--"
"Stop," he cried, "not yet, not
yet. Do not say it till I come again. You know nothing of me, you do not kn=
ow
even who I be; but when next I come, I promise that ye shall know as much o=
f me
as I myself know, and then, Bertrade, my Bertrade, if you can then say, 'I =
love
you' no power on earth, or in heaven above, or hell below shall keep you fr=
om
being mine!"
"I will wait, Roger, for I believe in you=
and
trust you. I do not understand, but I know that you must have some good rea=
son,
though it all seems very strange to me. If I, a De Montfort, am willing to =
acknowledge
my love for any man, there can be no reason why I should not do so,
unless," and she started at the sudden thought, wide-eyed and paling,
"unless there be another woman, a--a--wife?"
"There is no other woman, Bertrade,"
said Norman of Torn. "I have no wife; nor within the limits of my memo=
ry
have my lips ever before touched the lips of another, for I do not remember=
my
mother."
She sighed a happy little sigh of relief, and
laughing lightly, said:
"It is some old woman's bugaboo that you =
are
haling out of a dark corner of your imagination to frighten yourself with. =
I do
not fear, since I know that you must be all good. There be no line of vice =
or
deception upon your face and you are very brave. So brave and noble a man,
Roger, has a heart of pure gold."
"Don't," he said, bitterly. "I
cannot endure it. Wait until I come again and then, oh my flower of all
England, if you have it in your heart to speak as you are speaking now, the=
sun
of my happiness will be at zenith. Then, but not before, shall I speak to t=
he
Earl, thy father. Farewell, Bertrade, in a few days I return."
"If you would speak to the Earl on such a
subject, you insolent young puppy, you may save your breath," thundere=
d an
angry voice, and Simon de Montfort strode, scowling, into the room.
The girl paled, but not from fear of her fathe=
r,
for the fighting blood of the De Montforts was as strong in her as in her s=
ire.
She faced him with as brave and resolute a face as did the young man, who
turned slowly, fixing De Montfort with level gaze.
"I heard enough of your words as I was
passing through the corridor," continued the latter, "to readily
guess what had gone before. So it is for this that you have wormed your
sneaking way into my home? And thought you that Simon de Montfort would thr=
ow
his daughter at the head of the first passing rogue? Who be ye, but a namel=
ess
rascal? For aught we know, some low born lackey. Get ye hence, and be only
thankful that I do not aid you with the toe of my boot where it would do the
most good."
"Stop!" cried the girl. "Stop,
father, hast forgot that but for Roger de Conde ye might have seen your
daughter a corpse ere now, or, worse, herself befouled and dishonored?"=
;
"I do not forget," replied the Earl,
"and it is because I remember that my sword remains in its scabbard. T=
he
fellow has been amply repaid by the friendship of De Montfort, but now this=
act
of perfidy has wiped clean the score. An' you would go in peace, sirrah, go
quickly, ere I lose my temper."
"There has been some misunderstanding on =
your
part, My Lord," spoke Norman of Torn, quietly and without apparent ang=
er
or excitement. "Your daughter has not told me that she loves me, nor d=
id I
contemplate asking you for her hand. When next I come, first shall I see her
and if she will have me, My Lord, I shall come to you to tell you that I sh=
all
wed her. Norm--Roger de Conde asks permission of no man to do what he would=
do."
Simon de Montfort was fairly bursting with rage
but he managed to control himself to say,
"My daughter weds whom I select, and even=
now
I have practically closed negotiations for her betrothal to Prince Philip,
nephew of King Louis of France. And as for you, sir, I would as lief see her
the wife of the Outlaw of Torn. He, at least, has wealth and power, and a n=
ame
that be known outside his own armor. But enough of this; get you gone, nor =
let me
see your face again within the walls of Leicester's castle."
"You are right, My Lord, it were foolish =
and
idle for us to be quarreling with words," said the outlaw. "Farew=
ell,
My Lady. I shall return as I promised, and your word shall be law." An=
d with
a profound bow to De Montfort, Norman of Torn left the apartment, and in a =
few minutes
was riding through the courtyard of the castle toward the main portals.
As he passed beneath a window in the castle wa=
ll,
a voice called to him from above, and drawing in his horse, he looked up in=
to
the eyes of Bertrade de Montfort.
"Take this, Roger de Conde," she
whispered, dropping a tiny parcel to him, "and wear it ever, for my sa=
ke.
We may never meet again, for the Earl my father, is a mighty man, not easil=
y turned
from his decisions; therefore I shall say to you, Roger de Conde, what you
forbid my saying. I love you, and be ye prince or scullion, you may have me=
, if
you can find the means to take me."
"Wait, my lady, until I return, then shall
you decide, and if ye be of the same mind as today, never fear but that I s=
hall
take ye. Again, farewell." And with a brave smile that hid a sad heart,
Norman of Torn passed out of the castle yard.
When he undid the parcel which Bertrade had to=
ssed
to him, he found that it contained a beautifully wrought ring set with a si=
ngle
opal.
The Outlaw of Torn raised the little circlet to
his lips, and then slipped it upon the third finger of his left hand.
Norman of Torn did not return to the castle of
Leicester "in a few days," nor for many months. For news came to =
him
that Bertrade de Montfort had been posted off to France in charge of her
mother.
From now on, the forces of Torn were employed =
in
repeated attacks on royalist barons, encroaching ever and ever southward un=
til
even Berkshire and Surrey and Sussex felt the weight of the iron hand of th=
e outlaw.
Nearly a year had elapsed since that day when =
he
had held the fair form of Bertrade de Montfort in his arms, and in all that
time he had heard no word from her.
He would have followed her to France but for t=
he
fact that, after he had parted from her and the intoxication of her immedia=
te
presence had left his brain clear to think rationally, he had realized the
futility of his hopes, and he had seen that the pressing of his suit could =
mean
only suffering and mortification for the woman he loved.
His better judgment told him that she, on her
part, when freed from the subtle spell woven by the nearness and the newnes=
s of
a first love, would doubtless be glad to forget the words she had spoken in=
the
heat of a divine passion. He would wait, then, until fate threw them togeth=
er,
and should that ever chance, while she was still free, he would let her know
that Roger de Conde and the Outlaw of Torn were one and the same.
If she wants me then, he thought, but she will
not. No it is impossible. It is better that she marry her French prince tha=
n to
live, dishonored, the wife of a common highwayman; for though she might lov=
e me
at first, the bitterness and loneliness of her life would turn her love to
hate.
As the outlaw was sitting one day in the little
cottage of Father Claude, the priest reverted to the subject of many past
conversations; the unsettled state of civil conditions in the realm, and the
stand which Norman of Torn would take when open hostilities between King an=
d baron
were declared.
"It would seem that Henry," said the
priest, "by his continued breaches of both the spirit and letter of the
Oxford Statutes, is but urging the barons to resort to arms; and the fact t=
hat
he virtually forced Prince Edward to take up arms against Humphrey de Bohun
last fall, and to carry the ravages of war throughout the Welsh border
provinces, convinces me that he be, by this time, well equipped to resist De
Montfort and his associates."
"If that be the case," said Norman of
Torn, "we shall have war and fighting in real earnest ere many
months."
"And under which standard does My Lord No=
rman
expect to fight?" asked Father Claude.
"Under the black falcon's wing," lau=
ghed
he of Torn.
"Thou be indeed a close-mouthed man, my
son," said the priest, smiling. "Such an attribute helpeth make a
great statesman. With thy soldierly qualities in addition, my dear boy, the=
re
be a great future for thee in the paths of honest men. Dost remember our pa=
st
talk?"
"Yes, father, well; and often have I thou=
ght
on't. I have one more duty to perform here in England and then, it may be, =
that
I shall act on thy suggestion, but only on one condition."
"What be that, my son?"
"That wheresoere I go, thou must go also.=
Thou
be my best friend; in truth, my father; none other have I ever known, for t=
he
little old man of Torn, even though I be the product of his loins, which I =
much
mistrust, be no father to me."
The priest sat looking intently at the young m=
an
for many minutes before he spoke.
Without the cottage, a swarthy figure skulked
beneath one of the windows, listening to such fragments of the conversation
within as came to his attentive ears. It was Spizo, the Spaniard. He crouch=
ed
entirely concealed by a great lilac bush, which many times before had hid h=
is traitorous
form.
At length the priest spoke.
"Norman of Torn," he said, "so =
long
as thou remain in England, pitting thy great host against the Plantagenet K=
ing
and the nobles and barons of his realm, thou be but serving as the cats-paw=
of
another. Thyself hast said an hundred times that thou knowst not the reason=
for
thy hatred against them. Thou be too strong a man to so throw thy life
uselessly away to satisfy the choler of another.
"There be that of which I dare not speak =
to
thee yet and only may I guess and dream of what I think, nor do I know whet=
her
I must hope that it be false or true, but now, if ever, the time hath come =
for
the question to be settled. Thou hast not told me in so many words, but I b=
e an
old man and versed in reading true between the lines, and so I know that th=
ou
lovest Bertrade de Montfort. Nay, do not deny it. And now, what I would say=
be
this. In all England there lives no more honorable man than Simon de Montfo=
rt,
nor none who could more truly decide upon thy future and thy past. Thou may=
not
understand of what I hint, but thou know that thou may trust me, Norman of
Torn."
"Yea, even with my life and honor, my
father," replied the outlaw.
"Then promise me, that with the old man of
Torn alone, thou wilt come hither when I bidst thee and meet Simon de Montf=
ort,
and abide by his decision should my surmises concerning thee be correct. He
will be the best judge of any in England, save two who must now remain
nameless."
"I will come, Father, but it must be soon=
for
on the fourth day we ride south."
"It shall be by the third day, or not at
all," replied Father Claude, and Norman of Torn, rising to leave, wond=
ered
at the moving leaves of the lilac bush without the window, for there was no
breeze.
Spizo, the Spaniard, reached Torn several minu=
tes
before the outlaw chief and had already poured his tale into the ears of the
little, grim, gray, old man.
As the priest's words were detailed to him the=
old
man of Torn paled in anger.
"The fool priest will upset the whole wor=
k to
which I have devoted near twenty years," he muttered, "if I find =
not
the means to quiet his half-wit tongue. Between priest and petticoat, it be=
all
but ruined now. Well then, so much the sooner must I act, and I know not but
that now be as good a time as any. If we come near enough to the King's men=
on
this trip south, the gibbet shall have its own, and a Plantagenet dog shall=
taste
the fruits of his own tyranny," then glancing up and realizing that Sp=
izo,
the Spaniard, had been a listener, the old man, scowling, cried:
"What said I, sirrah? What didst hear?&qu=
ot;
"Naught, My Lord; thou didst but mutter
incoherently," replied the Spaniard.
The old man eyed him closely.
"An did I more, Spizo, thou heardst naught
but muttering, remember."
"Yes, My Lord."
An hour later, the old man of Torn dismounted
before the cottage of Father Claude and entered.
"I am honored," said the priest, ris=
ing.
"Priest," cried the old man, coming
immediately to the point, "Norman of Torn tells me that thou wish him =
and
me and Leicester to meet here. I know not what thy purpose may be, but for =
the
boy's sake, carry not out thy design as yet. I may not tell thee my reasons,
but it be best that this meeting take place after we return from the
south."
The old man had never spoken so fairly to Fath=
er
Claude before, and so the latter was quite deceived and promised to let the
matter rest until later.
A few days after, in the summer of 1263, Norma=
n of
Torn rode at the head of his army of outlaws through the county of Essex, d=
own
toward London town. One thousand fighting men there were, with squires and
other servants, and five hundred sumpter beasts to transport their tents an=
d other
impedimenta, and bring back the loot.
But a small force of ailing men-at-arms, and
servants had been left to guard the castle of Torn under the able direction=
of
Peter the Hermit.
At the column's head rode Norman of Torn and t=
he
little grim, gray, old man; and behind them, nine companies of knights,
followed by the catapult detachment; then came the sumpter beasts. Horsan t=
he
Dane, with his company, formed the rear guard. Three hundred yards in advan=
ce
of the column rode ten men to guard against surprise and ambuscades.
The pennons, and the banners and the bugles; a=
nd
the loud rattling of sword, and lance and armor and iron-shod hoof carried =
to
the eye and ear ample assurance that this great cavalcade of iron men was b=
ent
upon no peaceful mission.
All his captains rode today with Norman of Tor=
n.
Beside those whom we have met, there was Don Piedro Castro y Pensilo of Spa=
in;
Baron of Cobarth of Germany, and Sir John Mandecote of England. Like their =
leader,
each of these fierce warriors carried a great price upon his head, and the
story of the life of any one would fill a large volume with romance, war, i=
ntrigue,
treachery, bravery and death.
Toward noon one day, in the midst of a beautif=
ul
valley of Essex, they came upon a party of ten knights escorting two young
women. The meeting was at a turn in the road, so that the two parties were =
upon
each other before the ten knights had an opportunity to escape with their f=
air wards.
"What the devil be this," cried one =
of
the knights, as the main body of the outlaw horde came into view, "the
King's army or one of his foreign legions?"
"It be Norman of Torn and his fighting
men," replied the outlaw.
The faces of the knights blanched, for they we=
re
ten against a thousand, and there were two women with them.
"Who be ye?" said the outlaw.
"I am Richard de Tany of Essex," said
the oldest knight, he who had first spoken, "and these be my daughter =
and
her friend, Mary de Stutevill. We are upon our way from London to my castle.
What would you of us? Name your price, if it can be paid with honor, it sha=
ll
be paid; only let us go our way in peace. We cannot hope to resist the Devi=
l of
Torn, for we be but ten lances. If ye must have blood, at least let the wom=
en
go unharmed."
"My Lady Mary is an old friend," said
the outlaw. "I called at her father's home but little more than a year
since. We are neighbors, and the lady can tell you that women are safer at =
the
hands of Norman of Torn than they might be in the King's palace."
"Right he is," spoke up Lady Mary,
"Norman of Torn accorded my mother, my sister, and myself the utmost
respect; though I cannot say as much for his treatment of my father," =
she
added, half smiling.
"I have no quarrel with you, Richard de
Tany," said Norman of Torn. "Ride on."
The next day, a young man hailed the watch upon
the walls of the castle of Richard de Tany, telling him to bear word to Joa=
n de
Tany that Roger de Conde, a friend of her guest Lady Mary de Stutevill, was
without.
In a few moments, the great drawbridge sank sl=
owly
into place and Norman of Torn trotted into the courtyard.
He was escorted to an apartment where Mary de
Stutevill and Joan de Tany were waiting to receive him. Mary de Stutevill
greeted him as an old friend, and the daughter of de Tany was no less cordi=
al
in welcoming her friend's friend to the hospitality of her father's castle.=
"Are all your old friends and neighbors c=
ome
after you to Essex," cried Joan de Tany, laughingly, addressing Mary.
"Today it is Roger de Conde, yesterday it was the Outlaw of Torn. Meth=
inks
Derby will soon be depopulated unless you return quickly to your home."=
;
"I rather think it be for news of another=
that
we owe this visit from Roger de Conde," said Mary, smiling. "For I
have heard tales, and I see a great ring upon the gentleman's hand--a ring
which I have seen before."
Norman of Torn made no attempt to deny the rea=
son
for his visit, but asked bluntly if she heard aught of Bertrade de Montfort=
.
"Thrice within the year have I received
missives from her," replied Mary. "In the first two she spoke onl=
y of
Roger de Conde, wondering why he did not come to France after her; but in t=
he
last she mentions not his name, but speaks of her approaching marriage with
Prince Philip."
Both girls were watching the countenance of Ro=
ger
de Conde narrowly, but no sign of the sorrow which filled his heart showed
itself upon his face.
"I guess it be better so," he said
quietly. "The daughter of a De Montfort could scarcely be happy with a
nameless adventurer," he added, a little bitterly.
"You wrong her, my friend," said Mar=
y de
Stutevill. "She loved you and, unless I know not the friend of my
childhood as well as I know myself, she loves you yet; but Bertrade de Mont=
fort
is a proud woman and what can you expect when she hears no word from you fo=
r a
year? Thought you that she would seek you out and implore you to rescue her
from the alliance her father has made for her?"
"You do not understand," he answered, "and I may not tell you; but I ask that you believe me when I say that= it was for her own peace of mind, for her own happiness, that I did not follow= her to France. But, let us talk of other things. The sorrow is mine and I would= not force it upon others. I cared only to know that she is well, and, I hope, happy. It will never be given to me to make her or any other woman so. I wo= uld that I had never come into her life, but I did not know what I was doing; and the spell of her beauty and goodness was strong upon me, so that I was weak and could not resist what I had never known before in all my life--love."<= o:p>
"You could not well be blamed," said
Joan de Tany, generously. "Bertrade de Montfort is all and even more t=
han
you have said; it be a benediction simply to have known her."
As she spoke, Norman of Torn looked upon her
critically for the first time, and he saw that Joan de Tany was beautiful, =
and
that when she spoke, her face lighted with a hundred little changing
expressions of intelligence and character that cast a spell of fascination
about her. Yes, Joan de Tany was good to look upon, and Norman of Torn carr=
ied a
wounded heart in his breast that longed for surcease from its sufferings--f=
or a
healing balm upon its hurts and bruises.
And so it came to pass that, for many days, the
Outlaw of Torn was a daily visitor at the castle of Richard de Tany, and the
acquaintance between the man and the two girls ripened into a deep friendsh=
ip,
and with one of them, it threatened even more.
Norman of Torn, in his ignorance of the ways of
women, saw only friendship in the little acts of Joan de Tany. His life had
been a hard and lonely one. The only ray of brilliant and warming sunshine =
that
had entered it had been his love for Bertrade de Montfort and hers for him.=
His every thought was loyal to the woman whom =
he
knew was not for him, but he longed for the companionship of his own kind a=
nd
so welcomed the friendship of such as Joan de Tany and her fair guest. He d=
id
not dream that either looked upon him with any warmer sentiment than the sw=
eet friendliness
which was as new to him as love--how could he mark the line between or fore=
see
the terrible price of his ignorance!
Mary de Stutevill saw and she thought the man =
but
fickle and shallow in matters of the heart--many there were, she knew, who =
were
thus. She might have warned him had she known the truth, but instead, she l=
et things
drift except for a single word of warning to Joan de Tany.
"Be careful of thy heart, Joan," she
said, "lest it be getting away from thee into the keeping of one who s=
eems
to love no less quickly than he forgets."
The daughter of De Tany flushed.
"I am quite capable of safeguarding my own
heart, Mary de Stutevill," she replied warmly. "If thou covet this
man thyself, why, but say so. Do not think though that, because thy heart g=
lows
in his presence, mine is equally susceptible."
It was Mary's turn now to show offense, and a
sharp retort was on her tongue when suddenly she realized the folly of such=
a
useless quarrel. Instead she put her arms about Joan and kissed her.
"I do not love him," she said, "=
;and
I be glad that you do not, for I know that Bertrade does, and that but a sh=
ort
year since, he swore undying love for her. Let us forget that we have spoke=
n on
the subject."
It was at this time that the King's soldiers w=
ere
harassing the lands of the rebel barons, and taking a heavy toll in revenge=
for
their stinging defeat at Rochester earlier in the year, so that it was scar=
cely
safe for small parties to venture upon the roadways lest they fall into the=
hands
of the mercenaries of Henry III.
Not even were the wives and daughters of the
barons exempt from the attacks of the royalists; and it was no uncommon
occurrence to find them suffering imprisonment, and something worse, at the
hands of the King's supporters.
And in the midst of these alarms, it entered t=
he
willful head of Joan de Tany that she wished to ride to London town and vis=
it
the shops of the merchants.
While London itself was solidly for the barons=
and
against the King's party, the road between the castle of Richard de Tany and
the city of London was beset with many dangers.
"Why," cried the girl's mother in
exasperation, "between robbers and royalists and the Outlaw of Torn, y=
ou
would not be safe if you had an army to escort you."
"But then, as I have no army," retor=
ted
the laughing girl, "if you reason by your own logic, I shall be indeed
quite safe."
And when Roger de Conde attempted to dissuade =
her,
she taunted him with being afraid of meeting with the Devil of Torn, and to=
ld
him that he might remain at home and lock himself safely in her mother's
pantry.
And so, as Joan de Tany was a spoiled child, t=
hey
set out upon the road to London; the two girls with a dozen servants and
knights; and Roger de Conde was of the party.
At the same time a grim, gray, old man dispatc=
hed
a messenger from the outlaw's camp; a swarthy fellow, disguised as a priest,
whose orders were to proceed to London, and when he saw the party of Joan de
Tany, with Roger de Conde, enter the city, he was to deliver the letter he =
bore
to the captain of the gate.
The letter contained this brief message:
"The tall knight in gray with closed helm=
is
Norman of Torn," and was unsigned.
All went well and Joan was laughing merrily at=
the
fears of those who had attempted to dissuade her when, at a cross road, they
discovered two parties of armed men approaching from opposite directions. T=
he
leader of the nearer party spurred forward to intercept the little band, an=
d, reining
in before them, cried brusquely,
"Who be ye?"
"A party on a peaceful mission to the sho=
ps
of London," replied Norman of Torn.
"I asked not your mission," cried the
fellow. "I asked, who be ye? Answer, and be quick about it."
"I be Roger de Conde, gentleman of France,
and these be my sisters and servants," lied the outlaw, "and were=
it
not that the ladies be with me, your answer would be couched in steel, as y=
ou
deserve for your boorish insolence."
"There be plenty of room and time for that
even now, you dog of a French coward," cried the officer, couching his
lance as he spoke.
Joan de Tany was sitting her horse where she c=
ould
see the face of Roger de Conde, and it filled her heart with pride and cour=
age
as she saw and understood the little smile of satisfaction that touched his
lips as he heard the man's challenge and lowered the point of his own spear=
.
Wheeling their horses toward one another, the =
two
combatants, who were some ninety feet apart, charged at full tilt. As they =
came
together the impact was so great that both horses were nearly overturned and
the two powerful war lances were splintered into a hundred fragments as eac=
h struck
the exact center of his opponent's shield. Then, wheeling their horses and
throwing away the butts of their now useless lances, De Conde and the offic=
er
advanced with drawn swords.
The fellow made a most vicious return assault =
upon
De Conde, attempting to ride him down in one mad rush, but his thrust passed
harmlessly from the tip of the outlaw's sword, and as the officer wheeled b=
ack
to renew the battle, they settled down to fierce combat, their horses wheel=
ing and
turning shoulder to shoulder.
The two girls sat rigid in their saddles watch=
ing
the encounter, the eyes of Joan de Tany alight with the fire of battle as s=
he
followed every move of the wondrous swordplay of Roger de Conde.
He had not even taken the precaution to lower =
his
visor, and the grim and haughty smile that played upon his lips spoke louder
than many words the utter contempt in which he held the sword of his advers=
ary.
And as Joan de Tany watched, she saw the smile suddenly freeze to a cold, h=
ard line,
and the eyes of the man narrow to mere slits, and her woman's intuition read
the death warrant of the King's officer ere the sword of the outlaw buried
itself in his heart.
The other members of the two bodies of royalist
soldiers had sat spellbound as they watched the battle, but now, as their
leader's corpse rolled from the saddle, they spurred furiously in upon De C=
onde
and his little party.
The Baron's men put up a noble fight, but the =
odds
were heavy and even with the mighty arm of Norman of Torn upon their side t=
he
outcome was apparent from the first.
Five swords were flashing about the outlaw, but
his blade was equal to the thrust and one after another of his assailants
crumpled up in their saddles as his leaping point found their vitals.
Nearly all of the Baron's men were down, when =
one,
an old servitor, spurred to the side of Joan de Tany and Mary de Stutevill.=
"Come, my ladies," he cried, "q=
uick
and you may escape. They be so busy with the battle that they will never
notice."
"Take the Lady Mary, John," cried Jo=
an,
"I brought Roger de Conde to this pass against the advice of all and I
remain with him to the end."
"But, My Lady--" cried John.
"But nothing, sirrah!" she interrupt=
ed
sharply. "Do as you are bid. Follow my Lady Mary, and see that she com=
es
to my father's castle in safety," and raising her riding whip, she str=
uck
Mary's palfrey across the rump so that the animal nearly unseated his fair
rider as he leaped frantically to one side and started madly up the road do=
wn
which they had come.
"After her, John," commanded Joan
peremptorily, "and see that you turn not back until she be safe within=
the
castle walls; then you may bring aid."
The old fellow had been wont to obey the imper=
ious
little Lady Joan from her earliest childhood, and the habit was so strong u=
pon
him that he wheeled his horse and galloped after the flying palfrey of the =
Lady
Mary de Stutevill.
As Joan de Tany turned again to the encounter
before her, she saw fully twenty men surrounding Roger de Conde, and while =
he
was taking heavy toll of those before him, he could not cope with the men w=
ho
attacked him from behind; and even as she looked, she saw a battle axe fall
full upon his helm, and his sword drop from his nerveless fingers as his li=
feless
body rolled from the back of Sir Mortimer to the battle-tramped clay of the
highroad.
She slid quickly from her palfrey and ran
fearlessly toward his prostrate form, reckless of the tangled mass of snort=
ing,
trampling, steel-clad horses, and surging fighting-men that surrounded him.=
And
well it was for Norman of Torn that this brave girl was there that day, for
even as she reached his side, the sword point of one of the soldiers was at=
his
throat for the coup de grace.
With a cry, Joan de Tany threw herself across = the outlaw's body, shielding him as best she could from the threatening sword.<= o:p>
Cursing loudly, the soldier grasped her roughl=
y by
the arm to drag her from his prey, but at this juncture, a richly armored
knight galloped up and drew rein beside the party.
The newcomer was a man of about forty-five or
fifty; tall, handsome, black-mustached and with the haughty arrogance of pr=
ide
most often seen upon the faces of those who have been raised by unmerited f=
avor
to positions of power and affluence.
He was John de Fulm, Earl of Buckingham, a
foreigner by birth and for years one of the King's favorites; the bitterest
enemy of De Montfort and the barons.
"What now?" he cried. "What goe=
s on
here?"
The soldiers fell back, and one of them replie=
d:
"A party of the King's enemies attacked u=
s,
My Lord Earl, but we routed them, taking these two prisoners."
"Who be ye?" he said, turning toward
Joan who was kneeling beside De Conde, and as she raised her head, "My
God! The daughter of De Tany! a noble prize indeed my men. And who be the
knight?"
"Look for yourself, My Lord Earl,"
replied the girl removing the helm, which she had been unlacing from the fa=
llen
man.
"Edward?" he ejaculated. "But n=
o,
it cannot be, I did but yesterday leave Edward in Dover."
"I know not who he be," said Joan de
Tany, "except that he be the most marvelous fighter and the bravest ma=
n it
has ever been given me to see. He called himself Roger de Conde, but I know
nothing of him other than that he looks like a prince, and fights like a de=
vil.
I think he has no quarrel with either side, My Lord, and so, as you certain=
ly
do not make war on women, you will let us go our way in peace as we were wh=
en
your soldiers wantonly set upon us."
"A De Tany, madam, were a great and valua=
ble
capture in these troublous times," replied the Earl, "and that al=
one
were enough to necessitate my keeping you; but a beautiful De Tany is yet a
different matter and so I will grant you at least one favor. I will not take
you to the King, but a prisoner you shall be in mine own castle for I am al=
one,
and need the cheering company of a fair and loving lady."
The girl's head went high as she looked the Ea=
rl
full in the eye.
"Think you, John de Fulm, Earl of Bucking=
ham,
that you be talking to some comely scullery maid? Do you forget that my hou=
se
is honored in England, even though it does not share the King's favors with=
his
foreign favorites, and you owe respect to a daughter of a De Tany?"
"All be fair in war, my beauty," rep=
lied
the Earl. "Egad," he continued, "methinks all would be fair =
in
hell were they like unto you. It has been some years since I have seen you =
and
I did not know the old fox Richard de Tany kept such a package as this hid =
in
his grimy old castle."
"Then you refuse to release us?" said
Joan de Tany.
"Let us not put it thus harshly,"
countered the Earl. "Rather let us say that it be so late in the day, =
and
the way so beset with dangers that the Earl of Buckingham could not bring
himself to expose the beautiful daughter of his old friend to the perils of=
the
road, and so--"
"Let us have an end to such
foolishness," cried the girl. "I might have expected naught better
from a turncoat foreign knave such as thee, who once joined in the councils=
of
De Montfort, and then betrayed his friends to curry favor with the King.&qu=
ot;
The Earl paled with rage, and pressed forward =
as
though to strike the girl, but thinking better of it, he turned to one of t=
he
soldiers, saying:
"Bring the prisoner with you. If the man
lives bring him also. I would learn more of this fellow who masquerades in =
the
countenance of a crown prince."
And turning, he spurred on towards the neighbo=
ring
castle of a rebel baron which had been captured by the royalists, and was n=
ow
used as headquarters by De Fulm.
When Norman of Torn regained his senses, he fo=
und
himself in a small tower room in a strange castle. His head ached horribly,=
and
he felt sick and sore; but he managed to crawl from the cot on which he lay,
and by steadying his swaying body with hands pressed against the wall, he w=
as
able to reach the door. To his disappointment, he found this locked from
without and, in his weakened condition, he made no attempt to force it.
He was fully dressed and in armor, as he had b=
een
when struck down, but his helmet was gone, as were also his sword and dagge=
r.
The day was drawing to a close and, as dusk fe=
ll
and the room darkened, he became more and more impatient. Repeated pounding
upon the door brought no response and finally he gave up in despair. Going =
to the
window, he saw that his room was some thirty feet above the stone-flagged
courtyard, and also that it looked at an angle upon other windows in the old
castle where lights were beginning to show. He saw men-at-arms moving about,
and once he thought he caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, but he was not
sure.
He wondered what had become of Joan de Tany and
Mary de Stutevill. He hoped that they had escaped, and yet--no, Joan certai=
nly
had not, for now he distinctly remembered that his eyes had met hers for an
instant just before the blow fell upon him, and he thought of the faith and=
confidence
that he had read in that quick glance. Such a look would nerve a jackal to
attack a drove of lions, thought the outlaw. What a beautiful creature she =
was;
and she had stayed there with him during the fight. He remembered now. Mary=
de
Stutevill had not been with her as he had caught that glimpse of her, no, s=
he
had been all alone. Ah! That was friendship indeed!
What else was it that tried to force its way a=
bove
the threshold of his bruised and wavering memory? Words? Words of love? And
lips pressed to his? No, it must be but a figment of his wounded brain.
What was that which clicked against his
breastplate? He felt, and found a metal bauble linked to a mesh of his steel
armor by a strand of silken hair. He carried the little thing to the window,
and in the waning light made it out to be a golden hair ornament set with
precious stones, but he could not tell if the little strand of silken hair =
were
black or brown. Carefully he detached the little thing, and, winding the fi=
lmy tress
about it, placed it within the breast of his tunic. He was vaguely troubled=
by
it, yet why he could scarcely have told, himself.
Again turning to the window, he watched the
lighted rooms within his vision, and presently his view was rewarded by the
sight of a knight coming within the scope of the narrow casement of a nearby
chamber.
From his apparel, he was a man of position, an=
d he
was evidently in heated discussion with some one whom Norman of Torn could =
not
see. The man, a great, tall black-haired and mustached nobleman, was poundi=
ng upon
a table to emphasize his words, and presently he sprang up as though rushing
toward the one to whom he had been speaking. He disappeared from the watche=
r's
view for a moment and then, at the far side of the apartment, Norman of Torn
saw him again just as he roughly grasped the figure of a woman who evidently
was attempting to escape him. As she turned to face her tormentor, all the
devil in the Devil of Torn surged in his aching head, for the face he saw w=
as
that of Joan de Tany.
With a muttered oath, the imprisoned man turne=
d to
hurl himself against the bolted door, but ere he had taken a single step, t=
he
sound of heavy feet without brought him to a stop, and the jingle of keys as
one was fitted to the lock of the door sent him gliding stealthily to the w=
all beside
the doorway, where the inswinging door would conceal him.
As the door was pushed back, a flickering torch
lighted up, but dimly, the interior, so that until he had reached the cente=
r of
the room, the visitor did not see that the cot was empty.
He was a man-at-arms, and at his side hung a
sword. That was enough for the Devil of Torn--it was a sword he craved most;
and, ere the fellow could assure his slow wits that the cot was empty, steel
fingers closed upon his throat, and he went down beneath the giant form of =
the
outlaw.
Without other sound than the scuffing of their
bodies on the floor, and the clanking of their armor, they fought, the one =
to
reach the dagger at his side, the other to close forever the windpipe of his
adversary.
Presently, the man-at-arms found what he sough=
t,
and, after tugging with ever diminishing strength, he felt the blade slip f=
rom
its sheath. Slowly and feebly he raised it high above the back of the man on
top of him; with a last supreme effort he drove the point downward, but ere=
it reached
its goal, there was a sharp snapping sound as of a broken bone, the dagger =
fell
harmlessly from his dead hand, and his head rolled backward upon his broken
neck.
Snatching the sword from the body of his dead
antagonist, Norman of Torn rushed from the tower room.
As John de Fulm, Earl of Buckingham, laid his
vandal hands upon Joan de Tany, she turned upon him like a tigress. Blow af=
ter
blow she rained upon his head and face until, in mortification and rage, he
struck her full upon the mouth with his clenched fist; but even this did not
subdue her and, with ever weakening strength, she continued to strike him. =
And then
the great royalist Earl, the chosen friend of the King, took the fair white
throat between his great fingers, and the lust of blood supplanted the lust=
of
love, for he would have killed her in his rage.
It was upon this scene that the Outlaw of Torn
burst with naked sword. They were at the far end of the apartment, and his =
cry
of anger at the sight caused the Earl to drop his prey, and turn with drawn
sword to meet him.
There were no words, for there was no need of
words here. The two men were upon each other, and fighting to the death, be=
fore
the girl had regained her feet. It would have been short shrift for John de
Fulm had not some of his men heard the fracas, and rushed to his aid.
Four of them there were, and they tumbled
pell-mell into the room, fairly falling upon Norman of Torn in their anxiet=
y to
get their swords into him; but once they met that master hand, they went mo=
re
slowly, and in a moment, two of them went no more at all, and the others, w=
ith
the Earl, were but circling warily in search of a chance opening--an openin=
g which
never came.
Norman of Torn stood with his back against a t=
able
in an angle of the room, and behind him stood Joan de Tany.
"Move toward the left," she whispere=
d.
"I know this old pile. When you reach the table that bears the lamp, t=
here
will be a small doorway directly behind you. Strike the lamp out with your
sword, as you feel my hand in your left, and then I will lead you through t=
hat
doorway, which you must turn and quickly bolt after us. Do you
understand?"
He nodded.
Slowly he worked his way toward the table, the
men-at-arms in the meantime keeping up an infernal howling for help. The Ea=
rl
was careful to keep out of reach of the point of De Conde's sword, and the =
men-at-arms
were nothing loath to emulate their master's example.
Just as he reached his goal, a dozen more men
burst into the room, and emboldened by this reinforcement, one of the men
engaging De Conde came too close. As he jerked his blade from the fellow's
throat, Norman of Torn felt a firm, warm hand slipped into his from behind,=
and
his sword swung with a resounding blow against the lamp.
As darkness enveloped the chamber, Joan de Tany
led him through the little door, which he immediately closed and bolted as =
she
had instructed.
"This way," she whispered, again
slipping her hand into his and, in silence, she led him through several dim
chambers, and finally stopped before a blank wall in a great oak-panelled r=
oom.
Here the girl felt with swift fingers the edge=
of
the molding. More and more rapidly she moved as the sound of hurrying foots=
teps
resounded through the castle.
"What is wrong?" asked Norman of Tor=
n,
noticing her increasing perturbation.
"Mon Dieu!" she cried. "Can I be
wrong! Surely this is the room. Oh, my friend, that I should have brought y=
ou
to all this by my willfulness and vanity; and now when I might save you, my
wits leave me and I forget the way."
"Do not worry about me," laughed the
Devil of Torn. "Methought that it was I who was trying to save you, and
may heaven forgive me else, for surely, that be my only excuse for running =
away
from a handful of swords. I could not take chances when thou wert at stake,
Joan," he added more gravely.
The sound of pursuit was now quite close, in f=
act
the reflection from flickering torches could be seen in nearby chambers.
At last the girl, with a little cry of
"stupid," seized De Conde and rushed him to the far side of the r=
oom.
"Here it is," she whispered joyously,
"here it has been all the time." Running her fingers along the
molding until she found a little hidden spring, she pushed it, and one of t=
he
great panels swung slowly in, revealing the yawning mouth of a black opening
behind.
Quickly the girl entered, pulling De Conde aft=
er
her, and as the panel swung quietly into place, the Earl of Buckingham with=
a
dozen men entered the apartment.
"The devil take them," cried De Fulm.
"Where can they have gone? Surely we were right behind them."
"It is passing strange, My Lord,"
replied one of the men. "Let us try the floor above, and the towers; f=
or
of a surety they have not come this way." And the party retraced its
steps, leaving the apartment empty.
Behind the panel, the girl stood shrinking clo=
se
to De Conde, her hand still in his.
"Where now?" he asked. "Or do we
stay hidden here like frightened chicks until the war is over and the Baron
returns to let us out of this musty hole?"
"Wait," she answered, "until I
quiet my nerves a little. I am all unstrung." He felt her body tremble=
as
it pressed against his.
With the spirit of protection strong within hi=
m,
what wonder that his arm fell about her shoulder as though to say, fear not,
for I be brave and powerful; naught can harm you while I am here.
Presently she reached her hands up to his face,
made brave to do it by the sheltering darkness.
"Roger," she whispered, her tongue
halting over the familiar name. "I thought that they had killed you, a=
nd
all for me, for my foolish stubbornness. Canst forgive me?"
"Forgive?" he asked, smiling to hims=
elf.
"Forgive being given an opportunity to fight? There be nothing to forg=
ive,
Joan, unless it be that I should ask forgiveness for protecting thee so
poorly."
"Do not say that," she commanded.
"Never was such bravery or such swordsmanship in all the world before;
never such a man."
He did not answer. His mind was a chaos of
conflicting thoughts. The feel of her hands as they had lingered momentaril=
y,
and with a vague caress upon his cheek, and the pressure of her body as she
leaned against him sent the hot blood coursing through his veins. He was pu=
zzled,
for he had not dreamed that friendship was so sweet. That she did not shrink
from his encircling arms should have told him much, but Norman of Torn was =
slow
to realize that a woman might look upon him with love. Nor had he a thought=
of
any other sentiment toward her than that of friend and protector.
And then there came to him as in a vision anot=
her
fair and beautiful face--Bertrade de Montfort's--and Norman of Torn was sti=
ll
more puzzled; for at heart he was clean, and love of loyalty was strong wit=
hin
him. Love of women was a new thing to him, and, robbed as he had been all h=
is starved
life of the affection and kindly fellowship, of either men or women, it is
little to be wondered at that he was easily impressionable and responsive to
the feeling his strong personality had awakened in two of England's fairest=
daughters.
But with the vision of that other face, there =
came
to him a faint realization that mayhap it was a stronger power than either
friendship or fear which caused that lithe, warm body to cling so tightly to
him. That the responsibility for the critical stage their young acquaintanc=
e had
so quickly reached was not his had never for a moment entered his head. To =
him,
the fault was all his; and perhaps it was this quality of chivalry that was=
the
finest of the many noble characteristics of his sterling character. So his =
next
words were typical of the man; and did Joan de Tany love him, or did she no=
t,
she learned that night to respect and trust him as she respected and trusted
few men of her acquaintance.
"My Lady," said Norman of Torn, &quo=
t;we
have been through much, and we are as little children in a dark attic, and =
so
if I have presumed upon our acquaintance," and he lowered his arm from
about her shoulder, "I ask you to forgive it for I scarce know what to=
do,
from weakness and from the pain of the blow upon my head."
Joan de Tany drew slowly away from him, and
without reply, took his hand and led him forward through a dark, cold corri=
dor.
"We must go carefully now," she said=
at
last, "for there be stairs near."
He held her hand pressed very tightly in his,
tighter perhaps than conditions required, but she let it lie there as she l=
ed
him forward, very slowly down a flight of rough stone steps.
Norman of Torn wondered if she were angry with=
him
and then, being new at love, he blundered.
"Joan de Tany," he said.
"Yes, Roger de Conde; what would you?&quo=
t;
"You be silent, and I fear that you be an=
gry
with me. Tell me that you forgive what I have done, an it offended you. I h=
ave
so few friends," he added sadly, "that I cannot afford to lose su=
ch
as you."
"You will never lose the friendship of Jo=
an
de Tany," she answered. "You have won her respect and--and--"
But she could not say it and so she trailed off lamely--"and undying
gratitude."
But Norman of Torn knew the word that she would
have spoken had he dared to let her. He did not, for there was always the
vision of Bertrade de Montfort before him; and now another vision arose that
would effectually have sealed his lips had not the other--he saw the Outlaw=
of
Torn dangling by his neck from a wooden gibbet.
Before, he had only feared that Joan de Tany l=
oved
him, now he knew it, and while he marvelled that so wondrous a creature cou=
ld
feel love for him, again he blamed himself, and felt sorrow for them both; =
for
he did not return her love nor could he imagine a love strong enough to sur=
vive
the knowledge that it was possessed by the Devil of Torn.
Presently they reached the bottom of the stair=
way,
and Joan de Tany led him, gropingly, across what seemed, from their echoing
footsteps, a large chamber. The air was chill and dank, smelling of mold, a=
nd
no ray of light penetrated this subterranean vault, and no sound broke the =
stillness.
"This be the castle's crypt," whispe=
red
Joan; "and they do say that strange happenings occur here in the still
watches of the night, and that when the castle sleeps, the castle's dead ri=
se
from their coffins and shake their dry bones.
"Sh! What was that?" as a rustling n=
oise
broke upon their ears close upon their right; and then there came a distinct
moan, and Joan de Tany fled to the refuge of Norman of Torn's arms.
"There is nothing to fear, Joan,"
reassured Norman of Torn. "Dead men wield not swords, nor do they move=
, or
moan. The wind, I think, and rats are our only companions here."
"I am afraid," she whispered. "=
If
you can make a light, I am sure you will find an old lamp here in the crypt,
and then will it be less fearsome. As a child I visited this castle often, =
and
in search of adventure, we passed through these corridors an hundred times,=
but
always by day and with lights."
Norman of Torn did as she bid, and finding the
lamp, lighted it. The chamber was quite empty save for the coffins in their
niches, and some effigies in marble set at intervals about the walls.
"Not such a fearsome place after all,&quo=
t;
he said, laughing lightly.
"No place would seem fearsome now," =
she
answered simply, "were there a light to show me that the brave face of
Roger de Conde were by my side."
"Hush, child," replied the outlaw.
"You know not what you say. When you know me better, you will be sorry=
for
your words, for Roger de Conde is not what you think him. So say no more of
praise until we be out of this hole, and you safe in your father's halls.&q=
uot;
The fright of the noises in the dark chamber h=
ad
but served to again bring the girl's face close to his so that he felt her =
hot,
sweet breath upon his cheek, and thus another link was forged to bind him to
her.
With the aid of the lamp, they made more rapid
progress, and in a few moments, reached a low door at the end of the arched
passageway.
"This is the doorway which opens upon the
ravine below the castle. We have passed beneath the walls and the moat. What
may we do now, Roger, without horses?"
"Let us get out of this place, and as far
away as possible under the cover of darkness, and I doubt not I may find a =
way
to bring you to your father's castle," replied Norman of Torn.
Putting out the light, lest it should attract =
the
notice of the watch upon the castle walls, Norman of Torn pushed open the
little door and stepped forth into the fresh night air.
The ravine was so overgrown with tangled vines=
and
wildwood that, had there ever been a pathway, it was now completely
obliterated; and it was with difficulty that the man forced his way through=
the
entangling creepers and tendrils. The girl stumbled after him and twice fell
before they had taken a score of steps.
"I fear I am not strong enough," she
said finally. "The way is much more difficult than I had thought."=
;
So Norman of Torn lifted her in his strong arm=
s,
and stumbled on through the darkness and the shrubbery down the center of t=
he
ravine. It required the better part of an hour to traverse the little dista=
nce
to the roadway; and all the time her head nestled upon his shoulder and her=
hair
brushed his cheek. Once when she lifted her head to speak to him, he bent t=
oward
her, and in the darkness, by chance, his lips brushed hers. He felt her lit=
tle
form tremble in his arms, and a faint sigh breathed from her lips.
They were upon the highroad now, but he did not
put her down. A mist was before his eyes, and he could have crushed her to =
him
and smothered those warm lips with his own. Slowly, his face inclined toward
hers, closer and closer his iron muscles pressed her to him, and then, clea=
r cut
and distinct before his eyes, he saw the corpse of the Outlaw of Torn swing=
ing by
the neck from the arm of a wooden gibbet, and beside it knelt a woman gowne=
d in
rich cloth of gold and many jewels. Her face was averted and her arms were
outstretched toward the dangling form that swung and twisted from the grim,
gaunt arm. Her figure was racked with choking sobs of horror-stricken grief.
Presently she staggered to her feet and turned away, burying her face in her
hands; but he saw her features for an instant then--the woman who openly and
alone mourned the dead Outlaw of Torn was Bertrade de Montfort.
Slowly his arms relaxed, and gently and revere=
ntly
he lowered Joan de Tany to the ground. In that instant Norman of Torn had
learned the difference between friendship and love, and love and passion.
The moon was shining brightly upon them, and t=
he
girl turned, wide-eyed and wondering, toward him. She had felt the wild cal=
l of
love and she could not understand his seeming coldness now, for she had see=
n no
vision beyond a life of happiness within those strong arms.
"Joan," he said, "I would but n=
ow
have wronged thee. Forgive me. Forget what has passed between us until I can
come to you in my rightful colors, when the spell of the moonlight and
adventure be no longer upon us, and then,"--he paused--"and then I
shall tell you who I be and you shall say if you still care to call me
friend--no more than that shall I ask."
He had not the heart to tell her that he loved
only Bertrade de Montfort, but it had been a thousand times better had he d=
one
so.
She was about to reply when a dozen armed men =
sprang
from the surrounding shadows, calling upon them to surrender. The moonlight=
falling
upon the leader revealed a great giant of a fellow with an enormous, bristl=
ing
mustache--it was Shandy.
Norman of Torn lowered his raised sword.
"It is I, Shandy," he said. "Ke=
ep a
still tongue in thy head until I speak with thee apart. Wait here, My Lady
Joan; these be friends."
Drawing Shandy to one side, he learned that the
faithful fellow had become alarmed at his chief's continued absence, and had
set out with a small party to search for him. They had come upon the riderl=
ess
Sir Mortimer grazing by the roadside, and a short distance beyond, had disc=
overed
evidences of the conflict at the cross-roads. There they had found Norman of
Torn's helmet, confirming their worst fears. A peasant in a nearby hut had =
told
them of the encounter, and had set them upon the road taken by the Earl and=
his
prisoners.
"And here we be, My Lord," concluded=
the
great fellow.
"How many are you?" asked the outlaw=
.
"Fifty, all told, with those who lie fart=
her
back in the bushes."
"Give us horses, and let two of the men r=
ide
behind us," said the chief. "And, Shandy, let not the lady know t=
hat
she rides this night with the Outlaw of Torn."
"Yes, My Lord."
They were soon mounted, and clattering down the
road, back toward the castle of Richard de Tany.
Joan de Tany looked in silent wonder upon this
grim force that sprang out of the shadows of the night to do the bidding of
Roger de Conde, a gentleman of France.
There was something familiar in the great bulk=
of
Red Shandy; where had she seen that mighty frame before? And now she looked
closely at the figure of Roger de Conde. Yes, somewhere else had she seen t=
hese
two men together; but where and when?
And then the strangeness of another incident c=
ame to
her mind. Roger de Conde spoke no English, and yet she had plainly heard
English words upon this man's lips as he addressed the red giant.
Norman of Torn had recovered his helmet from o=
ne
of his men who had picked it up at the crossroads, and now he rode in silen=
ce
with lowered visor, as was his custom.
There was something sinister now in his
appearance, and as the moonlight touched the hard, cruel faces of the grim =
and
silent men who rode behind him, a little shudder crept over the frame of Jo=
an
de Tany.
Shortly before daylight they reached the castl=
e of
Richard de Tany, and a great shout went up from the watch as Norman of Torn
cried:
"Open! Open for My Lady Joan."
Together they rode into the courtyard, where a=
ll
was bustle and excitement. A dozen voices asked a dozen questions only to c=
ry
out still others without waiting for replies.
Richard de Tany with his family and Mary de
Stutevill were still fully clothed, having not lain down during the whole
night. They fairly fell upon Joan and Roger de Conde in their joyous welcome
and relief.
"Come, come," said the Baron, "=
let
us go within. You must be fair famished for good food and drink."
"I will ride, My Lord," replied Norm=
an
of Torn. "I have a little matter of business with my friend, the Earl =
of
Buckingham. Business which I fear will not wait."
Joan de Tany looked on in silence. Nor did she
urge him to remain, as he raised her hand to his lips in farewell. So Norma=
n of
Torn rode out of the courtyard; and as his men fell in behind him under the
first rays of the drawing day, the daughter of De Tany watched them through=
the
gate, and a great light broke upon her, for what she saw was the same as sh=
e had
seen a few days since when she had turned in her saddle to watch the retrea=
ting
forms of the cut-throats of Torn as they rode on after halting her father's
party.
Some hours later, fifty men followed Norman of
Torn on foot through the ravine below the castle where John de Fulm, Earl of
Buckingham, had his headquarters; while nearly a thousand more lurked in the
woods before the grim pile.
Under cover of the tangled shrubbery, they cra=
wled
unseen to the little door through which Joan de Tany had led him the night
before. Following the corridors and vaults beneath the castle, they came to=
the
stone stairway, and mounted to the passage which led to the false panel tha=
t had
given the two fugitives egress.
Slipping the spring lock, Norman of Torn enter=
ed
the apartment followed closely by his henchmen. On they went, through apart=
ment
after apartment, but no sign of the Earl or his servitors rewarded their se=
arch,
and it was soon apparent that the castle was deserted.
As they came forth into the courtyard, they
descried an old man basking in the sun, upon a bench. The sight of them nea=
rly
caused the old fellow to die of fright, for to see fifty armed men issue fr=
om
the untenanted halls was well reckoned to blanch even a braver cheek.
When Norman of Torn questioned him, he learned
that De Fulm had ridden out early in the day bound for Dover, where Prince =
Edward
then was. The outlaw knew it would be futile to pursue him, but yet, so fie=
rce
was his anger against this man, that he ordered his band to mount, and spur=
ring
to their head, he marched through Middlesex, and crossing the Thames above
London, entered Surrey late the same afternoon.
As they were going into camp that night in Ken=
t,
midway between London and Rochester, word came to Norman of Torn that the E=
arl
of Buckingham, having sent his escort on to Dover, had stopped to visit the
wife of a royalist baron, whose husband was with Prince Edward's forces.
The fellow who gave this information was a ser=
vant
in my lady's household who held a grudge against his mistress for some wrong
she had done him. When, therefore, he found that these grim men were search=
ing for
De Fulm, he saw a way to be revenged upon his mistress.
"How many swords be there at the
castle?" asked Norman of Torn.
"Scarce a dozen, barring the Earl of
Buckingham," replied the knave; "and, furthermore, there be a way=
to
enter, which I may show you, My Lord, so that you may, unseen, reach the
apartment where My Lady and the Earl be supping."
"Bring ten men, beside yourself,
Shandy," commanded Norman of Torn. "We shall pay a little visit u=
pon
our amorous friend, My Lord, the Earl of Buckingham."
Half an hour's ride brought them within sight =
of
the castle. Dismounting, and leaving their horses with one of the men, Norm=
an
of Torn advanced on foot with Shandy and the eight others, close in the wak=
e of
the traitorous servant.
The fellow led them to the rear of the castle,
where, among the brush, he had hidden a rude ladder, which, when tilted,
spanned the moat and rested its farther end upon a window ledge some ten fe=
et
above the ground.
"Keep the fellow here till last,
Shandy," said the outlaw, "till all be in, an' if there be any si=
gns
of treachery, stick him through the gizzard--death thus be slower and more
painful."
So saying, Norman of Torn crept boldly across =
the
improvised bridge, and disappeared within the window beyond. One by one the
band of cut-throats passed through the little window, until all stood within
the castle beside their chief; Shandy coming last with the servant.
"Lead me quietly, knave, to the room wher=
e My
Lord sups," said Norman of Torn. "You, Shandy, place your men whe=
re
they can prevent my being interrupted."
Following a moment or two after Shandy came
another figure stealthily across the ladder and, as Norman of Torn and his
followers left the little room, this figure pushed quietly through the wind=
ow
and followed the great outlaw down the unlighted corridor.
A moment later, My Lady of Leybourn looked up =
from
her plate upon the grim figure of an armored knight standing in the doorway=
of
the great dining hall.
"My Lord Earl!" she cried. "Loo=
k!
Behind you."
And as the Earl of Buckingham glanced behind h=
im,
he overturned the bench upon which he sat in his effort to gain his feet; f=
or
My Lord Earl of Buckingham had a guilty conscience.
The grim figure raised a restraining hand, as =
the
Earl drew his sword.
"A moment, My Lord," said a low voic=
e in
perfect French.
"Who are you?" cried the lady.
"I be an old friend of My Lord, here; but=
let
me tell you a little story.
"In a grim old castle in Essex, only last
night, a great lord of England held by force the beautiful daughter of a no=
ble
house and, when she spurned his advances, he struck her with his clenched f=
ist
upon her fair face, and with his brute hands choked her. And in that castle
also was a despised and hunted outlaw, with a price upon his head, for whose
neck the hempen noose has been yawning these many years. And it was this vi=
le person
who came in time to save the young woman from the noble flower of knighthood
that would have ruined her young life.
"The outlaw wished to kill the knight, but
many men-at-arms came to the noble's rescue, and so the outlaw was forced to
fly with the girl lest he be overcome by numbers, and the girl thus fall ag=
ain
into the hands of her tormentor.
"But this crude outlaw was not satisfied =
with
merely rescuing the girl, he must needs mete out justice to her noble abduc=
tor
and collect in full the toll of blood which alone can atone for the insult =
and
violence done her.
"My Lady, the young girl was Joan de Tany;
the noble was My Lord the Earl of Buckingham; and the outlaw stands before =
you
to fulfill the duty he has sworn to do. En garde, My Lord!"
The encounter was short, for Norman of Torn had
come to kill, and he had been looking through a haze of blood for hours--in
fact every time he had thought of those brutal fingers upon the fair throat=
of
Joan de Tany and of the cruel blow that had fallen upon her face.
He showed no mercy, but backed the Earl
relentlessly into a corner of the room, and when he had him there where he
could escape in no direction, he drove his blade so deep through his putrid
heart that the point buried itself an inch in the oak panel beyond.
Claudia Leybourn sat frozen with horror at the
sight she was witnessing, and, as Norman of Torn wrenched his blade from the
dead body before him and wiped it on the rushes of the floor, she gazed in
awful fascination while he drew his dagger and made a mark upon the forehea=
d of
the dead nobleman.
"Outlaw or Devil," said a stern voice
behind them, "Roger Leybourn owes you his friendship for saving the ho=
nor
of his home."
Both turned to discover a mail-clad figure
standing in the doorway where Norman of Torn had first appeared.
"Roger!" shrieked Claudia Leybourn, =
and
swooned.
"Who be you?" continued the master of
Leybourn addressing the outlaw.
For answer Norman of Torn pointed to the foreh=
ead
of the dead Earl of Buckingham, and there Roger Leybourn saw, in letters of
blood, NT.
The Baron advanced with outstretched hand.
"I owe you much. You have saved my poor,
silly wife from this beast, and Joan de Tany is my cousin, so I am doubly
beholden to you, Norman of Torn."
The outlaw pretended that he did not see the h=
and.
"You owe me nothing, Sir Roger, that may =
not
be paid by a good supper. I have eaten but once in forty-eight hours."=
The outlaw now called to Shandy and his men,
telling them to remain on watch, but to interfere with no one within the
castle.
He then sat at the table with Roger Leybourn a=
nd
his lady, who had recovered from her swoon, and behind them on the rushes of
the floor lay the body of De Fulm in a little pool of blood.
Leybourn told them that he had heard that De F=
ulm
was at his home, and had hastened back; having been in hiding about the cas=
tle
for half an hour before the arrival of Norman of Torn, awaiting an opportun=
ity
to enter unobserved by the servants. It was he who had followed across the =
ladder
after Shandy.
The outlaw spent the night at the castle of Ro=
ger
Leybourn; for the first time within his memory a welcomed guest under his t=
rue
name at the house of a gentleman.
The following morning, he bade his host goodby=
e,
and returning to his camp started on his homeward march toward Torn.
Near midday, as they were approaching the Tham=
es
near the environs of London, they saw a great concourse of people hooting a=
nd
jeering at a small party of gentlemen and gentlewomen.
Some of the crowd were armed, and from very fo=
rce
of numbers were waxing brave to lay violent hands upon the party. Mud and r=
ocks
and rotten vegetables were being hurled at the little cavalcade, many of th=
em barely
missing the women of the party.
Norman of Torn waited to ask no questions, but
spurring into the thick of it laid right and left of him with the flat of h=
is
sword, and his men, catching the contagion of it, swarmed after him until t=
he
whole pack of attacking ruffians were driven into the Thames.
And then, without a backward glance at the par=
ty
he had rescued, he continued on his march toward the north.
The little party sat upon their horses looking=
in
wonder after the retreating figures of their deliverers. Then one of the la=
dies
turned to a knight at her side with a word of command and an imperious gest=
ure toward
the fast disappearing company. He, thus addressed, put spurs to his horse, =
and
rode at a rapid gallop after the outlaw's troop. In a few moments he had
overtaken them and reined up beside Norman of Torn.
"Hold, Sir Knight," cried the gentle=
man,
"the Queen would thank you in person for your brave defence of her.&qu=
ot;
Ever keen to see the humor of a situation, Nor=
man
of Torn wheeled his horse and rode back with the Queen's messenger.
As he faced Her Majesty, the Outlaw of Torn be=
nt
low over his pommel.
"You be a strange knight that thinks so
lightly on saving a queen's life that you ride on without turning your head=
, as
though you had but driven a pack of curs from annoying a stray cat," s=
aid
the Queen.
"I drew in the service of a woman, Your
Majesty, not in the service of a queen."
"What now! Wouldst even belittle the act
which we all witnessed? The King, my husband, shall reward thee, Sir Knight=
, if
you but tell me your name."
"If I told my name, methinks the King wou=
ld
be more apt to hang me," laughed the outlaw. "I be Norman of
Torn."
The entire party looked with startled astonish=
ment
upon him, for none of them had ever seen this bold raider whom all the nobi=
lity
and gentry of England feared and hated.
"For lesser acts than that which thou hast
just performed, the King has pardoned men before," replied Her Majesty.
"But raise your visor, I would look upon the face of so notorious a
criminal who can yet be a gentleman and a loyal protector of his queen.&quo=
t;
"They who have looked upon my face, other
than my friends," replied Norman of Torn quietly, "have never liv=
ed
to tell what they saw beneath this visor, and as for you, Madame, I have
learned within the year to fear it might mean unhappiness to you to see the=
visor
of the Devil of Torn lifted from his face." Without another word he
wheeled and galloped back to his little army.
"The puppy, the insolent puppy," cri=
ed
Eleanor of England, in a rage.
And so the Outlaw of Torn and his mother met a=
nd
parted after a period of twenty years.
Two days later, Norman of Torn directed Red Sh=
andy
to lead the forces of Torn from their Essex camp back to Derby. The numerous
raiding parties which had been constantly upon the road during the days they
had spent in this rich district had loaded the extra sumpter beasts with ri=
ch and
valuable booty and the men, for the time satiated with fighting and loot,
turned their faces toward Torn with evident satisfaction.
The outlaw was speaking to his captains in
council; at his side the old man of Torn.
"Ride by easy stages, Shandy, and I will
overtake you by tomorrow morning. I but ride for a moment to the castle of =
De
Tany on an errand, and, as I shall stop there but a few moments, I shall su=
rely
join you tomorrow."
"Do not forget, My Lord," said Edwild
the Serf, a great yellow-haired Saxon giant, "that there be a party of=
the
King's troops camped close by the road which branches to Tany."
"I shall give them plenty of room,"
replied Norman of Torn. "My neck itcheth not to be stretched," an=
d he
laughed and mounted.
Five minutes after he had cantered down the ro=
ad
from camp, Spizo the Spaniard, sneaking his horse unseen into the surroundi=
ng
forest, mounted and spurred rapidly after him. The camp, in the throes of
packing refractory, half broken sumpter animals, and saddling their own wil=
d mounts,
did not notice his departure. Only the little grim, gray, old man knew that=
he
had gone, or why, or whither.
That afternoon, as Roger de Conde was admitted=
to
the castle of Richard de Tany and escorted to a little room where he awaited
the coming of the Lady Joan, a swarthy messenger handed a letter to the cap=
tain
of the King's soldiers camped a few miles south of Tany.
The officer tore open the seal as the messenger
turned and spurred back in the direction from which he had come.
And this was what he read:
Norman of Torn is now at the castle of Tany,
without escort.
Instantly the call "to arms" and
"mount" sounded through the camp and, in five minutes, a hundred
mercenaries galloped rapidly toward the castle of Richard de Tany, in the
visions of their captain a great reward and honor and preferment for the
capture of the mighty outlaw who was now almost within his clutches.
Three roads meet at Tany; one from the south a=
long
which the King's soldiers were now riding; one from the west which had guid=
ed
Norman of Torn from his camp to the castle; and a third which ran northwest=
through
Cambridge and Huntingdon toward Derby.
All unconscious of the rapidly approaching foe=
s,
Norman of Torn waited composedly in the anteroom for Joan de Tany.
Presently she entered, clothed in the clinging
house garment of the period; a beautiful vision, made more beautiful by the
suppressed excitement which caused the blood to surge beneath the velvet of=
her
cheek, and her breasts to rise and fall above her fast beating heart.
She let him take her fingers in his and raise =
them
to his lips, and then they stood looking into each other's eyes in silence =
for
a long moment.
"I do not know how to tell you what I have
come to tell," he said sadly. "I have not meant to deceive you to
your harm, but the temptation to be with you and those whom you typify must=
be
my excuse. I--" He paused. It was easy to tell her that he was the Out=
law
of Torn, but if she loved him, as he feared, how was he to tell her that he
loved only Bertrade de Montfort?
"You need tell me nothing," interrup=
ted
Joan de Tany. "I have guessed what you would tell me, Norman of Torn. =
'The
spell of moonlight and adventure is no longer upon us'--those are your own
words, and still I am glad to call you friend."
The little emphasis she put upon the last word
bespoke the finality of her decision that the Outlaw of Torn could be no mo=
re
than friend to her.
"It is best," he replied, relieved t=
hat,
as he thought, she felt no love for him now that she knew him for what he
really was. "Nothing good could come to such as you, Joan, if the Devi=
l of
Torn could claim more of you than friendship; and so I think that for your
peace of mind and for my own, we will let it be as though you had never kno=
wn
me. I thank you that you have not been angry with me. Remember me only to t=
hink
that in the hills of Derby, a sword is at your service, without reward and =
without
price. Should you ever need it, Joan, tell me that you will send for me--wi=
lt
promise me that, Joan?"
"I promise, Norman of Torn."
"Farewell," he said, and as he again
kissed her hand he bent his knee to the ground in reverence. Then he rose to
go, pressing a little packet into her palm. Their eyes met, and the man saw=
, in
that brief instant, deep in the azure depths of the girl's that which tumbl=
ed
the structure of his new-found complacency about his ears.
As he rode out into the bright sunlight upon t=
he
road which led northwest toward Derby, Norman of Torn bowed his head in sor=
row,
for he realized two things. One was that the girl he had left still loved h=
im, and
that some day, mayhap tomorrow, she would suffer because she had sent him a=
way;
and the other was that he did not love her, that his heart was locked in the
fair breast of Bertrade de Montfort.
He felt himself a beast that he had allowed his
loneliness and the aching sorrow of his starved, empty heart to lead him in=
to
this girl's life. That he had been new to women and newer still to love did=
not
permit him to excuse himself, and a hundred times he cursed his folly and
stupidity, and what he thought was fickleness.
But the unhappy affair had taught him one thing
for certain: to know without question what love was, and that the memory of
Bertrade de Montfort's lips would always be more to him than all the
allurements possessed by the balance of the women of the world, no matter h=
ow charming,
or how beautiful.
Another thing, a painful thing he had learned =
from
it, too, that the attitude of Joan de Tany, daughter of an old and noble ho=
use,
was but the attitude which the Outlaw of Torn must expect from any good wom=
an of
her class; what he must expect from Bertrade de Montfort when she learned t=
hat
Roger de Conde was Norman of Torn.
The outlaw had scarce passed out of sight upon=
the
road to Derby ere the girl, who still stood in an embrasure of the south to=
wer,
gazing with strangely drawn, sad face up the road which had swallowed him, =
saw
a body of soldiers galloping rapidly toward Tany from the south.
The King's banner waved above their heads, and
intuitively, Joan de Tany knew for whom they sought at her father's castle.
Quickly she hastened to the outer barbican that it might be she who answered
their hail rather than one of the men-at-arms on watch there.
She had scarcely reached the ramparts of the o=
uter
gate ere the King's men drew rein before the castle.
In reply to their hail, Joan de Tany asked the=
ir
mission.
"We seek the outlaw, Norman of Torn, who
hides now within this castle," replied the officer.
"There be no outlaw here," replied t=
he
girl, "but, if you wish, you may enter with half a dozen men and search
the castle."
This the officer did and, when he had assured
himself that Norman of Torn was not within, an hour had passed, and Joan de
Tany felt certain that the Outlaw of Torn was too far ahead to be caught by=
the
King's men; so she said:
"There was one here just before you came =
who
called himself though by another name than Norman of Torn. Possibly it is h=
e ye
seek."
"Which way rode he?" cried the offic=
er.
"Straight toward the west by the middle
road," lied Joan de Tany. And, as the officer hurried from the castle =
and,
with his men at his back, galloped furiously away toward the west, the girl
sank down upon a bench, pressing her little hands to her throbbing temples.=
Then she opened the packet which Norman of Torn
had handed her, and within found two others. In one of these was a beautiful
jeweled locket, and on the outside were the initials JT, and on the inside =
the
initials NT; in the other was a golden hair ornament set with precious ston=
es, and
about it was wound a strand of her own silken tresses.
She looked long at the little trinkets and the=
n,
pressing them against her lips, she threw herself face down upon an oaken
bench, her lithe young form racked with sobs.
She was indeed but a little girl chained by the
inexorable bonds of caste to a false ideal. Birth and station spelled honor=
to
her, and honor, to the daughter of an English noble, was a mightier force e=
ven than
love.
That Norman of Torn was an outlaw she might ha=
ve
forgiven, but that he was, according to report, a low fellow of no birth pl=
aced
an impassable barrier between them.
For hours the girl lay sobbing upon the bench,
whilst within her raged the mighty battle of the heart against the head.
Thus her mother found her, and kneeling beside
her, and with her arms about the girl's neck, tried to soothe her and to le=
arn
the cause of her sorrow. Finally it came, poured from the flood gates of a
sorrowing heart; that wave of bitter misery and hopelessness which not even=
a mother's
love could check.
"Joan, my dear daughter," cried Lady=
de
Tany, "I sorrow with thee that thy love has been cast upon so bleak and
impossible a shore. But it be better that thou hast learnt the truth ere it
were too late; for, take my word upon it, Joan, the bitter humiliation such=
an
alliance must needs have brought upon thee and thy father's house would soon
have cooled thy love; nor could his have survived the sneers and affronts e=
ven
the menials would have put upon him."
"Oh, mother, but I love him so," moa=
ned
the girl. "I did not know how much until he had gone, and the King's
officer had come to search for him, and then the thought that all the power=
of
a great throne and the mightiest houses of an entire kingdom were turned in
hatred against him raised the hot blood of anger within me and the knowledg=
e of
my love surged through all my being. Mother, thou canst not know the honor,=
and
the bravery, and the chivalry of the man as I do. Not since Arthur of Silur=
es
kept his round table hath ridden forth upon English soil so true a knight as
Norman of Torn.
"Couldst thou but have seen him fight, my
mother, and witnessed the honor of his treatment of thy daughter, and heard=
the
tone of dignified respect in which he spoke of women thou wouldst have loved
him, too, and felt that outlaw though he be, he is still more a gentleman t=
han nine-tenths
the nobles of England."
"But his birth, my daughter!" argued=
the
Lady de Tany. "Some even say that the gall marks of his brass collar s=
till
showeth upon his neck, and others that he knoweth not himself the name of h=
is
own father, nor had he any mother."
Ah, but this was the mighty argument! Naught c=
ould
the girl say to justify so heinous a crime as low birth. What a man did in
those rough cruel days might be forgotten and forgiven but the sins of his
mother or his grandfather in not being of noble blood, no matter howsoever =
wickedly
attained, he might never overcome or live down.
Torn by conflicting emotions, the poor girl
dragged herself to her own apartment and there upon a restless, sleepless
couch, beset by wild, impossible hopes, and vain, torturing regrets, she fo=
ught
out the long, bitter night; until toward morning she solved the problem of =
her
misery in the only way that seemed possible to her poor, tired, bleeding, l=
ittle
heart. When the rising sun shone through the narrow window, it found Joan de
Tany at peace with all about her; the carved golden hilt of the toy that had
hung at her girdle protruded from her breast, and a thin line of crimson ran
across the snowy skin to a little pool upon the sheet beneath her.
And so the cruel hand of a mighty revenge had
reached out to crush another innocent victim.
When word of the death of Joan de Tany reached
Torn, no man could tell from outward appearance the depth of the suffering
which the sad intelligence wrought on the master of Torn.
All that they who followed him knew was that
certain unusual orders were issued, and that that same night, the ten compa=
nies
rode south toward Essex without other halt than for necessary food and water
for man and beast.
When the body of Joan de Tany rode forth from =
her
father's castle to the church at Colchester, and again as it was brought ba=
ck
to its final resting place in the castle's crypt, a thousand strange and si=
lent
knights, black draped, upon horses trapped in black, rode slowly behind the
bier.
Silently they had come in the night preceding =
the
funeral, and as silently, they slipped away northward into the falling shad=
ows
of the following night.
No word had passed between those of the castle=
and
the great troop of sable-clad warriors, but all within knew that the mighty
Outlaw of Torn had come to pay homage to the memory of the daughter of De T=
any,
and all but the grieving mother wondered at the strangeness of the act.
As the horde of Torn approached their Derby
stronghold, their young leader turned the command over to Red Shandy and
dismounted at the door of Father Claude's cottage.
"I am tired, Father," said the outla=
w as
he threw himself upon his accustomed bench. "Naught but sorrow and dea=
th
follow in my footsteps. I and all my acts be accurst, and upon those I love,
the blight falleth."
"Alter thy ways, my son; follow my advice=
ere
it be too late. Seek out a new and better life in another country and carve=
thy
future into the semblance of glory and honor."
"Would that I might, my friend,"
answered Norman of Torn. "But hast thou thought on the consequences wh=
ich
surely would follow should I thus remove both heart and head from the thing
that I have built?
"What suppose thou would result were Norm=
an
of Torn to turn his great band of cut-throats, leaderless, upon England? Ha=
st
thought on't, Father?
"Wouldst thou draw a single breath in
security if thou knew Edwild the Serf were ranging unchecked through Derby?
Edwild, whose father was torn limb from limb upon the rack because he would=
not
confess to killing a buck in the new forest, a buck which fell before the a=
rrow
of another man; Edwild, whose mother was burned for witchcraft by Holy Chur=
ch.
"And Horsan the Dane, Father. How thinkest
thou the safety of the roads would be for either rich or poor an I turned
Horsan the Dane loose upon ye?
"And Pensilo, the Spanish Don! A great
captain, but a man absolutely without bowels of compassion. When first he
joined us and saw our mark upon the foreheads of our dead, wishing to out-H=
erod
Herod, he marked the living which fell into his hands with a red hot iron,
branding a great P upon each cheek and burning out the right eye completely=
. Wouldst
like to feel, Father, that Don Piedro Castro y Pensilo ranged free through
forest and hill of England?
"And Red Shandy, and the two Florys, and
Peter the Hermit, and One Eye Kanty, and Gropello, and Campanee, and Cobart=
h,
and Mandecote, and the thousand others, each with a special hatred for some
particular class or individual, and all filled with the lust of blood and
rapine and loot.
"No, Father, I may not go yet, for the
England I have been taught to hate, I have learned to love, and I have it n=
ot
in my heart to turn loose upon her fair breast the beasts of hell who know =
no
law or order or decency other than that which I enforce."
As Norman of Torn ceased speaking, the priest =
sat
silent for many minutes.
"Thou hast indeed a grave responsibility,=
my
son," he said at last. "Thou canst not well go unless thou takest=
thy
horde with thee out of England, but even that may be possible; who knows ot=
her
than God?"
"For my part," laughed the outlaw,
"I be willing to leave it in His hands; which seems to be the way with
Christians. When one would shirk a responsibility, or explain an error, lo,=
one
shoulders it upon the Lord."
"I fear, my son," said the priest,
"that what seed of reverence I have attempted to plant within thy brea=
st
hath borne poor fruit."
"That dependeth upon the viewpoint, Fathe=
r; as
I take not the Lord into partnership in my successes it seemeth to me to be=
but
of a mean and poor spirit to saddle my sorrows and perplexities upon Him. I=
may
be wrong, for I am ill-versed in religious matters, but my conception of God
and scapegoat be not that they are synonymous."
"Religion, my son, be a bootless subject =
for
argument between friends," replied the priest, "and further, ther=
e be
that nearer my heart just now which I would ask thee. I may offend, but thou
know I do not mean to. The question I would ask, is, dost wholly trust the =
old
man whom thou call father?"
"I know of no treachery," replied the
outlaw, "which he hath ever conceived against me. Why?"
"I ask because I have written to Simon de
Montfort asking him to meet me and two others here upon an important matter=
. I
have learned that he expects to be at his Leicester castle, for a few days,
within the week. He is to notify me when he will come and I shall then send=
for
thee and the old man of Torn; but it were as well, my son, that thou do not
mention this matter to thy father, nor let him know when thou come hither to
the meeting that De Montfort is to be present."
"As you say, Father," replied Norman=
of
Torn. "I do not make head nor tail of thy wondrous intrigues, but that
thou wish it done thus or so is sufficient. I must be off to Torn now, so I=
bid
thee farewell."
Until the following Spring, Norman of Torn
continued to occupy himself with occasional pillages against the royalists =
of
the surrounding counties, and his patrols so covered the public highways th=
at
it became a matter of grievous import to the King's party, for no one was s=
afe
in the district who even so much as sympathized with the King's cause, and =
many
were the dead foreheads that bore the grim mark of the Devil of Torn.
Though he had never formally espoused the caus=
e of
the barons, it now seemed a matter of little doubt but that, in any crisis,=
his
grisly banner would be found on their side.
The long winter evenings within the castle of =
Torn
were often spent in rough, wild carousals in the great hall where a thousand
men might sit at table singing, fighting and drinking until the gray dawn s=
tole
in through the east windows, or Peter the Hermit, the fierce majordomo, tir=
ed
of the din and racket, came stalking into the chamber with drawn sword and =
laid
upon the revellers with the flat of it to enforce the authority of his comm=
ands
to disperse.
Norman of Torn and the old man seldom joined in
these wild orgies, but when minstrel, or troubadour, or storyteller wandere=
d to
his grim lair, the Outlaw of Torn would sit enjoying the break in the winte=
r's
dull monotony to as late an hour as another; nor could any man of his great=
fierce
horde outdrink their chief when he cared to indulge in the pleasures of the
wine cup. The only effect that liquor seemed to have upon him was to increa=
se
his desire to fight, so that he was wont to pick needless quarrels and to
resort to his sword for the slightest, or for no provocation at all. So, for
this reason, he drank but seldom since he always regretted the things he did
under the promptings of that other self which only could assert its ego when
reason was threatened with submersion.
Often on these evenings, the company was
entertained by stories from the wild, roving lives of its own members. Tale=
s of
adventure, love, war and death in every known corner of the world; and the =
ten
captains told, each, his story of how he came to be of Torn; and thus, with
fighting enough by day to keep them good humored, the winter passed, and sp=
ring
came with the ever wondrous miracle of awakening life, with soft zephyrs, w=
arm
rain, and sunny skies.
Through all the winter, Father Claude had been
expecting to hear from Simon de Montfort, but not until now did he receive a
message which told the good priest that his letter had missed the great bar=
on
and had followed him around until he had but just received it. The message =
closed
with these words:
"Any clew, however vague, which might lead
nearer to a true knowledge of the fate of Prince Richard, we shall most gla=
dly
receive and give our best attention. Therefore, if thou wilst find it
convenient, we shall visit thee, good father, on the fifth day from
today."
Spizo, the Spaniard, had seen De Montfort's man
leave the note with Father Claude and he had seen the priest hide it under a
great bowl on his table, so that when the good father left his cottage, it =
was
the matter of but a moment's work for Spizo to transfer the message from it=
s hiding
place to the breast of his tunic. The fellow could not read, but he to whom=
he
took the missive could, laboriously, decipher the Latin in which it was pen=
ned.
The old man of Torn fairly trembled with
suppressed rage as the full purport of this letter flashed upon him. It had
been years since he had heard aught of the search for the little lost princ=
e of
England, and now that the period of his silence was drawing to a close, now
that more and more often opportunities were opening up to him to wreak the =
last
shred of his terrible vengeance, the very thought of being thwarted at the =
final
moment staggered his comprehension.
"On the fifth day," he repeated.
"That is the day on which we were to ride south again. Well, we shall
ride, and Simon de Montfort shall not talk with thee, thou fool priest.&quo=
t;
That same spring evening in the year 1264, a
messenger drew rein before the walls of Torn and, to the challenge of the
watch, cried:
"A royal messenger from His Illustrious
Majesty, Henry, by the grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke=
of
Aquitaine, to Norman of Torn, Open, in the name of the King!"
Norman of Torn directed that the King's messen=
ger
be admitted, and the knight was quickly ushered into the great hall of the
castle.
The outlaw presently entered in full armor, wi=
th
visor lowered.
The bearing of the King's officer was haughty =
and
arrogant, as became a man of birth when dealing with a low born knave.
"His Majesty has deigned to address you,
sirrah," he said, withdrawing a parchment from his breast. "And, =
as
you doubtless cannot read, I will read the King's commands to you."
"I can read," replied Norman of Torn,
"whatever the King can write. Unless it be," he added, "that=
the
King writes no better than he rules."
The messenger scowled angrily, crying:
"It ill becomes such a low fellow to speak
thus disrespectfully of our gracious King. If he were less generous, he wou=
ld
have sent you a halter rather than this message which I bear."
"A bridle for thy tongue, my friend,"
replied Norman of Torn, "were in better taste than a halter for my nec=
k.
But come, let us see what the King writes to his friend, the Outlaw of
Torn."
Taking the parchment from the messenger, Norma=
n of
Torn read:
Henry, by Grace of God, King of England, Lord =
of
Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine; to Norman of Torn:
Since it has been called to our notice that yo=
u be
harassing and plundering the persons and property of our faithful lieges!!!=
!!
We therefore, by virtue of the authority veste=
d in
us by Almighty God, do command that you cease these nefarious practices!!!!=
!
And further, through the gracious intercession=
of
Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor, we do offer you full pardon for all your past
crimes!!!!!
Provided, you repair at once to the town of Le=
wes,
with all the fighting men, your followers, prepared to protect the security=
of
our person, and wage war upon those enemies of England, Simon de Montfort,
Gilbert de Clare and their accomplices, who even now are collected to threa=
ten
and menace our person and kingdom!!!!!
Or, otherwise, shall you suffer death, by hang=
ing,
for your long unpunished crimes. Witnessed myself, at Lewes, on May the thi=
rd,
in the forty-eighth year of our reign.
HENRY, REX.
"The closing paragraph be unfortunately
worded," said Norman of Torn, "for because of it shall the King's
messenger eat the King's message, and thus take back in his belly the answe=
r of
Norman of Torn." And crumpling the parchment in his hand, he advanced
toward the royal emissary.
The knight whipped out his sword, but the Devi=
l of
Torn was even quicker, so that it seemed that the King's messenger had
deliberately hurled his weapon across the room, so quickly did the outlaw
disarm him.
And then Norman of Torn took the man by the ne=
ck
with one powerful hand and, despite his struggles, and the beating of his
mailed fists, bent him back upon the table, and there, forcing his teeth ap=
art
with the point of his sword, Norman of Torn rammed the King's message down =
the knight's
throat; wax, parchment and all.
It was a crestfallen gentleman who rode forth =
from
the castle of Torn a half hour later and spurred rapidly--in his head a more
civil tongue.
When, two days later, he appeared before the K=
ing
at Winchelsea and reported the outcome of his mission, Henry raged and stor=
med,
swearing by all the saints in the calendar that Norman of Torn should hang =
for his
effrontery before the snow flew again.
News of the fighting between the barons and the
King's forces at Rochester, Battel and elsewhere reached the ears of Norman=
of
Torn a few days after the coming of the King's message, but at the same time
came other news which hastened his departure toward the south. This latter =
word
was that Bertrade de Montfort and her mother, accompanied by Prince Philip,=
had
landed at Dover, and that upon the same boat had come Peter of Colfax back =
to
England--the latter, doubtless reassured by the strong conviction, which he=
ld
in the minds of all royalists at that time, of the certainty of victory for=
the
royal arms in the impending conflict with the rebel barons.
Norman of Torn had determined that he would see
Bertrade de Montfort once again, and clear his conscience by a frank avowal=
of
his identity. He knew what the result must be. His experience with Joan de =
Tany
had taught him that. But the fine sense of chivalry which ever dominated al=
l his
acts where the happiness or honor of women were concerned urged him to give
himself over as a sacrifice upon the altar of a woman's pride, that it migh=
t be
she who spurned and rejected; for, as it must appear now, it had been he wh=
ose
love had grown cold. It was a bitter thing to contemplate, for not alone wo=
uld
the mighty pride of the man be lacerated, but a great love.
Two days before the start of the march, Spizo,=
the
Spaniard, reported to the old man of Torn that he had overheard Father Clau=
de
ask Norman of Torn to come with his father to the priest's cottage the morn=
ing
of the march to meet Simon de Montfort upon an important matter, but what t=
he nature
of the thing was the priest did not reveal to the outlaw.
This report seemed to please the little, grim,
gray old man more than aught he had heard in several days; for it made it
apparent that the priest had not as yet divulged the tenor of his conjectur=
e to
the Outlaw of Torn.
On the evening of the day preceding that set f=
or
the march south, a little, wiry figure, grim and gray, entered the cottage =
of
Father Claude. No man knows what words passed between the good priest and h=
is visitor
nor the details of what befell within the four walls of the little cottage =
that
night; but some half hour only elapsed before the little, grim, gray man
emerged from the darkened interior and hastened upward upon the rocky trail
into the hills, a cold smile of satisfaction on his lips.
The castle of Torn was filled with the rush and
rattle of preparation early the following morning, for by eight o'clock the
column was to march. The courtyard was filled with hurrying squires and
lackeys. War horses were being groomed and caparisoned; sumpter beasts, snu=
bbed
to great posts, were being laden with the tents, bedding, and belongings of=
the
men; while those already packed were wandering loose among the other animals
and men. There was squealing, biting, kicking, and cursing as animals fouled
one another with their loads, or brushed against some tethered war horse.
Squires were running hither and thither, or ai=
ding
their masters to don armor, lacing helm to hauberk, tying the points of
ailette, coude, and rondel; buckling cuisse and jambe to thigh and leg. The
open forges of armorer and smithy smoked and hissed, and the din of hammer =
on
anvil rose above the thousand lesser noises of the castle courts, the shout=
ing of
commands, the rattle of steel, the ringing of iron hoof on stone flags, as
these artificers hastened, sweating and cursing, through the eleventh hour
repairs to armor, lance and sword, or to reset a shoe upon a refractory,
plunging beast.
Finally the captains came, armored cap-a-pie, =
and
with them some semblance of order and quiet out of chaos and bedlam. First =
the
sumpter beasts, all loaded now, were driven, with a strong escort, to the d=
owns
below the castle and there held to await the column. Then, one by one, the
companies were formed and marched out beneath fluttering pennon and waving
banner to the martial strains of bugle and trumpet.
Last of all came the catapults, those great
engines of destruction which hurled two hundred pound boulders with mighty
force against the walls of beleaguered castles.
And after all had passed through the great gat=
es,
Norman of Torn and the little old man walked side by side from the castle
building and mounted their chargers held by two squires in the center of the
courtyard.
Below, on the downs, the column was forming in
marching order, and as the two rode out to join it, the little old man turn=
ed
to Norman of Torn, saying,
"I had almost forgot a message I have for
you, my son. Father Claude sent word last evening that he had been called
suddenly south, and that some appointment you had with him must therefore be
deferred until later. He said that you would understand." The old man =
eyed
his companion narrowly through the eye slit in his helm.
"'Tis passing strange," said Norman =
of
Torn but that was his only comment. And so they joined the column which mov=
ed
slowly down toward the valley and as they passed the cottage of Father Clau=
de,
Norman of Torn saw that the door was closed and that there was no sign of l=
ife about
the place. A wave of melancholy passed over him, for the deserted aspect of=
the
little flower-hedged cote seemed dismally prophetic of a near future without
the beaming, jovial face of his friend and adviser.
Scarcely had the horde of Torn passed out of s=
ight
down the east edge of the valley ere a party of richly dressed knights, com=
ing
from the south by another road along the west bank of the river, crossed ov=
er
and drew rein before the cottage of Father Claude.
As their hails were unanswered, one of the par=
ty
dismounted to enter the building.
"Have a care, My Lord," cried his
companion. "This be over-close to the Castle Torn and there may easily=
be
more treachery than truth in the message which called thee thither."
"Fear not," replied Simon de Montfor=
t,
"the Devil of Torn hath no quarrel with me." Striding up the litt=
le
path, he knocked loudly on the door. Receiving no reply, he pushed it open =
and
stepped into the dim light of the interior. There he found his host, the go=
od
father Claude, stretched upon his back on the floor, the breast of his prie=
stly
robes dark with dried and clotted blood.
Turning again to the door, De Montfort summone=
d a
couple of his companions.
"The secret of the little lost prince of
England be a dangerous burden for a man to carry," he said. "But =
this
convinces me more than any words the priest might have uttered that the
abductor be still in England, and possibly Prince Richard also."
A search of the cottage revealed the fact that=
it
had been ransacked thoroughly by the assassin. The contents of drawer and b=
ox
littered every room, though that the object was not rich plunder was eviden=
ced
by many pieces of jewelry and money which remained untouched.
"The true object lies here," said De
Montfort, pointing to the open hearth upon which lay the charred remains of
many papers and documents. "All written evidence has been destroyed, b=
ut
hold what lieth here beneath the table?" and, stooping, the Earl of
Leicester picked up a sheet of parchment on which a letter had been commenc=
ed.
It was addressed to him, and he read it aloud:
Lest some unforeseen chance should prevent the
accomplishment of our meeting, My Lord Earl, I send thee this by one who
knoweth not either its contents or the suspicions which I will narrate here=
in.
He who bareth this letter, I truly believe to =
be
the lost Prince Richard. Question him closely, My Lord, and I know that thou
wilt be as positive as I.
Of his past, thou know nearly as much as I, th=
ough
thou may not know the wondrous chivalry and true nobility of character of h=
im
men call!!!!!
Here the letter stopped, evidently cut short by
the dagger of the assassin.
"Mon Dieu! The damnable luck!" cried=
De
Montfort, "but a second more and the name we have sought for twenty ye=
ars
would have been writ. Didst ever see such hellish chance as plays into the =
hand
of the fiend incarnate since that long gone day when his sword pierced the
heart of Lady Maud by the postern gate beside the Thames? The Devil himself
must watch o'er him.
"There be naught more we can do here,&quo=
t;
he continued. "I should have been on my way to Fletching hours since.
Come, my gentlemen, we will ride south by way of Leicester and have the good
Fathers there look to the decent burial of this holy man."
The party mounted and rode rapidly away. Noon
found them at Leicester, and three days later, they rode into the baronial =
camp
at Fletching.
At almost the same hour, the monks of the Abbe=
y of
Leicester performed the last rites of Holy Church for the peace of the soul=
of
Father Claude and consigned his clay to the churchyard.
And thus another innocent victim of an insatia=
ble
hate and vengeance which had been born in the King's armory twenty years be=
fore
passed from the eyes of men.
While Norman of Torn and his thousand fighting=
men
marched slowly south on the road toward Dover, the army of Simon de Montfort
was preparing for its advance upon Lewes, where King Henry, with his son Pr=
ince
Edward, and his brother, Prince Richard, King of the Romans, together with =
the
latter's son, were entrenched with their forces, sixty thousand strong.
Before sunrise on a May morning in the year 12=
64,
the barons' army set out from its camp at Fletching, nine miles from Lewes =
and,
marching through dense forests, reached a point two miles from the city, un=
observed.
From here, they ascended the great ridge of the
hills up the valley Combe, the projecting shoulder of the Downs covering th=
eir
march from the town. The King's party, however, had no suspicion that an at=
tack
was imminent and, in direct contrast to the methods of the baronial troops,=
had
spent the preceding night in drunken revelry, so that they were quite taken=
by
surprise.
It is true that Henry had stationed an outpost
upon the summit of the hill in advance of Lewes, but so lax was discipline =
in
his army that the soldiers, growing tired of the duty, had abandoned the po=
st
toward morning, and returned to town, leaving but a single man on watch. He=
, left
alone, had promptly fallen asleep, and thus De Montfort's men found and
captured him within sight of the bell-tower of the Priory of Lewes, where t=
he
King and his royal allies lay peacefully asleep, after their night of wine =
and
dancing and song.
Had it not been for an incident which now befe=
ll,
the baronial army would doubtless have reached the city without being detec=
ted,
but it happened that, the evening before, Henry had ordered a foraging part=
y to
ride forth at daybreak, as provisions for both men and beasts were low.
This party had scarcely left the city behind t=
hem
ere they fell into the hands of the baronial troops. Though some few were
killed or captured, those who escaped were sufficient to arouse the sleeping
army of the royalists to the close proximity and gravity of their danger.
By this time, the four divisions of De Montfor=
t's
army were in full view of the town. On the left were the Londoners under
Nicholas de Segrave; in the center rode De Clare, with John Fitz-John and
William de Monchensy, at the head of a large division which occupied that
branch of the hill which descended a gentle, unbroken slope to the town. The
right wing was commanded by Henry de Montfort, the oldest son of Simon de M=
ontfort,
and with him was the third son, Guy, as well as John de Burgh and Humphrey =
de
Bohun. The reserves were under Simon de Montfort himself.
Thus was the flower of English chivalry pitted
against the King and his party, which included many nobles whose kinsmen we=
re
with De Montfort; so that brother faced brother, and father fought against =
son,
on that bloody Wednesday, before the old town of Lewes.
Prince Edward was the first of the royal party=
to
take the field and, as he issued from the castle with his gallant company,
banners and pennons streaming in the breeze and burnished armor and flashing
blade scintillating in the morning sunlight, he made a gorgeous and impress=
ive spectacle
as he hurled himself upon the Londoners, whom he had selected for attack
because of the affront they had put upon his mother that day at London on t=
he
preceding July.
So vicious was his onslaught that the poorly a=
rmed
and unprotected burghers, unused to the stern game of war, fell like sheep
before the iron men on their iron shod horses. The long lances, the heavy
maces, the six-bladed battle axes, and the well-tempered swords of the knig=
hts played
havoc among them, so that the rout was complete; but, not content with vict=
ory,
Prince Edward must glut his vengeance, and so he pursued the citizens for
miles, butchering great numbers of them, while many more were drowned in
attempting to escape across the Ouse.
The left wing of the royalist army, under the =
King
of the Romans and his gallant son, was not so fortunate, for they met a
determined resistance at the hands of Henry de Montfort.
The central divisions of the two armies seemed
well matched also, and thus the battle continued throughout the day, the
greatest advantage appearing to lie with the King's troops. Had Edward not =
gone
so far afield in pursuit of the Londoners, the victory might easily have be=
en on
the side of the royalists early in the day, but by thus eliminating his
division after defeating a part of De Montfort's army, it was as though nei=
ther
of these two forces had been engaged.
The wily Simon de Montfort had attempted a lit=
tle
ruse which centered the fighting for a time upon the crest of one of the hi=
lls.
He had caused his car to be placed there, with the tents and luggage of man=
y of
his leaders, under a small guard, so that the banners there displayed, toge=
ther
with the car, led the King of the Romans to believe that the Earl himself l=
ay
there, for Simon de Montfort had but a month or so before suffered an injur=
y to
his hip when his horse fell with him, and the royalists were not aware that=
he
had recovered sufficiently to again mount a horse.
And so it was that the forces under the King of
the Romans pushed back the men of Henry de Montfort, and ever and ever clos=
er
to the car came the royalists until they were able to fall upon it, crying =
out
insults against the old Earl and commanding him to come forth. And when they
had killed the occupants of the car, they found that Simon de Montfort was =
not
among them, but instead he had fastened there three important citizens of
London, old men and influential, who had opposed him, and aided and abetted=
the
King.
So great was the wrath of Prince Richard, King=
of
the Romans, that he fell upon the baronial troops with renewed vigor, and
slowly but steadily beat them back from the town.
This sight, together with the routing of the
enemy's left wing by Prince Edward, so cheered and inspired the royalists t=
hat
the two remaining divisions took up the attack with refreshed spirits so th=
at,
what a moment before had hung in the balance, now seemed an assured victory=
for
King Henry.
Both De Montfort and the King had thrown
themselves into the melee with all their reserves. No longer was there semb=
lance
of organization. Division was inextricably bemingled with division; friend =
and
foe formed a jumbled confusion of fighting, cursing chaos, over which whipp=
ed
the angry pennons and banners of England's noblest houses.
That the mass seemed moving ever away from Lew=
es
indicated that the King's arms were winning toward victory, and so it might
have been had not a new element been infused into the battle; for now upon =
the
brow of the hill to the north of them appeared a great horde of armored
knights, and as they came into position where they could view the battle, t=
he leader
raised his sword on high, and, as one man, the thousand broke into a mad
charge.
Both De Montfort and the King ceased fighting =
as
they gazed upon this body of fresh, well armored, well mounted reinforcemen=
ts.
Whom might they be? To which side owned they allegiance? And, then, as the =
black
falcon wing on the banners of the advancing horsemen became distinguishable,
they saw that it was the Outlaw of Torn.
Now he was close upon them, and had there been=
any
doubt before, the wild battle cry which rang from a thousand fierce throats
turned the hopes of the royalists cold within their breasts.
"For De Montfort! For De Montfort!" =
and
"Down with Henry!" rang loud and clear above the din of battle.
Instantly the tide turned, and it was by only =
the
barest chance that the King himself escaped capture, and regained the tempo=
rary
safety of Lewes.
The King of the Romans took refuge within an o=
ld
mill, and here it was that Norman of Torn found him barricaded. When the do=
or
was broken down, the outlaw entered and dragged the monarch forth with his =
own
hand to the feet of De Montfort, and would have put him to death had not th=
e Earl
intervened.
"I have yet to see my mark upon the foreh=
ead
of a King," said Norman of Torn, "and the temptation be great; bu=
t,
an you ask it, My Lord Earl, his life shall be yours to do with as you see
fit."
"You have fought well this day, Norman of
Torn," replied De Montfort. "Verily do I believe we owe our victo=
ry
to you alone; so do not mar the record of a noble deed by wanton acts of
atrocity."
"It is but what they had done to me, were=
I
the prisoner instead," retorted the outlaw.
And Simon de Montfort could not answer that, f=
or
it was but the simple truth.
"How comes it, Norman of Torn," aske=
d De
Montfort as they rode together toward Lewes, "that you threw the weigh=
t of
your sword upon the side of the barons? Be it because you hate the King
more?"
"I do not know that I hate either, My Lord
Earl," replied the outlaw. "I have been taught since birth to hate
you all, but why I should hate was never told me. Possibly it be but a bad
habit that will yield to my maturer years.
"As for why I fought as I did today,"=
; he
continued, "it be because the heart of Lady Bertrade, your daughter, be
upon your side. Had it been with the King, her uncle, Norman of Torn had fo=
ught
otherwise than he has this day. So you see, My Lord Earl, you owe me no
gratitude. Tomorrow I may be pillaging your friends as of yore."
Simon de Montfort turned to look at him, but t=
he
blank wall of his lowered visor gave no sign of the thoughts that passed
beneath.
"You do much for a mere friendship, Norma=
n of
Torn," said the Earl coldly, "and I doubt me not but that my daug=
hter
has already forgot you. An English noblewoman, preparing to become a prince=
ss
of France, does not have much thought to waste upon highwaymen." His t=
one,
as well as his words were studiously arrogant and insulting, for it had stu=
ng
the pride of this haughty noble to think that a low-born knave boasted the =
friendship
of his daughter.
Norman of Torn made no reply, and could the Ea=
rl
of Leicester have seen his face, he had been surprised to note that instead=
of
grim hatred and resentment, the features of the Outlaw of Torn were drawn in
lines of pain and sorrow; for he read in the attitude of the father what he
might expect to receive at the hands of the daughter.
When those of the royalists who had not desert=
ed
the King and fled precipitately toward the coast had regained the castle an=
d the
Priory, the city was turned over to looting and rapine. In this, Norman of =
Torn
and his men did not participate, but camped a little apart from the town un=
til
daybreak the following morning, when they started east, toward Dover.
They marched until late the following evening,
passing some twenty miles out of their way to visit a certain royalist
stronghold. The troops stationed there had fled, having been appraised some=
few
hours earlier, by fugitives, of the defeat of Henry's army at Lewes.
Norman of Torn searched the castle for the one=
he
sought, but, finding it entirely deserted, continued his eastward march. So=
me
few miles farther on, he overtook a party of deserting royalist soldiery, a=
nd
from them he easily, by dint of threats, elicited the information he desire=
d: the
direction taken by the refugees from the deserted castle, their number, and=
as
close a description of the party as the soldiers could give.
Again he was forced to change the direction of=
his
march, this time heading northward into Kent. It was dark before he reached=
his
destination, and saw before him the familiar outlines of the castle of Roge=
r de
Leybourn. This time, the outlaw threw his fierce horde completely around the
embattled pile before he advanced with a score of sturdy ruffians to
reconnoiter.
Making sure that the drawbridge was raised, and
that he could not hope for stealthy entrance there, he crept silently to the
rear of the great building and there, among the bushes, his men searched for
the ladder that Norman of Torn had seen the knavish servant of My Lady Clau=
dia unearth,
that the outlaw might visit the Earl of Buckingham, unannounced.
Presently they found it, and it was the work of
but a moment to raise it to the sill of the low window, so that soon the tw=
enty
stood beside their chief within the walls of Leybourn.
Noiselessly, they moved through the halls and
corridors of the castle until a maid, bearing a great pasty from the kitche=
n,
turned a sudden corner and bumped full into the Outlaw of Torn. With a shri=
ek
that might have been heard at Lewes, she dropped the dish upon the stone fl=
oor
and, turning, ran, still shrieking at the top of her lungs, straight for th=
e great
dining hall.
So close behind her came the little band of
outlaws that scarce had the guests arisen in consternation from the table at
the shrill cries of the girl than Norman of Torn burst through the great do=
or
with twenty drawn swords at his back.
The hall was filled with knights and gentlewom=
en
and house servants and men-at-arms. Fifty swords flashed from fifty scabbar=
ds
as the men of the party saw the hostile appearance of their visitors, but
before a blow could be struck, Norman of Torn, grasping his sword in his ri=
ght
hand, raised his left aloft in a gesture for silence.
"Hold!" he cried, and, turning direc=
tly
to Roger de Leybourn, "I have no quarrel with thee, My Lord, but again=
I
come for a guest within thy halls. Methinks thou hast as bad taste in whom =
thou
entertains as didst thy fair lady."
"Who be ye, that thus rudely breaks in up=
on
the peace of my castle, and makes bold to insult my guests?" demanded
Roger de Leybourn.
"Who be I! If you wait, you shall see my =
mark
upon the forehead of yon grinning baboon," replied the outlaw, pointin=
g a
mailed finger at one who had been seated close to De Leybourn.
All eyes turned in the direction that the rigid
finger of the outlaw indicated, and there indeed was a fearful apparition o=
f a
man. With livid face he stood, leaning for support against the table; his
craven knees wabbling beneath his fat carcass; while his lips were drawn ap=
art against
his yellow teeth in a horrid grimace of awful fear.
"If you recognize me not, Sir Roger,"
said Norman of Torn, drily, "it is evident that your honored guest hat=
h a
better memory."
At last the fear-struck man found his tongue, =
and,
though his eyes never left the menacing figure of the grim, iron-clad outla=
w,
he addressed the master of Leybourn; shrieking in a high, awe-emasculated
falsetto:
"Seize him! Kill him! Set your men upon h=
im!
Do you wish to live another moment, draw and defend yourselves for he be the
Devil of Torn, and there be a great price upon his head.
"Oh, save me, save me! for he has come to
kill me," he ended in a pitiful wail.
The Devil of Torn! How that name froze the hea=
rts
of the assembled guests.
The Devil of Torn! Slowly the men standing the=
re
at the board of Sir Roger de Leybourn grasped the full purport of that awful
name.
Tense silence for a moment held the room in the
stillness of a sepulchre, and then a woman shrieked, and fell prone across =
the
table. She had seen the mark of the Devil of Torn upon the dead brow of her=
mate.
And then Roger de Leybourn spoke:
"Norman of Torn, but once before have you
entered within the walls of Leybourn, and then you did, in the service of
another, a great service for the house of Leybourn; and you stayed the nigh=
t,
an honored guest. But a moment since, you said that you had no quarrel with=
me.
Then why be you here? Speak! Shall it be as a friend or an enemy that the
master of Leybourn greets Norman of Torn; shall it be with outstretched han=
d or
naked sword?"
"I come for this man, whom you may all see
has good reason to fear me. And when I go, I take part of him with me. I be=
in
a great hurry, so I would prefer to take my great and good friend, Peter of
Colfax, without interference; but, if you wish it otherwise; we be a score
strong within your walls, and nigh a thousand lie without. What say you, My
Lord?"
"Your grievance against Peter of Colfax m=
ust
be a mighty one, that you search him out thus within a day's ride from the =
army
of the King who has placed a price upon your head, and from another army of=
men
who be equally your enemies."
"I would gladly go to hell after Peter of
Colfax," replied the outlaw. "What my grievance be matters not.
Norman of Torn acts first and explains afterward, if he cares to explain at
all. Come forth, Peter of Colfax, and for once in your life, fight like a m=
an,
that you may save your friends here from the fate that has found you at last
after two years of patient waiting."
Slowly, the palsied limbs of the great coward =
bore
him tottering to the center of the room, where gradually a little clear spa=
ce
had been made; the men of the party forming a circle, in the center of which
stood Peter of Colfax and Norman of Torn.
"Give him a great draught of brandy,"
said the outlaw, "or he will sink down and choke in the froth of his o=
wn
terror."
When they had forced a goblet of the fiery liq=
uid
upon him, Peter of Colfax regained his lost nerve enough so that he could r=
aise
his sword arm and defend himself and, as the fumes circulated through him, =
and
the primal instinct of self-preservation asserted itself, he put up a more =
and
more creditable fight, until those who watched thought that he might indeed
have a chance to vanquish the Outlaw of Torn. But they did not know that No=
rman
of Torn was but playing with his victim, that he might make the torture lon=
g,
drawn out, and wreak as terrible a punishment upon Peter of Colfax, before =
he
killed him, as the Baron had visited upon Bertrade de Montfort because she
would not yield to his base desires.
The guests were craning their necks to follow
every detail of the fascinating drama that was being enacted before them.
"God, what a swordsman!" muttered on=
e.
"Never was such swordplay seen since the =
day
the first sword was drawn from the first scabbard!" replied Roger de
Leybourn. "Is it not marvellous!"
Slowly but surely was Norman of Torn cutting P=
eter
of Colfax to pieces; little by little, and with such fiendish care that, ex=
cept
for loss of blood, the man was in no way crippled; nor did the outlaw touch=
his
victim's face with his gleaming sword. That he was saving for the fulfillme=
nt
of his design.
And Peter of Colfax, cornered and fighting for=
his
life, was no marrowless antagonist, even against the Devil of Torn. Furious=
ly
he fought; in the extremity of his fear, rushing upon his executioner with =
frenzied
agony. Great beads of cold sweat stood upon his livid brow.
And then the gleaming point of Norman of Torn
flashed, lightning-like, in his victim's face, and above the right eye of P=
eter
of Colfax was a thin vertical cut from which the red blood had barely start=
ed
to ooze ere another swift move of that master sword hand placed a fellow to=
parallel
the first.
Five times did the razor point touch the foreh=
ead
of Peter of Colfax, until the watchers saw there, upon the brow of the doom=
ed
man, the seal of death, in letters of blood--NT.
It was the end. Peter of Colfax, cut to ribbons
yet fighting like the maniac he had become, was as good as dead, for the ma=
rk
of the Outlaw of Torn was upon his brow. Now, shrieking and gibbering throu=
gh
his frothy lips, his yellow fangs bared in a mad and horrid grin, he rushed
full upon Norman of Torn. There was a flash of the great sword as the outla=
w swung
it to the full of his mighty strength through an arc that passed above the
shoulders of Peter of Colfax, and the grinning head rolled upon the floor,
while the loathsome carcass, that had been a baron of England, sunk in a
disheveled heap among the rushes of the great hall of the castle of Leybour=
n.
A little shudder passed through the wide-eyed
guests. Some one broke into hysterical laughter, a woman sobbed, and then
Norman of Torn, wiping his blade upon the rushes of the floor as he had done
upon another occasion in that same hall, spoke quietly to the master of Ley=
bourn.
"I would borrow yon golden platter, My Lo=
rd.
It shall be returned, or a mightier one in its stead."
Leybourn nodded his assent, and Norman of Torn
turned, with a few words of instructions, to one of his men.
The fellow gathered up the head of Peter of
Colfax, and placed it upon the golden platter.
"I thank you, Sir Roger, for your
hospitality," said Norman of Torn, with a low bow which included the
spellbound guests. "Adieu." Thus followed by his men, one bearing=
the
head of Peter of Colfax upon the platter of gold, Norman of Torn passed qui=
etly
from the hall and from the castle.
Both horses and men were fairly exhausted from=
the
gruelling strain of many days of marching and fighting, so Norman of Torn w=
ent
into camp that night; nor did he again take up his march until the second
morning, three days after the battle of Lewes.
He bent his direction toward the north and
Leicester's castle, where he had reason to believe he would find a certain
young woman, and though it galled his sore heart to think upon the humiliat=
ion
that lay waiting his coming, he could not do less than that which he felt h=
is
honor demanded.
Beside him on the march rode the fierce red gi=
ant,
Shandy, and the wiry, gray little man of Torn, whom the outlaw called fathe=
r.
In no way, save the gray hair and the
parchment-surfaced skin, had the old fellow changed in all these years. Wit=
hout
bodily vices, and clinging ever to the open air and the exercise of the foi=
l,
he was still young in muscle and endurance.
For five years, he had not crossed foils with
Norman of Torn, but he constantly practiced with the best swordsmen of the =
wild
horde, so that it had become a subject often discussed among the men as to
which of the two, father or son, was the greater swordsman.
Always taciturn, the old fellow rode in his us=
ual
silence. Long since had Norman of Torn usurped by the force of his strong
character and masterful ways, the position of authority in the castle of To=
rn.
The old man simply rode and fought with the others when it pleased him; and=
he had
come on this trip because he felt that there was that impending for which he
had waited over twenty years.
Cold and hard, he looked with no love upon the=
man
he still called "my son." If he held any sentiment toward Norman =
of
Torn, it was one of pride which began and ended in the almost fiendish skil=
l of
his pupil's mighty sword arm.
The little army had been marching for some hou=
rs
when the advance guard halted a party bound south upon a crossroad. There w=
ere
some twenty or thirty men, mostly servants, and a half dozen richly garbed
knights.
As Norman of Torn drew rein beside them, he saw that the leader of the party was a very handsome man of about his own age, = and evidently a person of distinction; a profitable prize, thought the outlaw.<= o:p>
"Who are you," said the gentleman, in French, "that stops a prince of France upon the highroad as though he = were an escaped criminal? Are you of the King's forces, or De Montfort's?"<= o:p>
"Be this Prince Philip of France?" a=
sked
Norman of Torn.
"Yes, but who be you?"
"And be you riding to meet my Lady Bertra=
de
de Montfort?" continued the outlaw, ignoring the Prince's question.
"Yes, an it be any of your affair,"
replied Philip curtly.
"It be," said the Devil of Torn,
"for I be a friend of My Lady Bertrade, and as the way be beset with
dangers from disorganized bands of roving soldiery, it is unsafe for Monsie=
ur
le Prince to venture on with so small an escort. Therefore will the friend =
of
Lady Bertrade de Montfort ride with Monsieur le Prince to his destination t=
hat
Monsieur may arrive there safely."
"It is kind of you, Sir Knight, a kindness
that I will not forget. But, again, who is it that shows this solicitude for
Philip of France?"
"Norman of Torn, they call me," repl=
ied
the outlaw.
"Indeed!" cried Philip. "The gr=
eat
and bloody outlaw?" Upon his handsome face there was no look of fear or
repugnance.
Norman of Torn laughed.
"Monsieur le Prince thinks, mayhap, that =
he
will make a bad name for himself," he said, "if he rides in such
company?"
"My Lady Bertrade and her mother think yo=
u be
less devil than saint," said the Prince. "They have told me of how
you saved the daughter of De Montfort, and, ever since, I have been of a gr=
eat
desire to meet you, and to thank you. It had been my intention to ride to T=
orn
for that purpose so soon as we reached Leicester, but the Earl changed all =
our plans
by his victory and only yesterday, on his orders, the Princess Eleanor, his
wife, with the Lady Bertrade, rode to Battel, where Simon de Montfort and t=
he
King are to be today. The Queen also is there with her retinue, so it be
expected that, to show the good feeling and renewed friendship existing bet=
ween
De Montfort and his King, there will be gay scenes in the old fortress.
But," he added, after a pause, "dare the Outlaw of Torn ride with=
in
reach of the King who has placed a price upon his head?"
"The price has been there since I was
eighteen," answered Norman of Torn, "and yet my head be where it =
has
always been. Can you blame me if I look with levity upon the King's price? =
It
be not heavy enough to weigh me down; nor never has it held me from going w=
here
I listed in all England. I am freer than the King, My Lord, for the King be=
a
prisoner today."
Together they rode toward Battel, and as they = talked, Norman of Torn grew to like this brave and handsome gentleman. In his heart= was no rancor because of the coming marriage of the man to the woman he loved.<= o:p>
If Bertrade de Montfort loved this handsome Fr=
ench
prince, then Norman of Torn was his friend; for his love was a great love,
above jealousy. It not only held her happiness above his own, but the happi=
ness
and welfare of the man she loved, as well.
It was dusk when they reached Battel and as No=
rman
of Torn bid the prince adieu, for the horde was to make camp just without t=
he
city, he said:
"May I ask My Lord to carry a message to =
Lady
Bertrade? It is in reference to a promise I made her two years since and wh=
ich
I now, for the first time, be able to fulfill."
"Certainly, my friend," replied Phil=
ip. The
outlaw, dismounting, called upon one of his squires for parchment, and, by =
the
light of a torch, wrote a message to Bertrade de Montfort.
Half an hour later, a servant in the castle of
Battel handed the missive to the daughter of Leicester as she sat alone in =
her
apartment. Opening it, she read:
To Lady Bertrade de Montfort, from her friend,
Norman of Torn.
Two years have passed since you took the hand =
of
the Outlaw of Torn in friendship, and now he comes to sue for another favor=
.
It is that he may have speech with you, alone,=
in
the castle of Battel this night.
Though the name Norman of Torn be fraught with
terror to others, I know that you do not fear him, for you must know the
loyalty and friendship which he bears you.
My camp lies without the city's gates, and your
messenger will have safe conduct whatever reply he bears to,
Norman of Torn.
Fear? Fear Norman of Torn? The girl smiled as =
she
thought of that moment of terrible terror two years ago when she learned, in
the castle of Peter of Colfax, that she was alone with, and in the power of,
the Devil of Torn. And then she recalled his little acts of thoughtful
chivalry, nay, almost tenderness, on the long night ride to Leicester.
What a strange contradiction of a man! She
wondered if he would come with lowered visor, for she was still curious to =
see
the face that lay behind the cold, steel mask. She would ask him this night=
to
let her see his face, or would that be cruel? For, did they not say that it=
was
from the very ugliness of it that he kept his helm closed to hide the repul=
sive
sight from the eyes of men!
As her thoughts wandered back to her brief mee=
ting
with him two years before, she wrote and dispatched her reply to Norman of
Torn.
In the great hall that night as the King's par=
ty
sat at supper, Philip of France, addressing Henry, said:
"And who thinkest thou, My Lord King, rod=
e by
my side to Battel today, that I might not be set upon by knaves upon the
highway?"
"Some of our good friends from Kent?"
asked the King.
"Nay, it was a man upon whose head Your
Majesty has placed a price, Norman of Torn; and if all of your English
highwaymen be as courteous and pleasant gentlemen as he, I shall ride always
alone and unarmed through your realm that I may add to my list of pleasant
acquaintances."
"The Devil of Torn?" asked Henry,
incredulously. "Some one be hoaxing you."
"Nay, Your Majesty, I think not,"
replied Philip, "for he was indeed a grim and mighty man, and at his b=
ack
rode as ferocious and awe-inspiring a pack as ever I beheld outside a priso=
n;
fully a thousand strong they rode. They be camped not far without the city
now."
"My Lord," said Henry, turning to Si=
mon
de Montfort, "be it not time that England were rid of this devil's spa=
wn
and his hellish brood? Though I presume," he added, a sarcastic sneer =
upon
his lip, "that it may prove embarrassing for My Lord Earl of Leicester=
to
turn upon his companion in arms."
"I owe him nothing," returned the Ea=
rl
haughtily, "by his own word."
"You owe him victory at Lewes," snap=
ped
the King. "It were indeed a sad commentary upon the sincerity of our
loyalty-professing lieges who turned their arms against our royal person, '=
to
save him from the treachery of his false advisers,' that they called upon a
cutthroat outlaw with a price upon his head to aid them in their 'righteous=
cause'."
"My Lord King," cried De Montfort,
flushing with anger, "I called not upon this fellow, nor did I know he=
was
within two hundred miles of Lewes until I saw him ride into the midst of the
conflict that day. Neither did I know, until I heard his battle cry, whethe=
r he
would fall upon baron or royalist."
"If that be the truth, Leicester," s=
aid
the King, with a note of skepticism which he made studiously apparent,
"hang the dog. He be just without the city even now."
"You be King of England, My Lord Henry. If
you say that he shall be hanged, hanged he shall be," replied De Montf=
ort.
"A dozen courts have already passed sente=
nce
upon him, it only remains to catch him, Leicester," said the King.
"A party shall sally forth at dawn to do =
the
work," replied De Montfort.
"And not," thought Philip of France,
"if I know it, shall the brave Outlaw of Torn be hanged tomorrow."=
;
In his camp without the city of Battel, Norman=
of
Torn paced back and forth waiting an answer to his message.
Sentries patrolled the entire circumference of=
the
bivouac, for the outlaw knew full well that he had put his head within the
lion's jaw when he had ridden thus boldly to the seat of English power. He =
had
no faith in the gratitude of De Montfort, and he knew full well what the Ki=
ng
would urge when he learned that the man who had sent his soldiers naked bac=
k to
London, who had forced his messenger to eat the King's message, and who had
turned his victory to defeat at Lewes, was within reach of the army of De
Montfort.
Norman of Torn loved to fight, but he was no f=
ool,
and so he did not relish pitting his thousand upon an open plain against tw=
enty
thousand within a walled fortress.
No, he would see Bertrade de Montfort that nig=
ht
and before dawn his rough band would be far on the road toward Torn. The ri=
sk
was great to enter the castle, filled as it was with his mighty enemies. Bu=
t if
he died there, it would be in a good cause, thought he and, anyway, he had =
set
himself to do this duty which he dreaded so, and do it he would were all the
armies of the world camped within Battel.
Directly he heard a low challenge from one of =
his
sentries, who presently appeared escorting a lackey.
"A messenger from Lady Bertrade de
Montfort," said the soldier.
"Bring him hither," commanded the ou=
tlaw.
The lackey approached and handed Norman of Tor=
n a
dainty parchment sealed with scented wax wafers.
"Did My Lady say you were to wait for an
answer?" asked the outlaw.
"I am to wait, My Lord," replied the
awestruck fellow, to whom the service had been much the same had his mistre=
ss
ordered him to Hell to bear a message to the Devil.
Norman of Torn turned to a flickering torch an=
d,
breaking the seals, read the message from the woman he loved. It was short =
and
simple.
To Norman of Torn, from his friend always,
Bertrade de Montfort.
Come with Giles. He has my instructions to lead
thee secretly to where I be.
Bertrade de Montfort.
Norman of Torn turned to where one of his capt=
ains
squatted upon the ground beside an object covered with a cloth.
"Come, Flory," he said, and then,
turning to the waiting Giles, "lead on."
They fell in single file: first the lackey, Gi=
les,
then Norman of Torn and last the fellow whom he had addressed as Flory bear=
ing
the object covered with a cloth. But it was not Flory who brought up the re=
ar. Flory
lay dead in the shadow of a great oak within the camp; a thin wound below h=
is
left shoulder blade marked the spot where a keen dagger had found its way to
his heart, and in his place walked the little grim, gray, old man, bearing =
the
object covered with a cloth. But none might know the difference, for the li=
ttle
man wore the armor of Flory, and his visor was drawn.
And so they came to a small gate which let into
the castle wall where the shadow of a great tower made the blackness of a b=
lack
night doubly black. Through many dim corridors, the lackey led them, and up
winding stairways until presently he stopped before a low door.
"Here," he said, "My Lord,"
and turning left them.
Norman of Torn touched the panel with the mail=
ed
knuckles of his right hand, and a low voice from within whispered,
"Enter."
Silently, he strode into the apartment, a small
antechamber off a large hall. At one end was an open hearth upon which logs
were burning brightly, while a single lamp aided in diffusing a soft glow a=
bout
the austere chamber. In the center of the room was a table, and at the side=
s several
benches.
Before the fire stood Bertrade de Montfort, and
she was alone.
"Place your burden upon this table,
Flory," said Norman of Torn. And when it had been done: "You may =
go.
Return to camp."
He did not address Bertrade de Montfort until =
the
door had closed behind the little grim, gray man who wore the armor of the =
dead
Flory and then Norman of Torn advanced to the table and stood with his left
hand ungauntleted, resting upon the table's edge.
"My Lady Bertrade," he said at last,
"I have come to fulfill a promise."
He spoke in French, and she started slightly at
his voice. Before, Norman of Torn had always spoken in English. Where had s=
he
heard that voice! There were tones in it that haunted her.
"What promise did Norman of Torn e'er mak=
e to
Bertrade de Montfort?" she asked. "I do not understand you, my
friend."
"Look," he said. And as she approach=
ed
the table he withdrew the cloth which covered the object that the man had
placed there.
The girl started back with a little cry of ter=
ror,
for there upon a golden platter was a man's head; horrid with the grin of d=
eath
baring yellow fangs.
"Dost recognize the thing?" asked the
outlaw. And then she did; but still she could not comprehend. At last, slow=
ly,
there came back to her the idle, jesting promise of Roger de Conde to fetch=
the
head of her enemy to the feet of his princess, upon a golden dish.
But what had the Outlaw of Torn to do with tha= t! It was all a sore puzzle to her, and then she saw the bared left hand of the grim, visored figure of the Devil of Torn, where it rested upon the table beside the grisly head of Peter of Colfax; and upon the third finger was the great ring she had tossed to Roger de Conde on that day, two years before.<= o:p>
What strange freak was her brain playing her! =
It
could not be, no it was impossible; then her glance fell again upon the head
grinning there upon the platter of gold, and upon the forehead of it she sa=
w,
in letters of dried blood, that awful symbol of sudden death--NT!
Slowly her eyes returned to the ring upon the
outlaw's hand, and then up to his visored helm. A step she took toward him,=
one
hand upon her breast, the other stretched pointing toward his face, and she
swayed slightly as might one who has just arisen from a great illness.
"Your visor," she whispered, "r=
aise
your visor." And then, as though to herself: "It cannot be; it ca=
nnot
be."
Norman of Torn, though it tore the heart from =
him,
did as she bid, and there before her she saw the brave strong face of Roger=
de
Conde.
"Mon Dieu!" she cried, "Tell me=
it
is but a cruel joke."
"It be the cruel truth, My Lady
Bertrade," said Norman of Torn sadly. And, then, as she turned away fr=
om
him, burying her face in her raised arms, he came to her side, and, laying =
his
hand upon her shoulder, said sadly:
"And now you see, My Lady, why I did not
follow you to France. My heart went there with you, but I knew that naught =
but
sorrow and humiliation could come to one whom the Devil of Torn loved, if t=
hat
love was returned; and so I waited until you might forget the words you had=
spoken
to Roger de Conde before I came to fulfill the promise that you should know=
him
in his true colors.
"It is because I love you, Bertrade, that=
I
have come this night. God knows that it be no pleasant thing to see the
loathing in your very attitude, and to read the hate and revulsion that sur=
ges
through your heart, or to guess the hard, cold thoughts which fill your mind
against me because I allowed you to speak the words you once spoke, and to =
the Devil
of Torn.
"I make no excuse for my weakness. I ask =
no
forgiveness for what I know you never can forgive. That, when you think of =
me,
it will always be with loathing and contempt is the best that I can hope.
"I only know that I love you, Bertrade; I
only know that I love you, and with a love that surpasseth even my own
understanding.
"Here is the ring that you gave in token =
of
friendship. Take it. The hand that wore it has done no wrong by the light t=
hat
has been given it as guide.
"The blood that has pulsed through the fi=
nger
that it circled came from a heart that beat for Bertrade de Montfort; a hea=
rt
that shall continue to beat for her alone until a merciful providence sees =
fit
to gather in a wasted and useless life.
"Farewell, Bertrade." Kneeling he ra=
ised
the hem of her garment to his lips.
A thousand conflicting emotions surged through=
the
heart of this proud daughter of the new conqueror of England. The anger of =
an
outraged confidence, gratitude for the chivalry which twice had saved her
honor, hatred for the murderer of a hundred friends and kinsmen, respect an=
d honor
for the marvellous courage of the man, loathing and contempt for the base b=
orn,
the memory of that exalted moment when those handsome lips had clung to her=
s,
pride in the fearlessness of a champion who dared come alone among twenty
thousand enemies for the sake of a promise made her; but stronger than all =
the
rest, two stood out before her mind's eye like living things--the degradati=
on
of his low birth, and the memory of the great love she had cherished all th=
ese
long and dreary months.
And these two fought out their battle in the
girl's breast. In those few brief moments of bewilderment and indecision, it
seemed to Bertrade de Montfort that ten years passed above her head, and wh=
en
she reached her final resolution she was no longer a young girl but a grown
woman who, with the weight of a mature deliberation, had chosen the path wh=
ich
she would travel to the end--to the final goal, however sweet or however bi=
tter.
Slowly she turned toward him who knelt with bo=
wed
head at her feet, and, taking the hand that held the ring outstretched towa=
rd
her, raised him to his feet. In silence she replaced the golden band upon h=
is
finger, and then she lifted her eyes to his.
"Keep the ring, Norman of Torn," she
said. "The friendship of Bertrade de Montfort is not lightly given nor
lightly taken away," she hesitated, "nor is her love."
"What do you mean?" he whispered. Fo=
r in
her eyes was that wondrous light he had seen there on that other day in the=
far
castle of Leicester.
"I mean," she answered, "that,
Roger de Conde or Norman of Torn, gentleman or highwayman, it be all the sa=
me
to Bertrade de Montfort--it be thee I love; thee!"
Had she reviled him, spat upon him, he would n=
ot
have been surprised, for he had expected the worst; but that she should love
him! Oh God, had his overwrought nerves turned his poor head? Was he dreami=
ng
this thing, only to awaken to the cold and awful truth!
But these warm arms about his neck, the sweet
perfume of the breath that fanned his cheek; these were no dream!
"Think thee what thou art saying,
Bertrade?" he cried. "Dost forget that I be a low-born knave, kno=
wing
not my own mother and questioning even the identity of my father? Could a De
Montfort face the world with such a man for husband?"
"I know what I say, perfectly," she
answered. "Were thou born out of wedlock, the son of a hostler and a
scullery maid, still would I love thee, and honor thee, and cleave to thee.
Where thou be, Norman of Torn, there shall be happiness for me. Thy friends
shall be my friends; thy joys shall be my joys; thy sorrows, my sorrows; and
thy enemies, even mine own father, shall be my enemies.
"Why it is, my Norman, I know not. Only d=
o I
know that I didst often question my own self if in truth I did really love
Roger de Conde, but thee--oh Norman, why is it that there be no shred of do=
ubt
now, that this heart, this soul, this body be all and always for the Outlaw=
of Torn?"
"I do not know," he said simply and
gravely. "So wonderful a thing be beyond my poor brain; but I think my
heart knows, for in very joy, it is sending the hot blood racing and surging
through my being till I were like to be consumed for the very heat of my
happiness."
"Sh!" she whispered, suddenly,
"methinks I hear footsteps. They must not find thee here, Norman of To=
rn,
for the King has only this night wrung a promise from my father to take the=
e in
the morning and hang thee. What shall we do, Norman? Where shall we meet
again?"
"We shall not be separated, Bertrade; onl=
y so
long as it may take thee to gather a few trinkets, and fetch thy riding clo=
ak.
Thou ridest north tonight with Norman of Torn, and by the third day, Father
Claude shall make us one."
"I am glad thee wish it," she replie=
d.
"I feared that, for some reason, thee might not think it best for me t=
o go
with thee now. Wait here, I will be gone but a moment. If the footsteps I h=
ear
approach this door," and she indicated the door by which he had entered
the little room, "thou canst step through this other doorway into the
adjoining apartment, and conceal thyself there until the danger passes.&quo=
t;
Norman of Torn made a wry face, for he had no
stomach for hiding himself away from danger.
"For my sake," she pleaded. So he
promised to do as she bid, and she ran swiftly from the room to fetch her
belongings.
When the little, grim, gray man had set the ob=
ject
covered with a cloth upon the table in the center of the room and left the
apartment, he did not return to camp as Norman of Torn had ordered.
Instead, he halted immediately without the lit=
tle
door, which he left a trifle ajar, and there he waited, listening to all th=
at
passed between Bertrade de Montfort and Norman of Torn.
As he heard the proud daughter of Simon de
Montfort declare her love for the Devil of Torn, a cruel smile curled his l=
ip.
"It will be better than I had hoped,"=
; he
muttered, "and easier. 'S blood! How much easier now that Leicester, t=
oo,
may have his whole proud heart in the hanging of Norman of Torn. Ah, what a
sublime revenge! I have waited long, thou cur of a King, to return the blow
thou struck that day, but the return shall be an hundred-fold increased by =
long
accumulated interest."
Quickly, the wiry figure hastened through the
passageways and corridors, until he came to the great hall where sat De
Montfort and the King, with Philip of France and many others, gentlemen and
nobles.
Before the guard at the door could halt him, he
had broken into the room and, addressing the King, cried:
"Wouldst take the Devil of Torn, My Lord
King? He be now alone where a few men may seize him."
"What now! What now!" ejaculated Hen=
ry.
"What madman be this?"
"I be no madman, Your Majesty. Never did
brain work more clearly or to more certain ends," replied the man.
"It may doubtless be some ruse of the
cut-throat himself," cried De Montfort.
"Where be the knave?" asked Henry.
"He stands now within this palace and in =
his
arms be Bertrade, daughter of My Lord Earl of Leicester. Even now she did b=
ut
tell him that she loved him."
"Hold," cried De Montfort. "Hold
fast thy foul tongue. What meanest thou by uttering such lies, and to my ve=
ry
face?"
"They be no lies, Simon de Montfort. An I
tell thee that Roger de Conde and Norman of Torn be one and the same, thou =
wilt
know that I speak no lie."
De Montfort paled.
"Where be the craven wretch?" he
demanded.
"Come," said the little, old man. And
turning, he led from the hall, closely followed by De Montfort, the King,
Prince Philip and the others.
"Thou hadst better bring twenty fighting = men--thou'lt need them all to take Norman of Torn," he advised De Montfort. And so = as they passed the guard room, the party was increased by twenty men-at-arms.<= o:p>
Scarcely had Bertrade de Montfort left him ere
Norman of Torn heard the tramping of many feet. They seemed approaching up =
the
dim corridor that led to the little door of the apartment where he stood.
Quickly, he moved to the opposite door and,
standing with his hand upon the latch, waited. Yes, they were coming that w=
ay,
many of them and quickly and, as he heard them pause without, he drew aside=
the
arras and pushed open the door behind him; backing into the other apartment
just as Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, burst into the room from the =
opposite
side.
At the same instant, a scream rang out behind
Norman of Torn, and, turning, he faced a brightly lighted room in which sat
Eleanor, Queen of England and another Eleanor, wife of Simon de Montfort, w=
ith
their ladies.
There was no hiding now, and no escape; for ru=
n he
would not, even had there been where to run. Slowly, he backed away from the
door toward a corner where, with his back against a wall and a table at his
right, he might die as he had lived, fighting; for Norman of Torn knew that=
he could
hope for no quarter from the men who had him cornered there like a great be=
ar
in a trap.
With an army at their call, it were an easy th=
ing
to take a lone man, even though that man were the Devil of Torn.
The King and De Montfort had now crossed the
smaller apartment and were within the room where the outlaw stood at bay.
At the far side, the group of royal and noble
women stood huddled together, while behind De Montfort and the King pushed
twenty gentlemen and as many men-at-arms.
"What dost thou here, Norman of Torn?&quo=
t;
cried De Montfort, angrily. "Where be my daughter, Bertrade?"
"I be here, My Lord Earl, to attend to mi=
ne
own affairs," replied Norman of Torn, "which be the affair of no
other man. As to your daughter: I know nothing of her whereabouts. What sho=
uld
she have to do with the Devil of Torn, My Lord?"
De Montfort turned toward the little gray man.=
"He lies," shouted he. "Her kis=
ses
be yet wet upon his lips."
Norman of Torn looked at the speaker and, bene=
ath
the visor that was now partly raised, he saw the features of the man whom, =
for
twenty years, he had called father.
He had never expected love from this hard old =
man,
but treachery and harm from him? No, he could not believe it. One of them m=
ust
have gone mad. But why Flory's armor and where was the faithful Flory?
"Father!" he ejaculated, "leade=
st
thou the hated English King against thine own son?"
"Thou be no son of mine, Norman of Torn," retorted the old man. "Thy days of usefulness to me be pas= t. Tonight thou serve me best swinging from a wooden gibbet. Take him, My Lord Earl; they say there be a good strong gibbet in the courtyard below."<= o:p>
"Wilt surrender, Norman of Torn?" cr=
ied
De Montfort.
"Yes," was the reply, "when this
floor be ankle deep in English blood and my heart has ceased to beat, then =
will
I surrender."
"Come, come," cried the King. "=
Let
your men take the dog, De Montfort!"
"Have at him, then," ordered the Ear=
l,
turning toward the waiting men-at-arms, none of whom seemed overly anxious =
to
advance upon the doomed outlaw.
But an officer of the guard set them the examp=
le,
and so they pushed forward in a body toward Norman of Torn; twenty blades b=
ared
against one.
There was no play now for the Outlaw of Torn. =
It
was grim battle and his only hope that he might take a fearful toll of his
enemies before he himself went down.
And so he fought as he never fought before, to
kill as many and as quickly as he might. And to those who watched, it was as
though the young officer of the Guard had not come within reach of that
terrible blade ere he lay dead upon the floor, and then the point of death =
passed
into the lungs of one of the men-at-arms, scarcely pausing ere it pierced t=
he
heart of a third.
The soldiers fell back momentarily, awed by the frightful havoc of that mighty arm. Before De Montfort could urge them on to renew the attack, a girlish figure, clothed in a long riding cloak, burst through the little knot of men as they stood facing their lone antagonist.<= o:p>
With a low cry of mingled rage and indignation,
Bertrade de Montfort threw herself before the Devil of Torn, and facing the
astonished company of king, prince, nobles and soldiers, drew herself to her
full height, and with all the pride of race and blood that was her right of=
heritage
from a French king on her father's side and an English king on her mother's,
she flashed her defiance and contempt in the single word:
"Cowards!"
"What means this, girl?" demanded De
Montfort, "Art gone stark mad? Know thou that this fellow be the Outla=
w of
Torn?"
"If I had not before known it, My Lord,&q= uot; she replied haughtily, "it would be plain to me now as I see forty cow= ards hesitating to attack a lone man. What other man in all England could stand = thus against forty? A lion at bay with forty jackals yelping at his feet."<= o:p>
"Enough, girl," cried the King,
"what be this knave to thee?"
"He loves me, Your Majesty," she rep=
lied
proudly, "and I, him."
"Thou lov'st this low-born cut-throat,
Bertrade," cried Henry. "Thou, a De Montfort, the daughter of my
sister; who have seen this murderer's accursed mark upon the foreheads of t=
hy
kin; thou have seen him flaunt his defiance in the King's, thy uncle's, fac=
e,
and bend his whole life to preying upon thy people; thou lov'st this
monster?"
"I love him, My Lord King."
"Thou lov'st him, Bertrade?" asked
Philip of France in a low tone, pressing nearer to the girl.
"Yes, Philip," she said, a little no=
te
of sadness and finality in her voice; but her eyes met his squarely and
bravely.
Instantly, the sword of the young Prince leaped
from its scabbard, and facing De Montfort and the others, he backed to the =
side
of Norman of Torn.
"That she loves him be enough for me to k=
now,
my gentlemen," he said. "Who takes the man Bertrade de Montfort l=
oves
must take Philip of France as well."
Norman of Torn laid his left hand upon the oth=
er's
shoulder.
"No, thou must not do this thing, my
friend," he said. "It be my fight and I will fight it alone. Go, I
beg of thee, and take her with thee, out of harm's way."
As they argued, Simon de Montfort and the King=
had
spoken together, and, at a word from the former, the soldiers rushed sudden=
ly
to the attack again. It was a cowardly strategem, for they knew that the two
could not fight with the girl between them and their adversaries. And thus,=
by
weight of numbers, they took Bertrade de Montfort and the Prince away from
Norman of Torn without a blow being struck, and then the little, grim, gray,
old man stepped forward.
"There be but one sword in all England, n=
ay
in all the world that can, alone, take Norman of Torn," he said,
addressing the King, "and that sword be mine. Keep thy cattle back, ou=
t of
my way." And, without waiting for a reply, the grim, gray man sprang i=
n to
engage him whom for twenty years he had called son.
Norman of Torn came out of his corner to meet =
his
new-found enemy, and there, in the apartment of the Queen of England in the=
castle
of Battel, was fought such a duel as no man there had ever seen before, nor=
is
it credible that its like was ever fought before or since.
The world's two greatest swordsmen: teacher and
pupil--the one with the strength of a young bull, the other with the cunnin=
g of
an old gray fox, and both with a lifetime of training behind them, and the =
lust
of blood and hate before them--thrust and parried and cut until those that
gazed awestricken upon the marvellous swordplay scarcely breathed in the te=
nsity
of their wonder.
Back and forth about the room they moved, while
those who had come to kill pressed back to make room for the contestants. N=
ow
was the young man forcing his older foeman more and more upon the defensive.
Slowly, but as sure as death, he was winning ever nearer and nearer to vict=
ory.
The old man saw it too. He had devoted years of his life to training that
mighty sword arm that it might deal out death to others, and now--ah! The g=
rim
justice of the retribution he, at last, was to fall before its diabolical
cunning.
He could not win in fair fight against Norman =
of
Torn; that the wily Frenchman saw; but now that death was so close upon him
that he felt its cold breath condensing on his brow, he had no stomach to d=
ie,
and so he cast about for any means whereby he might escape the result of his
rash venture.
Presently he saw his opportunity. Norman of To=
rn
stood beside the body of one of his earlier antagonists. Slowly the old man
worked around until the body lay directly behind the outlaw, and then with a
final rally and one great last burst of supreme swordsmanship, he rushed No=
rman
of Torn back for a bare step--it was enough. The outlaw's foot struck the
prostrate corpse; he staggered, and for one brief instant his sword arm ros=
e,
ever so little, as he strove to retain his equilibrium; but that little was
enough. It was what the gray old snake had expected, and he was ready. Like
lightning, his sword shot through the opening, and, for the first time in h=
is
life of continual combat and death, Norman of Torn felt cold steel tear his
flesh. But ere he fell, his sword responded to the last fierce command of t=
hat
iron will, and as his body sank limply to the floor, rolling with outstretc=
hed
arms, upon its back, the little, grim, gray man went down also, clutching
frantically at a gleaming blade buried in his chest.
For an instant, the watchers stood as though
petrified, and then Bertrade de Montfort, tearing herself from the restrain=
ing
hand of her father, rushed to the side of the lifeless body of the man she
loved. Kneeling there beside him she called his name aloud, as she unlaced =
his
helm. Tearing the steel headgear from him, she caressed his face, kissing t=
he
white forehead and the still lips.
"Oh God! Oh God!" she murmured.
"Why hast thou taken him? Outlaw though he was, in his little finger w=
as
more of honor, of chivalry, of true manhood than courses through the veins =
of
all the nobles of England.
"I do not wonder that he preyed upon
you," she cried, turning upon the knights behind her. "His life w=
as clean,
thine be rotten; he was loyal to his friends and to the downtrodden, ye be
traitors at heart, all; and ever be ye trampling upon those who be down that
they may sink deeper into the mud. Mon Dieu! How I hate you," she
finished. And as she spoke the words, Bertrade de Montfort looked straight =
into
the eyes of her father.
The old Earl turned his head, for at heart he =
was
a brave, broad, kindly man, and he regretted what he had done in the haste =
and
heat of anger.
"Come, child," said the King, "=
thou
art distraught; thou sayest what thou mean not. The world is better that th=
is
man be dead. He was an enemy of organized society, he preyed ever upon his
fellows. Life in England will be safer after this day. Do not weep over the
clay of a nameless adventurer who knew not his own father."
Someone had lifted the little, grim, gray, old=
man
to a sitting posture. He was not dead. Occasionally he coughed, and when he
did, his frame was racked with suffering, and blood flowed from his mouth a=
nd
nostrils.
At last they saw that he was trying to speak.
Weakly he motioned toward the King. Henry came toward him.
"Thou hast won thy sovereign's gratitude,=
my
man," said the King, kindly. "What be thy name?"
The old fellow tried to speak, but the effort
brought on another paroxysm of coughing. At last he managed to whisper.
"Look--at--me. Dost thou--not--remember m=
e? The--foils--the--blow--twenty-long-years.
Thou--spat--upon--me."
Henry knelt and peered into the dying face.
"De Vac!" he exclaimed.
The old man nodded. Then he pointed to where l=
ay
Norman of Torn.
"Outlaw--highwayman--scourge--of--England.
Look--upon--his--face. Open--his tunic--left--breast."
He stopped from very weakness, and then in ano=
ther
moment, with a final effort: "De--Vac's--revenge. God--damn--the--Engl=
ish,"
and slipped forward upon the rushes, dead.
The King had heard, and De Montfort and the Qu=
een.
They stood looking into each other's eyes with a strange fixity, for what
seemed an eternity, before any dared to move; and then, as though they fear=
ed
what they should see, they bent over the form of the Outlaw of Torn for the=
first
time.
The Queen gave a little cry as she saw the sti=
ll,
quiet face turned up to hers.
"Edward!" she whispered.
"Not Edward, Madame," said De Montfo=
rt,
"but--"
The King knelt beside the still form, across t=
he
breast of which lay the unconscious body of Bertrade de Montfort. Gently, he
lifted her to the waiting arms of Philip of France, and then the King, with=
his
own hands, tore off the shirt of mail, and with trembling fingers ripped wi=
de
the tunic where it covered the left breast of the Devil of Torn.
"Oh God!" he cried, and buried his h=
ead
in his arms.
The Queen had seen also, and with a little moan
she sank beside the body of her second born, crying out:
"Oh Richard, my boy, my boy!" And as=
she
bent still lower to kiss the lily mark upon the left breast of the son she =
had
not seen to know for over twenty years, she paused, and with frantic haste =
she
pressed her ear to his breast.
"He lives!" she almost shrieked.
"Quick, Henry, our son lives!"
Bertrade de Montfort had regained consciousness
almost before Philip of France had raised her from the floor, and she stood
now, leaning on his arm, watching with wide, questioning eyes the strange s=
cene
being enacted at her feet.
Slowly, the lids of Norman of Torn lifted with
returning consciousness. Before him, on her knees in the blood spattered ru=
shes
of the floor, knelt Eleanor, Queen of England, alternately chafing and kiss=
ing
his hands.
A sore wound indeed to have brought on such a =
wild
delirium, thought the Outlaw of Torn.
He felt his body, in a half sitting, half
reclining position, resting against one who knelt behind him, and as he lif=
ted
his head to see whom it might be supporting him, he looked into the eyes of=
the
King, upon whose breast his head rested.
Strange vagaries of a disordered brain! Yes it must have been a very terrible wound that the little old man of Torn had gi= ven him; but why could he not dream that Bertrade de Montfort held him? And then his eyes wandered about among the throng of ladies, nobles and soldiers standing uncovered and with bowed heads about him. Presently he found her.<= o:p>
"Bertrade!" he whispered.
The girl came and knelt beside him, opposite t=
he
Queen.
"Bertrade, tell me thou art real; that th=
ou
at least be no dream."
"I be very real, dear heart," she
answered, "and these others be real, also. When thou art stronger, thou
shalt understand the strange thing that has happened. These who wert thine
enemies, Norman of Torn, be thy best friends now--that thou should know, so
that thou may rest in peace until thou be better."
He groped for her hand, and, finding it, closed
his eyes with a faint sigh.
They bore him to a cot in an apartment next the
Queen's, and all that night the mother and the promised wife of the Outlaw =
of
Torn sat bathing his fevered forehead. The King's chirurgeon was there also,
while the King and De Montfort paced the corridor without.
And it is ever thus; whether in hovel or palac=
e;
in the days of Moses, or in the days that be ours; the lamb that has been l=
ost
and is found again be always the best beloved.
Toward morning, Norman of Torn fell into a qui=
et
and natural sleep; the fever and delirium had succumbed before his perfect
health and iron constitution. The chirurgeon turned to the Queen and Bertra=
de
de Montfort.
"You had best retire, ladies," he sa=
id,
"and rest. The Prince will live."
Late that afternoon he awoke, and no amount of
persuasion or commands on the part of the King's chirurgeon could restrain =
him
from arising.
"I beseech thee to lie quiet, My Lord
Prince," urged the chirurgeon.
"Why call thou me prince?" asked Nor=
man
of Torn.
"There be one without whose right it be to
explain that to thee," replied the chirurgeon, "and when thou be
clothed, if rise thou wilt, thou mayst see her, My Lord."
The chirurgeon aided him to dress and, opening=
the
door, he spoke to a sentry who stood just without. The sentry transmitted t=
he
message to a young squire who was waiting there, and presently the door was
thrown open again from without, and a voice announced:
"Her Majesty, the Queen!"
Norman of Torn looked up in unfeigned surprise,
and then there came back to him the scene in the Queen's apartment the night
before. It was all a sore perplexity to him; he could not fathom it, nor di=
d he
attempt to.
And now, as in a dream, he saw the Queen of
England coming toward him across the small room, her arms outstretched; her
beautiful face radiant with happiness and love.
"Richard, my son!" exclaimed Eleanor,
coming to him and taking his face in her hands and kissing him.
"Madame!" exclaimed the surprised ma=
n.
"Be all the world gone crazy?"
And then she told him the strange story of the
little lost prince of England.
When she had finished, he knelt at her feet,
taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips.
"I did not know, Madame," he said,
"or never would my sword have been bared in other service than thine. =
If
thou canst forgive me, Madame, never can I forgive myself."
"Take it not so hard, my son," said
Eleanor of England. "It be no fault of thine, and there be nothing to
forgive; only happiness and rejoicing should we feel, now that thou be found
again."
"Forgiveness!" said a man's voice be=
hind
them. "Forsooth, it be we that should ask forgiveness; hunting down our
own son with swords and halters.
"Any but a fool might have known that it =
was
no base-born knave who sent the King's army back, naked, to the King, and
rammed the King's message down his messenger's throat.
"By all the saints, Richard, thou be every
inch a King's son, an' though we made sour faces at the time, we be all the
prouder of thee now."
The Queen and the outlaw had turned at the fir=
st
words to see the King standing behind them, and now Norman of Torn rose, ha=
lf
smiling, and greeted his father.
"They be sorry jokes, Sire," he said.
"Methinks it had been better had Richard remained lost. It will do the
honor of the Plantagenets but little good to acknowledge the Outlaw of Torn=
as
a prince of the blood."
But they would not have it so, and it remained=
for
a later King of England to wipe the great name from the pages of
history--perhaps a jealous king.
Presently the King and Queen, adding their ple=
as
to those of the chirurgeon, prevailed upon him to lie down once more, and w=
hen
he had done so they left him, that he might sleep again; but no sooner had =
the door
closed behind them than he arose and left the apartment by another exit.
It was by chance that, in a deep set window, he
found her for whom he was searching. She sat looking wistfully into space, =
an
expression half sad upon her beautiful face. She did not see him as he
approached, and he stood there for several moments watching her dear profil=
e,
and the rising and falling of her bosom over that true and loyal heart that=
had
beaten so proudly against all the power of a mighty throne for the despised
Outlaw of Torn.
He did not speak, but presently that strange,
subtle sixth sense which warns us that we are not alone, though our eyes see
not nor our ears hear, caused her to turn.
With a little cry she arose, and then, curtsyi=
ng
low after the manner of the court, said:
"What would My Lord Richard, Prince of
England, of his poor subject?" And then, more gravely, "My Lord, I
have been raised at court, and I understand that a prince does not wed rash=
ly,
and so let us forget what passed between Bertrade de Montfort and Norman of
Torn."
"Prince Richard of England will in no wise
disturb royal precedents," he replied, "for he will wed not rashl=
y,
but most wisely, since he will wed none but Bertrade de Montfort." And=
he
who had been the Outlaw of Torn took the fair young girl in his arms, addin=
g:
"If she still loves me, now that I be a prince?"
She put her arms about his neck, and drew his
cheek down close to hers.
"It was not the outlaw that I loved, Rich=
ard,
nor be it the prince I love now; it be all the same to me, prince or
highwayman--it be thee I love, dear heart--just thee."
*****=