Chapters 19
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1 01 - Chapter 1 9:05
Here is a story that has lain dormant for seven hundred years. At first it was suppressed by one of the Pontaginate 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 mildewed and musty manuscripts, and I came across this. It is very interesting, partially 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 13th 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, the third, 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, Twelve Forty-three, 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 the 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 him. 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 what 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, rose 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. "'Me thought that we were to have a turn with the foils this morning. Already it waxeth late. Come, de Folle, come, Leibourne.' And the king left 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 strong against him.
As the arras fell behind the departing king, de Montfort shrugged 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 His eyes alighted on the master of fence, Sir Jules Levaque, who was advancing with the king's foil and helmet. Henry felt in no mood for fencing with de Fom, 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 as 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 building, so that it had light from three sides. In charge of it was the lean, grizzled, leather-skinned Sir Jules Levaque, 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 in 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 clever attack. Henry, the third 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 twice 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 lightning, 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 white 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 best swordsman in England, for that surely was no disgrace. To Henry it seemed prophetic, of the outcome of a future struggle, when he should stand face to face with the real de Montfort, and then, seen in de Vec, only the creature of his imagination with 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 Vec. Dog! he hissed, and struck the master of fence a stinging blow across the face, and spat upon him. Then he turned on his heel and strode from the armory. Devac had grown old in the service of the kings of England, but he hated all things English, and all Englishmen. The dead King John, though hated by all others, he had loved, But with the dead king's bones, 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 Fence at the English court, the Sons of Royalty had learned to thrust and parry and 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 his 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 honor of France. But an English king—puh!
A dog! And who would die for a dog? No, de Vac would find other means of satisfying his wounded pride. He would revel in revenge against this man for whom he felt no loyalty. If possible, he would 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. Duvac had been born in Paris. The son of a French 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 claim the title of his sire. How he had left France and entered the service of John of England is not of this story. All the bearing that the life of Jules de Vec 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.
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2 02 - Chapter 2 6:57
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 seen a black-haired woman gowned in a violet cyclist, richly 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 three, 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-guarded with scarlet, from his tiny sandals to his knees. On the back of his brown curls 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 dignity, which sat strangely upon one so tiny, caused the young woman at times to turn 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 Maude, by yonder bush. I would play at toss!' The young woman did as she was bid, and when she had taken her place and turned to face him, the boy threw the ball to her. Thus they played beneath the windows of the armory, the boy running blithely after 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 brows drawn together in a malignant scowl. The corners of his mouth set in a stern, cold line. He looked upon the garden and the playing child, and upon the lovely young woman beneath him, but with eyes which did not see, for de Vac was working out a great problem, the greatest of all his life.
For three days the old man had brooded over his grievance, seeking for some means to be revenged upon the king for the insult 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 the terrible satisfaction which his wounded pride demanded. His fancies had, for the most part, revolved about 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 its 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 Carta, which he so often violated along 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 even 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 relentless 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 misrule England.
If he could but learn the details of this plan, thought de Vecke, 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 40,000 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 vengeance, indeed! And the old man licked his thin lips, as though to taste the last sweet 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 of revenge melted as the fog before 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 leaves 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 conceived 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 Henry 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.
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3 03 - Chapter 3 18:27
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 grounds, where, by a little postern gate, she admitted a certain officer of the guards, to whom the queen had forbidden the privilege of the court. There, in the 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 Vack had his plans well laid. He had managed to coax old Bruce, 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 Bruce, at the same time slipping a couple of golden seconds into the gardener's palm. Bruce, like the other palace servants, considered de Vac a loyal retainer of the house of Plantagenet. Whatever else of mischief de Vac might be up to, Bruce 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 though Henry himself had it.
The old fellow wondered a little that the morose old master of fence should, at his time in life, indulge in frivolous escapades more befitting the younger Spriggs of gentility. But, then, what concern was it of his? Did he not have enough to think about to keep the garden so that his royal master and mistress might find pleasure in the shaded walks, the well-kept sward, and the gorgeous beds of foliage plants and blooming flowers, which he set with such wondrous precision in the formal garden? Further, two gold zecchons were not often come by so easily as this. And if the dear Lord Jesus saw fit, in his infinite wisdom, to take this means of rewarding his poor servant, it ill became such a worm as he to ignore the divine favor.
So Bruce took the gold zecchons, and de vac the key, 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 Vack 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 impatiently while the old man fashioned it with the crude instruments of his time.
From this little shop, de Vack threaded his way through the dirty lanes and alleys of ancient London, lighted at far intervals by an occasional smoky lantern, Until he came to a squalid tenement but a short 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 added 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 that you may ever after wear mantles of villosa, and feast on Simnel bread in 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? Did 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 the dead Romans who builded London twelve hundred years ago. Methinks, too, from the stink, they must have been Roman swineherd who habited this sty with their herds. And I venture that thou, old sow, hast never touched room to the place for fear of disturbing the ancient relics of thy kin. Cease thy babbling, Lord Satan, cried 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 Beck, who had now entered, "'And here be the key. 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. And I dare say, there will be some who would pay well to learn the whereabouts of the old woman and the child, thy sister and her son, you tell me they be, who you are so anxious to hide away in old Till's garret. So it be well for you, my lord, to pay old Till well, and add a few guilders for the peace of her tongue, if you would that your prisoner find peace in old Till's house.
Fetch me the bundle, Hag, replied de Vec, and you shall have gold against a final settlement, more even than we bargained for, if all goes well, and thou holdest thy vile tongue. But the old woman's threats had already caused de Vec a feeling of uneasiness, which would have been reflected to an exaggerated degree in the old woman, had she known the determination her words had caused in the mind of the old master offense. His venture was far too serious, and the results of exposure too fraught with danger, to permit of his taking any chances with 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 Till might well have quelled in her tattered sandals had she but even vaguely guessed the thoughts which passed into Vax's mind. But the extra gold pieces he dropped into her weathered palm 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 Vax stepped out into the darkness of the alley and hastened toward the dock. Beneath the planks he found a skiff which he had moored there earlier in the evening, And underneath one of the thwarts he hid the bundle. Then, casting off, he rode slowly up the Thames until, below the palace walls, he moored near to the little postern gate, which led into the lower end of the garden. Hiding the skiff as best he could in some tangled bushes, which grew to the water's edge, set there by order of the king, to add 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 Bruce, 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 lodgment 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 Vax, smiling. Would that I might learn to reason by your wondrous logic.
Methinks it might stand me in good stead before I be much older. The best sword-arm in all Christendom needs no other logic than the sword, I should think, said Bruce, returning to his work. That afternoon, de Vax stood in the 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 walks, smooth, sleek lawns, and formal beds of gorgeous flowering plants. While here 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 semblance 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 wall was hidden by more closely-masked bushes. And the formal geometric precision 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 walk before them, and, as Richard ran childlike after it, Lady Maud hastened on to the little postern gate which she quickly unlocked, admitting her lover, who had been waiting without.
RELOCKING THE GATE, THE TWO STROLED 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 NUNES SAW THE STEAM DETERMINED FACE WHICH PEERED THROUGH THE FOLIGE AT A LITTLE DISTANCE FROM THE PLAYING BOY. RICHARD WAS DEVOTING HIS ROYAL ENERGIES TO CHASING AN ELUSIVE BUTTERFLY WHICH FATE LED NEARER AND NEARER TO THE COLD HARD WATCHER IN THE BUSHES. Closer and closer came the little prince, and, in another moment, he had burst through the flowering shrubs and stood facing the implacable master of fence. "'Your Highness,' said de Vecke, bowing to the little fellow, "'Let old de Vecke help you catch the pretty insect.'" Richard, having often seen de Vecke, did not fear him, and so together they started in pursuit of the butterfly, which by now had passed out of sight.
Devak turned their steps toward the little postern gate, but when he would have passed through with the tiny prince, the latter rebelled. "'Come, my lord prince,' urged Devak. "'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 the prince. "'The king, my father, has forbid me stepping without the palace grounds.' "'Come!' commanded de vac more sternly. "'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 boy. "'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 prince 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 the key before the officer threw himself against the panels and burst out before the master of fence, closely followed by the lady maud. Duvac dropped the key, and, still grasping the now thoroughly affrighted prince with his left hand, drew his sword and confronted the officer. There were no words. There was no need of words. Duvac'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 first 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 the garden and give 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. "'But 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-sate look after the welfare 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, the third, 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 degrading and humiliating him that he might leave England forever. The king feared this 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 been, 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, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "'Oh, my Lord! My Lord!' she cried. Richard, our son, has been assassinated and thrown into the Thames. In an instant all was confusion and turmoil, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the king finally obtained a coherent statement from his queen.
It seemed that when the Lady Maud had not returned 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 trace of Prince Richard, second son of Henry, the third of England, and at that time the youngest prince of the realm. It was two days before the absence of de Vec was 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 abduction 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 birth-mark, 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 royal nephew had always been so marked as to have been commented upon by the members 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.
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4 04 - Chapter 4 10:57
As de Vec 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 had he 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 London 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 terrible de vac, that a threat of death easily stilled his tongue, and so the grim old man led into the boat hidden deep in the dense bushes. De vac did not dare remain in this retreat until 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 hair.
Concealing the child beneath the other articles of clothing, he pushed off from the bank, 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 weight, de Vac undressed the Prince, and clothed him in other garments, which had been wrapped in the bundle hidden beneath the thwart.
A little red cotton tunic with hose 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 former assurance, and, finding that de Vax seemed not to intend harming him, the little fellow commenced questioning his grim companion, his childish wonder at this strange adventure getting the better of his former apprehension. "'What do we here, Sir Jules?' he asked. "'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 man.
"'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 yourself 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 hungry 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 finery 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 skiff outward to the side of the dock, and, gathering the sleeping child in his arms, stood listening, Preparatory to mounting to the alley which led to old Till's place.
As he stood thus, a faint sound of clanking armor came to his attentive ears. Louder and louder it grew, until there could be no doubt but that a number of men were approaching. Devac resumed his place in the skiff, and again 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 mouth of the dark alley. Here they stopped, as though for consultation, and plainly could 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 Vack recognized as that of the Earl of Leicester.
The hand that could steal the prince from out of the very gardens of his sire without the knowledge of the lady Maud or her companion, which must evidently have been the case, could 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 hear 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 fellows 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 Lester 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 hand clapped over the tiny mouth, but not before a single faint wail had 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 repetition 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 Vax'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.
"'Dockrats!' said de Clare. And then, as though the devil guided them to protect his own, two huge rats scurried upward 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 Till seemed over-anxious to bargain for the future information she seemed hopeful of being 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 distance. A close shave, thought de Vec, 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 Till'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 the garret above, this ascent being made by means of a wooden ladder which de Vack pulled up after him, closing and securing the aperture, through which he climbed with his burden by means of a heavy trap-door equipped with thick bars. The apartment which they now entered extended across the entire east end of the building, and had windows upon three sides. 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 unsealed, the whole bearing a most barn-like and unhospitable appearance. In one corner was a huge bed, and across the room a smaller cot. A cupboard, a table, and two benches completed the furnishings. These articles de Vecch had purchased for the room, against the time when he should occupy it with his little prisoner. On the table was a loaf of black bread, an earthenware jar containing honey, a pitcher of milk, and two drinking-horns. To these de Vecch immediately gave his attention, commanding the child to partake of what he wished. Hunger for the moment overcame the little prince'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 lower floor of the building in search of Till, whom he now thoroughly mistrusted and feared. The words of de Montfort, which he had overheard at the dock, convinced 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 youth 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 dressed 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, Till 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 offense. 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 behind 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 vast 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 long 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 heart 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.
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5 05 - Chapter 5 38:01
For three years following the disappearance of Prince Richard, a bent old woman lived in the heart of London within a stone'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 abroad alone, nor by day. And upon his left breast was a strange mark which resembled a lily. When the bent old woman was safely in her attic room, with bolted door behind 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 little boy's education. There were three subjects in her curriculum—french, swordsmanship, and hatred of all things English, especially the reigning house 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 years 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 cursed, the length and breadth of England. And when you finally stand with the halter about your neck, ha, ha, then will I speak.' Then shall they know. The little boy did not understand it all. He only 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 Englishmen. But why, he did not know.
Way back in the uttermost recesses of his little 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 kissed 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 dreams. 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 crescent, 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 other strange and amusing gestulations. The child was fascinated. Here was the first amusement of his little starved life. He listened intently to the conversation, which was in French. "'I have just the thing for, madam,' the stranger was saying. "'It be a noble and stately hall far from the beaten 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 Spenthrough favorite of his, "'Henry de Macy,' who pledged it to me for a sum he hath been unable to repay. To-day 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 that 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, half 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 hold it together with the deed for forty days, which will give thee ample time to travel to Derbe, 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 thus it was accomplished.
Several days later, the little old woman called the child to her. "'We shall start to-night upon a long journey to our new home. Thy face shall be wrapped in many rags, for thou hast a most grievous 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 old 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 wrapped, 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, and 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 their long journey north toward the hills of Derby. For many days they traveled, 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 the dirty London alleys that he had traversed only by night. They wound across beautiful park-like meadows, and through dark, forbidding forests, and now and again they passed tiny hamlets of thatched huts. Occasionally they saw armored knights upon the highway, alone or in small parties, But the child's companion always managed to hasten into cover at the roadside until the grim riders had passed.
Once, as they lay in hiding in a dense wood beside a little open glade across which the road wound, the boys saw two knights enter the glade from either side. For a moment they drew rein and eyed each other in silence, and then one, A great blackmailed knight upon a black charger cried 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 point, 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-trap chargers came together in the center of the glade, it was with all the terrific impact of full charge.
The lance of the black knight smote full upon the linden shield of his foeman. The staggering weight of the mighty black charger 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 to his feet, but his male 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 response.
Then he prodded the fallen man with the point of his spear. Even this elicited no movement. With a shrug of his ironclad shoulders, the black knight wheeled and rode on down the road until he had disappeared from sight within the gloomy shadows of the encircling forest. The little boy was spellbound. Not like this 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 upon 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 leave a trail of blood and death, for every man shall 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 seen, 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 deserted 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 shelter of some bushes at the far side of the highway, and fall upon the surprised and defenseless tradesmen. Ragged, bearded, uncouth villains they were, armed mostly with bludgeons and daggers, with here and there a crossbow. 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. The 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 not, 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 them in all their sorrow and misery and poverty, stretching in a long, scattering line 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 unhappy 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 a little provocation, or for no provocation at all. When thou shalt be older, thou shalt 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. The 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.
From 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 decaying planks, she pinned the horse for the night, pouring a measure of oats upon the floor for him from a bag which had hung 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 planking 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 dimly the mighty cavernous interior with the puny rays of their feeble torch.
As they stepped cautiously within, an impalpable dust rose in little spurts from 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 this 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 delight 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 burned in its two immense fireplaces, to cheer the merry throng of noble revelers that had so often sat about the great table into the morning hours.
Here they took up their abode. But the bent old woman was no longer an old woman. She had become a straight, wiry, active old 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 old man commenced teaching him to speak English, but with a studied and very marked French accent. During all his life now, he could not remember of having spoken to any living being other than his guardian, whom he had been taught to address 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 could scarce be expected to regret or yearn for. At fifteen, the youth was a magnificent swordsman and horseman, and with an utter contempt for pain or danger, a contempt which 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 without armor or other protection of any description. Thus only, the old man was wont to say, mayest thou become the absolute master of thy blade. Of such a nicety must be thy handling of the weapon, that thou mayest touch an antagonist at will, and so lightly, shouldst thou desire, that thy point, wholly under the control of a master hand, mayest 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, while blood was often let on both sides, The trainee produced a fearless swordsman 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, bronze and hardy from his outdoor life. A few words, for there was none that he might talk with save the taciturn old man. Hating the English, for that he was taught as thoroughly as swordsmanship. Speaking French fluently and English poorly, and waiting impatiently for the day when the old man should 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 of a chill autumn day. Off the main road, and far from any habitation, they had espied the castle's towers through a rift in the hills, and now they spurred toward 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 grasped 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 about 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 great leaps, he dragged the boy with him. But all his mighty efforts were unavailing to loosen the grip upon Main and Withers.
Suddenly he reared straight up 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 fight 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 head bent farther and farther toward him, the boy loosed his hold upon the mane, and reached quickly down to grasp the near-forward 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 the beast sank upon his bent knee, pulling backward until his off foreleg was stretched straight before him. Then, with a final surge, the youth pulled him over upon his side, and, as he fell, slipped prone beside him.
One sinewy hand shot to the rope just beneath the black chin, the other grasped a slim, pointed 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 knights. 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 eyes 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 threw 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 castle of Destoutaville!' 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 this ancient rookery. As they entered the great courtyard, magnificent even in its ruined grandeur, they were met by a little grim old man, who asked them in no gentle tones what they would of them there. "'We have lost our way in these devilish derby hills of thine, old man,' replied Paula Merely.
"'We seek the castle of Sir John de Studeville. Ride down straight to the river-road.' Keeping the first trail to the right, and when thou hast come there, turn again 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 turned to enter the castle. Hold, old fellow! cried the spokesman. It be nigh on to sunset now, and we care not to sleep out again this night 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 grace that he took them in to feed and house them overnight. But there was nothing 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 nothing 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 foreign bloodsuckers 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 met together and formed a pact for our mutual protection, the king must surely realize that the time for temporizing be passed, and that unless he would have a civil war upon his hands, he must keep the promises he so glibly makes, instead 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 holy 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 thunderstorm 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 then 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 old 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 methinks, nay, knowest, that he would be the first to spring to arms to save the throne for Henry. He but fights the king's rank and covetous advisers, And though he must 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 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 about 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-tunic 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. His 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, except in his cursed French accent. His blood, Beauchamp, he continued, turning to one of his companions. And were he set down in court, I wager our gracious queen would be hard put to it to tell him from the young Prince Edward. Didst 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 three 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 name. My father calls me son, and no other ever before addressed me.' At this juncture, the old man arose and left the room, saying 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, yet 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 your bidding, for all Englishmen are pigs, and I loathe them, as becomes a gentleman of France. I do not uncover my body to the eyes of swine. The knights, at first taken back by this unexpected outbreak, finally burst into uproarious laughter. "'Indeed!' cried Paula Merely, "'spoken as one of the king's foreign favorites might speak, "'and they ever 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 blade 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 quick sharp en garde from the boy.
There was naught for Paul of Merley 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 Merley was a brave man, and he liked not the idea of drawing against this stripling. But he argued that he could quickly disarm him without harming the lad, and he certainly did not care to be further 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 about the room, great beads of sweat stood upon the brow of Paul of Merle, for he realized that he was fighting for his life against a superior swordsman. The loud laughter of Beauchamp and Greystoke soon 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 told louder than words that he had in no sense let himself out to his full capacity. Around and around the room they circled, the boy always advancing, Paul of Merley always retreating.
The din of their clashing swords and the heavy breathing of the older man were the only sounds, except as they brushed against a bench or a table. Paul of Merley was a brave man, But he shuddered 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! Sheath your swords! But the boy's only response was, En garde, Cochon! And Beauchamp found himself taking the center of the stage in place of his friend. Nor did the boy neglect Paul of Merle, but engaged them both in sword-play 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 thrusts, and the smile had frozen upon his lips, grim and stern. Paul of Merle and Beauchamp were wounded in a dozen places when Greystoke rushed to their aid. And then it was that a little 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 may have guessed, though they never knew, that they were pitted against the two greatest swordsmen in the world. "'To the death!' cried the little gray man. "'Amore, 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 father's.
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 grey man's, Amour, Monfils! He shuddered, and the little hairs at the nape 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 dead, 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.' Amour, ma fice. Greystoke was determined to sell his life dearly, 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 steel 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 themselves 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 ward 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 abroad except in armor, and when he met others upon the high road, his visor was always lowered, that none might see his face. The day following the episode of the Three Knights, the old man called the boy to him, saying, "'It is time, my son, that thou learn an answer to such questions as were put to thee yester-eve by the pigs of Henry. Thou art fifteen years of age, and thy name be Norman, and so, as this be the ancient castle of Torn, thou mayest 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 mother, when thou wert six years old.
But remember, Norman of Torn, that the best answer for an Englishman is the sword. Nought else may penetrate his thick wit. And so was born that Norman of Torn, whose name in a few short years was to strike terror to the hearts of Englishmen, And whose power in the vicinity of torn was greater than that of the king or the barons.
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6 06 - Chapter 6 20:26
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 day, also, a period was allotted to the sword. Until, by the time the youth had turned sixteen, even the old man himself was but a novice by comparison with the marvelous skills of his pupil. During these days, the boy rode Sir Mortimer abroad in many directions, until he knew every by-path within a radius of fifty 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 except 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 is neither a king nor a god, and who 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 peremptorialness.
"'By the nose of John, it must be a king has deigned to honour me with his commands,' laughed the priest. "'Raise your visor, my lord. I would fain look upon the countenance from which issues 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 good father, "'a child in armour.' "'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 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 their 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 rights 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 women. All of virtue and chivalry and true manhood which his old guardian had neglected 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 boy's earlier visits to his new friend rather decided the latter, that no arguments he could bring the bear, could ever overcome the bald fact that to this very belief of the boy's, and his ability to back it up with axe, 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 open to admit as disreputable a band of ruffians as ever polluted the sight of man. Six of them— were clothed in dirty leather, and wearing swords and daggers at their sides. The leader was a mighty fellow, with a great shock of coarse black hair, and a red, bloated face, almost concealed by a huge matted 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 cheek and forehead, and from a blow which had evidently put out his left eye, for that socket was empty, and the sunken eyelid but partially covered the inflamed red of the hallow where his eye had been.
"'Ha, ha, mahardes!' roared the leader, turning to his motley crew. "'Fine pickings here, indeed. The 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 behind him to tie his neck with a halter later, and dead men talk the least. "'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 is now, he murders his victims. I will 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 hands in the attitude of prayer, so that he quite entirely misled the ruffians, who had no idea that he was communicating with the boy. Norman of Torn could scarce repress his 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 Norman 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 matter of grievance you hold against my good friend here, nor neither do I care. It is sufficient that he is the friend of Norman of Torn, and that Norman of Torn be here in person 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 he did 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 them go their way in peace, for in the open, four against one are odds no man may pit himself against with impunity. But Norman of Torn saw red when he fought, and the red lured him ever into the thickest of the fray. Only once before had he fought to the death, but that once had taught him the love of it. and, even 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, they turned upon him, but he sprang into their midst with his seething blade, and 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 down, and the remaining two fleeing for their lives toward the high road with Norman of torn close at their heels. Young, agile, and perfect in health, He outclassed them in running as well as in swordsmanship, and ere they had made fifty paces, both had thrown away their swords and were on their knees, pleading for their 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 been 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, where they found Red Shandy sitting propped against the wall, while the good father poured 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 little room. The Black Wolf dead, Red Shandy and John Flory wounded, James Flory, One-Eyed Canty, 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 aplenty and good reward. The sight of this gang of ruffians banded together 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 subconsciousness 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 devil 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 whom they called Peter the Hermit. To follow Norman of Torn, where he may lead, to protect the poor and the weak, to lay down your lives in defense of women, 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 in a bath, had that been necessary. to admit them to the service of Norman of Torn. "'Aye, aye,' they cried. "'We be your men, indeed.' "'Wait,' said Norman of Torn. "'There 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 feed you, furnish you with mounts and armor, and weapons and a roof to sleep under, 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 from 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 a series of outlaw 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 he had scarce turned eighteen.
That he had no fear of or desire to avoid responsibility for his axe, he grimly evidenced by marking with the dagger-point upon the foreheads of those who fell before his own sword the initials n.T. As his following and wealth increased, he rebuilt and enlarged the grim castle of Torn. and again dammed the little stream which had furnished the moat with water in bygone days. Through all the length and breadth of the country that witnessed his activities, his very name was worshipped by poor and lowly 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 little 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 and followers. He had become a power to reckon with in the fast culminating quarrel 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 royalists and insurgents. 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 Grimcastle home with his five filthy ragged cut-throats on the day of his first meeting with them, the old man of Torn stood watching the little party from one of the small towers of the Barbican. Halting beneath this outer gate, the youth winded 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 squires, and lackeys, and Sumter beasts, open in the name of the good right arm of Sir 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 blood 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 when he hears it, and shall hate and loathe ye as I have ever 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 gate 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.' "'You ride after me, Varlet,' cried Norman of Torn. "'And lest ye should forget again so soon, who be thy master, take 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 blood, 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, with cold, level gaze, his head held high, haughty face marked by an arrogant sneer 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 was 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 his 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 thousands pass the Barbicans of Torn to carve a position beneath his grim banner.
As Shandy rose one by one, John Flory, James, his brother, one-eyed Canty, 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 murmured. "'Sedef! 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 giblet for a throne.
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7 07 - Chapter 7 34:02
It was a beautiful spring day in May Twelve Sixty Two that Norman of Torn rode alone down the narrow trail that led to the pretty cottage 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 urged 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,' the old fellow was wont to say, "'that for your own good, as well as mine, 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 thought, usually passing it off as the foolish whim of an old dotard, but he humoured it nevertheless. Behind him, as he rode down this 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 darkening shadows of the night, perched upon a great horse, behind the little old woman, whose metamorphosis to this little grim gray old man of torn their advent to the castle had marked.
Today the great frowning pile loomed larger and 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, lighted 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 walls, which were set at intervals with small projecting towers so pierced that a flanking fire from longbows, crossbows, and javelins might be directed against a scaling party.
The fourth side of the walled enclosure overhung a high precipice, which natural protection rendered towers unnecessary upon this side. The main gateway of the castle looked toward the west, and from it ran the tortuous and rocky trail down through the mountains 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 sparsely studded with an occasional gnarled oak, gave an unobstructed view of broad and lovely meadow-land through which was wound a sparkling tributary of the Trent. Two more gateways led 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 gate could be reached.
Each barbican was porticullised, while the inner gates were similarly safeguarded, in addition to the drawbridges, which, spanning the moat when lowered, could be drawn up at the approach of an enemy, effectually stopping his advance. The new towers and buildings added to the ancient keep under the direction of Norman of Torn, and the grim old man, whom he called father, were of the Norman type of architecture. The windows were larger, the 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 many 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 was 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 farmlands of the poor Saxon peasants, to whom Norman of Torn 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 edict to sell or give a penny's worth of provisions to the outlaw of Torn upon pain of death. But nevertheless his great carts made their trips regularly, and always 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 their 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 the more, the peasants' love for him increased. Them he never injured, their fences, their stock, their crops. Their wives and daughters were safe from molestation, even though the neighboring castles of their lord might be sacked from the wine-cellar to the ramparts of the loftiest tower. Nor did anyone dare ride roughshod 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 low-born 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 proudness, and in secret they prayed for him to their ancient god, Woden. And the lesser gods of the forest and the meadows and the chase For though they were confessed Christians, still 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 they felt it could do no harm to be on the safe side with the others, in case they 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 the 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 from oppression. On this policy of his towards the serfs and freedmen, Norman of Torn and the grim old man, whom he called father, had never 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 Torn to molest the lowly. A ragged tunic was a surer defense against this wild horde 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, and glancing from the copper boss on his shield, the sight of a little group of woodmen, kneeling, uncovered by the roadside as he passed, was not so remarkable 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 don't know, father,' replied Norman of Torn, "'unless it be that I am asking myself the question, what is it all for?' "'Why did my father train me ever to prey upon my fellows? I like to fight, and there is plenty of fighting which is legitimate.' And what good may 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, held 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 rotten they really are. So it seems to me that I am but the instrument of an old man'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 little do I favour 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 them aloud. "'Norman of Torn, if you are not the son of the old man you call father, may God forfend—' that England ever guess your true parentage. More than this, 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, because 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 high road, five knights in armor were now engaged in furious battle with a party of ten or a dozen other steel-clad warriors. While crouching breathless on her palfrey, 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 struck 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, reckless of his unarmored condition, leaped to Sir Mortimer's back, and spurred swiftly 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. Scarce a mile had been covered ere the knight, turning to look for pursuers, saw the 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 Norman, of torn. "'But your highness,' stammered the knight. "'Draw, or I stick you, as I have stuck a 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 steed 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 side 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 giant who had espoused her cause. As she looked upon her champion, she saw a lithe, muscular, brown-haired youth, whose clear eyes and perfect figure Unconcealed 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 rattling 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 unarmored foe, who, for his part, found difficulty in penetrating the other's armor. Finally, by dint of his mighty strength, Norman 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 tilt, rode three steel-armored men on their mighty horses. Ride, madam, called Norman of Torn. For fly I shall not, nor may I, alone, unarmored, and on foot, Hope more 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 only by the richness of her riding apparel and the trappings of her palfrey, but as well in her noble and haughty demeanor and the proud expression on her beautiful face.
Although at this time nearly twenty years had passed over the head of Norman of Torn, he was without knowledge or experience in the ways of women, nor had he ever spoken with a female of quality or position. No women 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 Norman 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 prayed 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 methods. Tomorrow he might be assaulting the ramparts of her father's castle, but to-day he was joyously offering to sacrifice his life 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 example, 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, turning 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 little as I why you should espouse the cause of a daughter of Simon de Montfort. Am I then taken for Prince Edward of England? he asked. And 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 that you might well deceive the Queen herself, and you would be of bravery fit for a King's son. Who are you, then, Sir Knight, who has bared your steel and faced death for a 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 face hardening. That I be, replied the girl. And from your face I take it you have little love, for a de Montfort, she added, smiling. And whither may you be bound, Lady Bertrand de Montfort? Be you niece or daughter of the devil? Yet still you be a woman, and I do not war against women. Wheresoever you would go, I will accompany you to safety.
I was but now bound, under escort of five of my father's knights, to visit Mary, daughter of John de Stuteville, of Derby. "'I know the castle well,' answered Noman of torn, and the shadow of a grim smile played about his lips. For scarce six days had elapsed since he had reduced the stronghold and levied tribute on the great baron. "'Come, you have not far to travel now, and if we make haste ye shall sup with your friend before dark.' So saying, he mounted his horse, and was turning to retrace their steps down the road, when he noticed the body of the dead knight 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 N.T.
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 he did, her heart would have quailed within her, and she would have fled in terror from the clutches of this scourge of England, whose marks she had seen on the dead foreheads of a dozen of her father's knights and kinsmen. Their way to Studeville 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 Bertrade de Montfort, that he might watch her face, which of a sudden had excited his 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 time, 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 treatment of women captives, there was no truth in them. They were merely spread by his enemies to incite the people against him. Never had Norman of Torn laid violent hand upon a woman, and his cut-throat ban were under oath to respect and protect the sex, on penalty of death. As he watched the semi-profile of the lovely face 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. Norman of Torn could not have translated this feeling into words, for he did not know. But it was that far faint cry of blood for blood. And with it, mayhap, was mixed not alone the longing of the lion among the jackals for other lions, but for his lioness. They rode for many miles in silence, when suddenly she turned, saying, "'You take your time, sir knight, in answering my query. Who be ye?' "'I am Nor'—' then he stopped. Always before he had answered that question with haughty pride. Why should he hesitate, he thought? Was it because he feared the loathing that the name would inspire in the breast of this daughter of the aristocracy he despised?
Did Norman of Torn fear to face the look of seam and repugnance that was sure to be mirrored in that lovely face. "'I am from Normandy,' he went on quietly, the gentleman of France. "'But your name?' she asked peremptorily. "'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 would see that there is a man within.' Normative Torn smiled as he did her bidding. and when he smiled thus, as he rarely did, he was good to look upon. It is the first command I have obeyed since I turned sixteen. Bertrade de Montfort he said. The girl was about nineteen, full of 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, and it is doubtless that the old reprobate who sued for his daughter's hand heard some unsavory truths from the man who had twice scandalized England's nobility 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 the command, Bertrade de Montfort.' "'Very well,' she laughed, thinking it but the idle boasting so much indulged in in those days. "'You may bring me his head upon a golden dish, Roger de Condi.' 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 calumny's 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 determined to win it by any means that accorded with his standard of honour, an honour which in many respects was higher than that of the nobles of his time. They reached the castle of d'Esteuteville 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 for the outlaw, and, when added to his new desire to be in the company of Bertrand 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 evidence of painful wounds but barely healed, while the host himself still wore his sword-arm in a sling. "'We have been through grievous times,' said Sir John, noticing that his guest was glancing at the various evidences 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 aliens soldierly to fight against his own barons, instead of ensuring the peace and protection which is the right of every Englishman at home.
But, he continued, this outlaw devil will come to an end of a short halter when once our civil strife is settled. For the barons themselves had decided upon an expedition against him, if the king will not subdue him. "'And 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 here 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 forehead to his chin.
A fearful apparition, murmured Norman of Torn. No wonder he keeps his helm closed. But such a swordsman spoke up a son of de Stouteville. Never in all the world was there such sword-play as I saw that day in the courtyard. "'I, too, have seen some wonderful sword-play,' said Bertrade de Montfort, "'and that to-day—oh, he!' 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 Condi fights as I ne'er saw a man fight before, and he rode with his visor down, until I chide him for it.' Norman of Torn led in the laugh which followed. and of all the company, he most enjoyed the joke. "'And 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 hellhounds, the fate of England might well be in the palm of his bloody hands.
"'He loves neither king nor baron,' spoke Mary de Stouteville. "'And I rather lean to the thought that he will serve neither, but rather plunder the castles of both rebels and royalists, while their masters be absent at war. "'It is more to his liking to come, while the master be home, to welcome him,' said Distouteful ruefully. "'But yet I am always in fear for the safety of my wife and daughters, when I be away from Derby for any time. May the good God soon deliver England from this devil 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 Stuteville, and when one of his men laid a heavy hand 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, "'No you, fella.
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 Stouteville was drawn out to three days, and then, on the third day, as he sat with Bertrard de Montfort, in an embrusure 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, Bertrard of Montfort,' he said boldly, "'I would forgo any other pleasure, and endure any privation or face any danger. But there are others who look to me for guidance, and my duty calls me away from you. You shall see me again, and at the castle of your father, Simon de Montfort, in Leicester, provided, he added, that you will welcome me there. I shall always welcome you, wherever I may be, Roger de Condi, replied the girl.
Remember that promise, he said, smiling. Some day you may be glad to repudiate it. Never, she insisted, and a light that shone in her eyes as she said it would have meant much to a man better versed in the ways of women than was Norman of Torn. I hope not, he said gravely. I cannot tell you, but, being poorly trained in courtly ways, what I should like to tell you, that you might know how much your friendship means to me. Good-bye, Bertrand de Montfort, and he bent one knee as he raised her fingers to his lips. As he passed over the drawbridge and down toward 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, stood a young woman who raised her hand to wave, and then, as though by sudden impulse, threw a kiss after the departing night, 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 now had he realized what might lie in another manner of life, and he felt a twinge of bitterness toward the horrid old man, whom he called father, and whose teachings from the boy's earliest childhood had guided him in the ways that had out him off completely from the society of other men, except the wild horde of outlaws, ruffians, and adventurers that rode beneath the gristly banner of the young chief of torn. Only in an ill-defined, nebulous way did he feel that it was the girl who had come into his life that caused him for the first time to feel shame for his past deeds.
He did not know the meaning of love, 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, together with the words of Father Claude, puzzled him sorely. What might it mean? Was it a heinous offense 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. but from some inward impulse which he did not attempt to phantom.
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8 08 - Chapter 8 14:28
As Norman of Torn rode out from the castle of Distouteville, Father Claude dismounted from his sleek donkey within the ballium 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 felt 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 most amenable to strong impressions, that the policy of the mighty outlaw was in many respects pure and lofty.
It was the 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 years of his life.
As Father Claude climbed down from his donkey, fat people do not dismount, half a dozen young squires ran forward to assist him, and to lead the animal to the stables. The good priest called each of his willing helpers by name, asking a question here, passing a merry joke there with the ease and familiarity that bespoke mutual affection and old acquaintance. As he passed through the great gate, the men-of-arms threw him laughing, though respectful, welcomes, and, within the great court, beautiful with smooth lawn, beds of gorgeous plants, fountains, statues, and small shrubs and bushes, He came upon the giant Red Shandy, now the principal lieutenant of Norman of Torn. "'Good-morrow, St. Claude,' cried the 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 unregenerated villain,' cried the priest, laughing, Though methinks you merit chiding for the grievous poor courtesy with which Dow didst treat the great Bishop of Norwich this past week. "'Tut-tut, Father,' replied Red Shandy. "'We did but aid him to adhere more closely to the injunctions and precepts of him whose servant and disciple he claims to be. Were it not better for the Archbishop of his church to walk in humility and poverty among his people, than to be ever surrounded with the temptation of fine clothing, jewels, and much gold, to say nothing of two Sumter 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 Sumter beasts when thou, Red Robber, had finished with him, exclaimed Father Claude. "'Yes, father,' laughed the great fellow. "'For the sake of holy church, I did indeed confiscate the temptation completely. And if you must needs have proof in order to absolve me from my sins, come with me now, and ye shall sample the excellent discrimination which the Bishop of Norwich displays in the selection of his temptations.' "'They tell me you left the great man quite destitute of finery,' read Shandy. continued Father Claude, as he locked his arms 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 bishop a bassinet for that single article of apparel, to protect his tonsured pate from the rays of old soul.
Then, fearing that it might be stolen from him by some vandals on the road, He had one-eyed canty riveted at each side of the gorget, 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 whomsoever he might chance to meet. Forty stripes he gave to each of the Bishop's retinnae, for being a broad and 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 canary, the little old man of Torn entered. He spoke to Father Claude in a surly tone, 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 Peter 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 thy 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 guarding the dove. Has he not returned? No, said the old man, and doubtless his adventure is of a nature in line with thy puerile and effeminate teachings.
Had he followed my training without thy accursed priestly interference, he'd have made an iron-barrelled nest in torn for many of the doves of thy damned English nobility. And thou leave him not alone. He will soon be seeking service in the household of the king. "'Where perchance he might be more at home than here?' said the priest quietly. "'Why say you that?' snapped the little old man, eyeing Father Claude narrowly. "'Oh,' laughed the priest, "'because he whose power and main be ever more kingly than the king's would rightly grace the royal palace.' But he had not failed to note the perturbation his remark had caused. Nor did his offhand 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 sorrowing and regretful glance at the unemptied flagon, left the room.
For a few moments the two men sat in meditative silence, which was presently broken by the old man of torn. Priest, he said, Thy ways with my son are, as you know, not to my liking. It were needless that he should have wasted so much precious time from sword-play 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 sure as there be a devil in hell, Norman of Torn will swing from the king's giblet. And thou know'st it. and he, too, as well as I. The things which thou hast taught 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 ever 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, greater than to be hated and feared among his blood enemies? "'I knowest 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 once and for all. For all thou dost and hast done to blight and curse the nobleness 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 king's giblet, 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 lowly, but so too were the friends and followers of our dear Lord Jesus. So that shall be more greatly to his honor than had he preyed upon the already unfortunate. Women have never been his prey. That also will be spoken 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 cursed, 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 thou standest. 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 to-day I am here. But where are they? Thou'st understand me, priest.
And the old man leaned far across the 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 loud 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 several 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 thine? It has never been my way to scold or chide thee, yet always hath my heart ached for each crime laid at the door of Norman of Torn. Come, come, father," replied the outlaw. What doubt I that I have not good examples 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, while they prey upon those who have not.
Yet, and his manner suddenly changed, 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 there be opportunities abundant for such as thee. "'France offers a magnificent future to such soldiers 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. "'Nay, do not raise your hand. You be all these and more, for you have learning far beyond the majority of nobles, and you have a good heart and a true chivalry of character. With such wonderful gifts, naught could bar your way to the highest pinnacles of power and glory, while here you have no future beyond the halter. 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 remain in England for a time, at least, though the picture you put is indeed wondrous alluring.
And the reason was, Bertrade de Montfort.
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9 09 - Chapter 9 31:26
The visit of Bertrade de Montfort with her friend, Mary de Stuteville, was drawing to a close. Three weeks had passed since Roger de Comde had ridden out from the portals of Stuteville, And many times the handsome young knight's name had been on the lips of his fair hostess and her fairer friend. Today the two girls roamed slowly through the gardens of the great court, their arms about each other's waists, pouring the last confidences into each other's ears, for tomorrow Bertrand had elected to return to Leicester. "'Methinkst thou be very rash indeed, my Bertrand,' said Mary. Weren't my father here, he would, I am sure, not permit thee to leave with only the small escort which we be able to give.
Fear not, Mary, replied Bertrade. Five of thy father's knights be ample protection for so short a journey. By evening it will have been accomplished, and, as the only one I fear in these parts received such a sound set-back from Roger de Condi recently, I do not think he will venture again to molest me. But what about the devil of torn, Bertrand urged Mary? Only yester-eve, 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, Bertrand, and I canst think of naught more horrible than to fall into his hands. Why, Mary, thou didst but recently say, thy very self, that Norman of torn, was most courteous to thee when he sacked this thy father's castle.
Howbeit thou, so soon hast changed thy mind. Yes, Bertrand, he was indeed respectful then, but who knows what horrid freak his mind may take? And they do say that he be cruel beyond compare. Again forget not that thou be Leicester's daughter and Henry's niece, against both of whom the outlaw of Torn openly swears his hatred and his vengeance. Obertrad wait for but 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 wide 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 with the best of word from me. If thou willst, thou willst, cried Mary petulantly. Indeed, it were plain that thou be a de Montfort, the race whose historic bravery be second only to their historic stubbornness. Bertrand de Montfort laughed, and kissed her friend upon the cheek. Mayhap I shall find the brave Roger de Condi again upon the highroad to protect me. Then, indeed, shall I send back your five knights, for, of a truth, his blade is more powerful than that of any ten men I e'er saw fight before. Methinks, said Mary, still peeved at her friend's determination to leave on the morrow, that should you meet that dowie Sir Roger, all unarmed, that still you would send back my father's knights.
Bertrand 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. "'Ah, I did guess but how thy heart and thy mind tended, Bertrand. But now I seest 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 not whatever for him. And then—' It has been three weeks since he rode out from Stuteville, and no word hath he sent. Ho, 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, cried 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 flabby over his receding chin, indicated the base passions to which his life had 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 that my hate for Leicester be the passion which moves me. Thou fail in thy attempt to capture the maiden. Give me ten knights, and I will bring her to you.' "'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 to-night, that we may take our positions by the highway in ample time to-morrow.' 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 his guest. The fellow might want the girl for himself and betaking 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 nothing to me other than my revenge. And if thou willst not do it, I shall hire the necessary ruffians, and then not even thou shalt see Bertrade de Montfort more.' This last threat decided the baron. "'It is agreed,' he said. The men shall ride out with you in half an hour. Wait below in the courtyard. When the little man had left the apartment, Peter of Colfax summoned his squire, whom he had sent to him at once, one of his faithful henchmen. "'Guy,' said Peter of Colfax, as the man entered, "'you made a rare fizzle of a piece of business some weeks ago.
You what, 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 stranger who waits in the courtyard below shall lead ye, and come not back without that 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 with 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 chosen to return to her father's castle dawned gray and threatening. In vain did Mary de Stouteville 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 firm.
Already I have overstayed my time three days, and it is not likely 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 mother and my father may be sore distressed by my continued absence. No, Mary, I must ride to-day. And so she did, with the five nights 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 such blinding gusts that they must needs keep their eyes closed and trust to the instincts of their mounts.
Less than half the journey had been accomplished. They were winding across a little hollow toward a low ridge covered with dense 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 halfway up the ridge's side. There was a movement in the dark shadows of that grim wood. And then, without a 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 girls' escorts 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, for 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, might 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 grim 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 yards ere in the midst of the dark wood. She ran full upon a rope stretched across the roadway between two trees. As the horse fell with a terrible lunge, Tripped 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 man did not even dismount. So indifferent was he to her fate, dead or in the hands 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 from 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 old man. "'My part of the business is done.' And so he sat watching them until they 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 Stouteville.
Three were already dead. The other two, sorely but not mortally wounded, lay groaning by the roadside. 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 each 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 Stouteville. Bertrand 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 Stouteville to fetch her home.
With the wind and rain at their backs, the little party rode rapidly along the muddy road, until late in the afternoon they came upon a white palfrey, standing huddled beneath a great oak, his arched back toward the driving storm. "'By God!' cried de Montfort. "'Tis my sister's own Abdul. There be something wrong here, indeed." But a rapid search of the vicinity and loud calls brought forth no further evidence of the girl's whereabouts, so they pressed on toward Stuteville. 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 Stuteville. Dismounting, Henry de Montfort examined the bodies of the fallen men.
The arms upon Shield and Helm confirmed his first fear that these had been Bertrard's escort from Stouteville. As he bent over them to see if he recognized any of the knights, there stared up into his face from the foreheads of the dead men the dreaded sign, N.T., scratched there with a dagger's point. The curse of God beyond 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 Torn. When Bertrand de Montfort regained her senses, she was in a 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 bride 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 these in his arms. Below, in the great hall, he paces to and fro, the red blood mantling his beauteous countenance. "'Who be ye?' cried Bertrand de Montfort. her mind still dazed from the effects of her fall. "'Where am I?' and then, "'Oh, mon Dieu!' as she remembered the events of the afternoon, and the arms of Colfax upon the shields of the attacking party. In an instant she realized the horror of her predicament, its utter hopelessness. Beast though he was, Peter of Colfax stood high 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 counterbalanced by the fact that she was the daughter of Simon de Montfort, whom he feared and hated. In the corridor without, she heard the heavy tramp of approaching feet, and presently a man's voice at the door. Within there a call. Has the damsel awakened from her swoon? Yes, sir, Peter, replied the old woman. I was but just urging her to rise and clothe herself saying that you awaited her below. "'Haste, then,' my lady Bertrand called the man. "'No harm will be done thee, if thou showest the good sense I give thee credit for. I will await thee in the great hall, or, if thou prefer, wilt 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 barren diminished down the stairway which led from the tower room in which she was imprisoned. The old woman attempted to draw her into conversation, 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 Ethelwulf. 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 air 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 acquisitions by inheritance rather than by personal proudness of the present master of Colfax. A single crescent 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. Bertrard 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 sterner call of their mighty chieftains, for the oath of fealty.
Her wandering eyes took in the dozen benches and the few rude, heavy chairs which completed the rough furnishings of this rough room, and she shuddered. One little foot tapped sullenly upon the disordered floor, which was littered with a miscellany of rushes interspersed 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 was quite empty, that in addition to the main doorway at the lower end of the 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 pastimes. 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 sword 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 not even turn her head as she said, "'What explanation hast thou to make, Sir Peter, for this base treachery against thy neighbour'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 feet. O beauteous Bertrard, 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 marrow bones. Bertrand turned as she saw him. Her haughty countenance relaxed into a sneering smile. "'Thou art a fool, Sir Peter,' she said, and at that the worst species of fool, an ancient fool. It is useless 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 a red of humiliation to model 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 fours before he could rise, so that he got up much after the manner of a cow, raising his stern high in the air in the 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 thundered. "'I will give thee until tomorrow to decide Whether thou wilt accept Peter of Colfax as thy husband, or take another position in this household which would 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 clumsy 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 night, 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 escape or delay. The room in which she was in prison was in the west tower of the castle, fully a hundred feet above the moat, which the single 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 Bertrard, 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 herself for a lack of means to thwart her captor. Her dagger had been taken from her, but one hung 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 head close to the girl's body to see what was wrong with the curdled clasp, Bertrand reached quickly to her side and snatched the weapon from its sheath. Quickly she sprang back from the old woman, who, with a cry of anger and alarm, rushed upon 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 and blaspheming in a most horrible manner, at the same time calling for help. Bertrand backed to the door, commanding the old woman to remain where she was on pain of death, and quickly dropped the mighty bars into place. Scarcely had the last great bolt been slipped than Peter of Colfax, with a dozen servants and men-at-arms, were pounding loudly upon the outside. "'What's wrong with in, Cole?' cried the Baron. "'The wench has wrestled my dagger from me, and is murdering me,' shrieked the old woman. "'And that I will truly do, Peter of Colfax,' spoke Bertrand, "'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 upon the castle, the Baron desisted from his attempts, intending to starve his prisoner out. Within the little room, Bertrade de Montfort sat 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 dawned, it found her position unchanged, her tired eyes still fixed upon the hag. Early in the morning, Peter of Colfax resumed his endeavours to persuade her to come out. He even admitted defeat, and promised her safe conduct to her father's castle.
But Bertrard de Montfort was not one to be fooled by his lying tongue. "'Then I will starve you out,' he cried at length. "'Gladly. I will starve in preference to falling into thy foul hands,' replied the girl. "'But thy old servant here will starve first.' For she be very old, and not so strong as I. Therefore, 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. 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 defense, and it was late at night, ere they made a little opening large enough 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 hands put an end to all hopes of entering without completely demolishing the door. To this work the men without then set themselves diligently, while Peter of Colfax renewed his entreaties through the small opening they had made. Bertrard replied but once, Seest thou this pointer? she asked. When that door falls, this point enters my heart. There is nothing beyond that door, with thou, poltroon, to which death in this little chamber would not be preferable. As she spoke, she turned towards the man she was addressing, for the first time during all those weary, hideous hours, removing her glance from the old hag.
It was enough. Silently, but with the quickness of a tigress, The old woman was upon her back, one claw-like paw grasping the wrist 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 aid of the old woman. Easily they wrestled the dagger from Bertrard's fingers, and at the Baron's bidding, they dragged her to the great hall below. As his retainers left the room at his command, Peter of Colfax strode back and forth upon the rushes which strewed the floor. Finally he stopped before the girl, standing rigid in the center of the room. "'Hast come to thy senses yet?' Bertrand 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 always be. I will be neither wife nor mistress to a coward, a hideous, abhorrent pig 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-toed Peter of Colfax? "'Hold, Chit!' cried the baron, livid with rage. "'You have gone too far. Enough of this. "'An you love me not now, "'I shall learn you to love ere the sun rises.' And with a vile oath he grasped the girl roughly by the arm, and dragged her toward the little doorway at the side of the room.
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10 10 - Chapter 10 28:41
For three weeks after his meeting with Bouchard de Montfort, and his sojourn at the castle of John de Stuteville, 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 outlaws' fighting men, and never again after his meeting with the daughter of the chief of the barons did Norman 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 walls to learn the mission of the party, for visitors seldom came to this inaccessible and unhospitable fortress, and he well knew that no party of a dozen knights would venture with hostile intent within the clutches of his great band of villains.
The great red giant soon returned to say that it was Henry de Montfort, oldest son of the Earl of Leicester, who had come under a flag of truce, and would have speech with the master of Torn. Admit them, Shandy, commanded Norman of Torn. I will speak with them here. When the party, a few minutes later, was ushered into his presence, it found itself facing a mailed knight with drawn visor. Henry de Montfort advanced with haughty dignity until he faced the outlaw. "'Be ye Norman of Torn?' he asked. And did he try to conceal the hatred and loathing which he felt? He was poorly successful. "'They call me so,' replied the visored 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 price, and it shall be paid. Only be quick, and let me hence with my sister.
What wild words be these, Henry de Montfort? Your sister? What mean you? Yes, my sister Bertrand, who you stole upon the highway two days since after murdering the knights of John de who were fetching her home from a visit upon the baron's daughters. We know that it was you, for the foreheads of the dead men bore your devil's mark. 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 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 have Torn, bear no savory name, That I know full well. But no man may say that we unsheathe our swords against women. Your sister is not here. I give you the word of honor of Norman of Torn. Is it not enough? They say you never lie, replied de Montfort. Would the god I knew who had done this thing, or which way to search for my sister. Norman of Torn made no reply. His thoughts were 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 a drawbridge ere the castle of torn was filled with hurrying men and the noise and uproar of a sudden call to arms. Some thirty minutes later, five hundred iron-clad 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 metal from the ancient bandit mail of the Saxon to the richly ornamented plate 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 of Torn's wild raiders.
Fluttering penions streamed from five hundred lance points, and the gray banner of Torn, with the black falcon's wing, flew 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 velosa, 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 every civilized country of Europe, the great horde of torn numbered in its ten companies, serf and noble, Briton, Saxon, Norman, Dane, German, Italian, and French, Scots, Pict, and Irish. Here Berth 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 a 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 captain 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 command of other seasoned veterans of a thousand fights.
One-Eyed Canty, owing to his early trade, held the always important post of Chief Armourer, 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 major-domo of the great castle of Torn, which post included also the vital functions of quartermaster and commissary. 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 gaps made in the companies. Due to their constant encounters upon the highroad, and their battles at the taking of some feudal castles in which they did not always 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 him 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 battle. Where it waved might always be found the fighting and the honors, and about it there 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 malign brain. At the head of their respective companies rode the five captains, Red Shandy, John Flory, Ed Wilde, the serf, Emilio, Count de Grappello, of Italy, and Sir Ralph de la Campanie, 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 further from the vicinity of Torn, where the black falcon wing was known more by the ferocity of its name, Then by the kindly deeds of the great outlaw to the lowly of his neighbors, they saw only closed and barred doors, with an occasional frightened face peering from a tiny window.
It was midnight ere they sighted the black towers of Colfax, silhouetted against a starry sky. Drawing his men into the shadows 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 being 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 a watchman at the gate or upon the walls.
As he had sacked this castle some two years since, he was familiar with its internal plan. So he knew that through the scullery he could reach the small antechamber above, which led directly into the great hall. And so it happened that, as Peter of Colfax wheeled towards 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 drawn sword. The girl saw him, too, and a look of hope and renewed courage overspread 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 drawing 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 that night, had not John and Guy and another of his henchmen rushed into the room with drawn swords. "'Where, 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 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 instant she regretted her act, for she saw that where she might have reduced her rescuer'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 spellbound by the exhibition of swordsmanship she was witnessing. Fighting the three alternately, in pairs, and again, all at the same time, the silent knight, though weighed by his heavy armor, forced them steadily back. His flashing blade seemed to weave a net of steel 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.
Peter of Colfax was moving slowly and cautiously. He was creeping from behind toward the visored night, and in his raised hand flashed a sharp dagger. For an instant the girl stood frozen with horror, 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 footstool, 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 table which supported the only light at 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 Betraud?' asked a grave English voice out of the darkness. "'Quite, sir, Knight,' she replied. "'And you?' "'Not a scratch. But where is our good friend 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 light. As its feeble rays slowly penetrated the black gloom, the girl saw the bodies of the three men-at-arms, the overturned table and lamp, and the visored knight. But Peter of Colfax was gone. The knight perceived his absence at the same time.
But he only laughed a low, grim laugh. "'He will not go far, my lady, Bertrarod,' he said. "'How know you my name?' she asked. "'Who may you be? I do not recognize your armor, and your breastplate bears 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 same Roger De Condi 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, and there was the marvellous sword-play as well. It must be he. And yet Roger de Condi had spoken no English, while this man spoke it well, though it was true with a slight French accent. "'My lady Bertrand, I be Norman of Torn,' said the vizier knight with quiet dignity.
The girl's heart sank. And a feeling of cold fear crept through her. For years that name had been the symbol of fierce cruelty and mad hatred against her kind. Little children were frightened into obedience by the vaguest hint that the Devil of Torn would get them, and grown men had 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, as 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 at 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 thus befriend 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 whatsoever. It pleases me to do as I do, that is all. Come.' He led her in silence to the courtyard and across the lower 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 Palfrey, and Shandy, when all is done as I say, you may apply the torch.' But 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 objective of his many raids, was at least a very important consideration. The outlaw noticed the surprised hesitation of his faithful sub-lattern, and signing him to listen, said, Read Shandy. Norman of Torn has fought and sacked and pillaged for the love of it, and for a principle, which was at best but a vague generality. Tonight we ride to redress a wrong done to my lady Bertrard 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 prisoners, but no Peter of Colfax. "'He has flown, my lord,' the big fellow reported. And indeed it was true. Peter of Colfax had passed through the vaults 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 only 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 taken up, and the warriors filed down the roadway behind their leader and Bertrard 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 skyline. Occasionally it would clear away from the burning castle for an instant, to show the black walls pierced by their hundreds of emberschures, each lit up by the red of the raging fire within. 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 glance.
Varied emotions filled the breasts of the several 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 the girl who awakened such strange emotions in his breast, sad that he was a loathsome thing in her eyes, but that it was pure happiness just to be near her, sufficed him for the time. Of the morrow, what used to think? The little grim gray old man of Torn nursed the spleen he did not dare vent openly, and cursed the chance that had sent Henry de Montfort to Torn to search for his sister, while the followers of the outlaws swore quietly over the vagary which had brought them on this long ride without either fighting or loot.
Bertard de Montfort was but filled with wonder that she should owe her life and honor to this fierce, wild cut-throat who had sworn a special hatred against her family because of its relationship to the house of Plantagenet. She could not fathom it, and yet he seemed fair-spoken for so rough a man. She wondered what manner of countenance might lie beneath that barred visor. Once the outlaw took his cloak from its fastening at his saddle's cantle 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 the sight of the castle of Simon de Montfort.
The watch upon the tower was thrown into confusion 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 when 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 with one companion, my lord earl. "'Dares Norman of Torn enter the castle of Simon de Montfort? Thinks he I keep a robber's 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 a reply, and together Norman of Torn and Betraud 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 mount, 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 hold 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 the Visor Knight flew from its scabbard, and with a single lightning-like move sent the blade of the young de Montfort hurtling across 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 outturned toward her kinsman, 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 brothers, 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 said, "'Let the de Montforts think well, ere they take the hand of Norman of Torn. I give not my hand except in friendship, and 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 his 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 rendered 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 Torn, 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. Good-bye. But as he turned to go, Bertrard de Montfort confronted him with outstretched hand.
"'You must take my hand in friendship,' she said. "'For to my dying day I may 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 Bertrand, remember that his services are yours for the asking. And turning, he mounted and rode in silence from the courtyard of the castle of Leicester, without a backward glance, and with his five hundred men at his back, Norman of torn disappeared beyond a turning in the roadway. "'A strange man,' said Simon de Montfort.
"'Both good and bad, but from to-day I shall ever believe more good than bad. Would that he were other than he be, for his arm would wield a heavy sword against the enemies of England, and 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.
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11 11 - Chapter 11 14:49
Several days after Norman of Torn's visit to the castle of Leicester, a young knight appeared before the earl's gates, demanding admittance to have speech with Simon de Montfort. The earl received him, And as the young man entered his presence, Simon de Montfort sprang to his feet in astonishment. "'My lord, prince,' he cried, "'what do ye here, and alone?' The young man smiled. "'I be no prince, my lord,' he said, "'though some have said that I favour the king's son. "'I be Roger de Condie, "'who it may have pleased your gracious daughter to mention. "'I have come to pay homage to Bertrand de Montfort.' "'Ah,' said de Montfort, rising to greet the young knight cordially, "'and 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 tongue 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 thanks of her brothers and mother await you, Roger De Condi. She also told us of your strange likeness to Prince Edward. But until I saw you, I could not believe two men could be born 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 chamber, where they were greeted by Princess Eleanor, his wife, and by Bertrard de Montfort. The girl was frankly glad to see him once more, and laughingly chide him because he had allowed another to usurp his prerogative and rescue her from Peter of Colfax.
And to think, she cried, that it should have been Norman of Torn who fulfilled your duties for you. But he did not capture Sir Peter's head, my friend. That is still at large to be brought to me upon a golden dish. "'I have not forgotten, Lady Bertraud,' said Roger de Condi. "'Peter of Colfax will return.' The girl glanced at him quickly. "'The very words of the outlaw of Torn,' she said. "'How many men be ye, Roger de Condi? "'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 Norman of Torn.' "'And which would it please ye the most that I be?' he laughed. "'Neither,' she answered.
"'I be satisfied with my friend Roger de Condie.' "'So ye not like the devil of Torn?' he asked. "'He has done me a great service, and I be under monstrous obligations to him. But he be, Nathalus, the outlaw of Torn, and I the daughter of an earl and a king's sister.' "'A most unbridgeable golf, indeed.' commented Roger De Condi dryly. 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 Condi. "'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 keep 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 speech, or it may. I know nothing of courts, and care less. But be it a man or a maid to whom I speak, I say what is in my mind, or I say nothing. I did not in so many words say that you were beautiful, but I think it nevertheless. And ye cannot be angry with my poor eyes if they deceive me into believing that no fairer woman breathes the air of England. Nor can you chide my sinful brain that it gladly believes what mine eyes tell it. No, you may not be angry so long as I do not tell you all this. Bertrard de Montfort did not know how to answer so ridiculous a sophistry, and, truth to tell, she was more than pleased to hear from the lips of Roger de Condi what bored her on the tongues of other men.
De Condi 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 soul, 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 refuse you the offer of my father?' said Bertrand 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 yourself to his person. But what am I saying? Did Roger de Condi not wish to be elsewhere? He had accepted, and, as he did not accept, 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 Bertrard Montfort? He raised her hand to his lips in farewell as he started to speak. But something—but something—but Was it 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 cried, "'what is this thing that I have done? Forgive me, and let the greatness and the purity of my love for you plead in extenuation of my act.'" She looked up into his face in surprise, and then, placing her strong white hands upon his shoulders, she whispered, "'See, Roger, I am not angry.
It is not wrong that we love. Tell me it is not, Roger.' "'You must not say that you love me, Bertrand. 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 know even who I be. But when next I come, I promise you that ye shall know as much of 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 from 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 reason, 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, Bertrand,' said Norman, torn. "'I have no wife. Nor, within the limits of my memory, 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 hailing 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, O my flower of 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 the Earl, thy father? Farewell, Bertrand. 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, thundered an angry voice. And Simon de Montfort strolled, scowling, into the room. The girl paled, but not from fear of her father, for the fighting blood of the de Montforts was as strong in her as in her sire. 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 on before. So it is for this that you have wormed your sneaking way into my home, and thought you that Simon de Montfort would throw his daughter at the head of the first passing rogue. Who be ye but a nameless 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. Has forgotten that but for Roger de Conde ye might have seen your daughter a corpse ere now, or worse, herself befouled and dishonoured. "'I do not forget,' replied the earl.
"'And it is because I remember that my sword remains in its scabbard. The fellow has been amply repaid by the friendship of de Montfort, but now this act of perfidy has wiped clean the score.' "'And?' "'You would go in peace, sir. 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 anger or excitement. "'Your daughter has not told me that she loves me, nor did 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 shall wed her. Nor—' Roger de Condi asked 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 name that be known outside his own armour. 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 quarrelling with words,' said the outlaw. "'Farewell, my lady. I shall return as I promised, and your words shall be law.' And 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 wall, a voice called to him from above, and drawing in his horse, he looked up into the eyes of Bertrard de Montfort. "'Take this, Roger de Condi,' she whispered, dropping a tiny parcel to him. and wear it ever for my sake. We may never meet again, for the Earl, my father, is a mighty man, not easily turned from his decisions. Therefore I shall say to you, Roger de Condi, 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 to-day, never fear, but that I shall 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 tossed to him, he found that it contained a beautifully wrought ring, set with a single opal. The outlaw of Torn raised a little circlet to his lips, and then... slipped it upon the third finger of his left hand.
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12 12 - Chapter 12 31:36
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 Petrard 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, until even Berkshire and Surrey and Sussex felt the weight of the iron hand of the outlaw. Nearly a year had elapsed since the day when he had held the fair form of Bertrard 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 the fact that, after he had parted from her, and the intoxication of her immediate presence had left his brain clear to think rationally, he had realized the futility of his hopes, and he had seen the pressing of a 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 spells woven by the nearness and newness 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 drew them together, and should that ever chance while she was still free, he would let her know that Roger De Condi 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 than to live dishonored, the wife of a common highwayman, for though she might love 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 and baron were declared. It would seem that Henry, said the priest, by his continued breaches of both the spirit and the letter of the Oxford statutes, is but urging the barons to resort to arms, and the fact that he virtually forced Prince Edward to take up arms against Humphrey de Bahun 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 Norman expect to fight?' asked Father Claude. Under the black falcon's wing, laughed he of torn. "'Thou, indeed, be a closed-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, "'there be a great future for thee in the paths of honest men. "'Dost remember our past talk?' "'Yes, Father, well, and often have I thought on it.' I have only 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 whereso'er I go, thou must go also. Thou be my best friend. In truth, my father. None other have I ever known. For the little old man of torn, even though I be the product of his lines, which I must mistrust, Be no father to me. The priest sat looking intently at the young man 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 crouched entirely concealed by a great lilac bush, which many times before had hid his 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 king and the nobles and barons of his realm, thou be but serving as the cat's-paw of another.' Thyself has said, and a hundred times thou knowest 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 whether 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 am an old man, and versed in reading true between the lines. And so I know Thou lovest Bertrard 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 Montfort, 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.
"'Yes, 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 Montfort, 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, wondered at the moving leaves of the lilac-bush without the window, for there was no breeze. Spizo the Spaniard reached Torn several minutes 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 full priest will upset the whole work 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 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 Spizo the Spaniard had been a listener, the old man, scowling, cried, "'What said I, sir? What didst hear?' "'Not, my lord. Thou didst but mutter incoherently,' replied the Spaniard.
The old man eyed him closely. "'And did I more, 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, rising. "'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 Father 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, Norman of Torn rode at the head of his army of outlaws through the county of Essex, down toward London Town. One thousand fighting men were there, with squires and other servants, and five hundred Sumter beasts, to transport their tents and 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 the little grim gray old man, and behind them nine companies of knights, followed by the catapult detachment. Then came the Sumter beasts. Horsan the Dane, with his company, formed the rear guard.
Three hundred yards in advance of the column rode ten men to guard against surprise and ambuscades. The penions and the banners and the bugles And 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 bent upon no peaceful mission. All his captains rode today with Norman of Torn. Besides those whom we have met, there was Don Pedro Castro y Pencillo of Spain, Baron of Cobeth of Germany, and Sir John Mandicott 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, intrigue, treachery, bravery, and death.
Toward noon one day, in the midst of a beautiful 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 fair 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 there were ten against a thousand, And there were two women with them. "'Who be ye?' said the outlaw. "'I am Richard de Tiney of Essex,' said the oldest knight, he who had first spoken.
"'And these be my daughter and her friend, Mary de Stouteville. "'We are upon our way from London to my castle. "'What would you of us? Name your price. "'If it can be paid with honour, it shall be paid. "'Only let us go our way in peace.' We cannot hope to resist the Devil of Torn, for we be but ten lances. If he must have blood, at least let the women go unharmed. "'My Lady Mary is an old friend,' said the outlaw. "'I called at her father's home, but a 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 Tannay,' said Norman of Torn. "'Ride on.' The next day, a young man hailed the watch upon the walls of the castle of Richard de Tannay, telling him to bear word to Joan de Tannay that Roger de Conde A friend of her guest, Lady Mary de Stouteville, was without. In a few moments the great drawbridge sank slowly into place, and Norman of Torn trotted into the courtyard. He was escorted to an apartment, where Mary de Stouteville and Joan de Tenay were waiting to receive him. Mary de Stouteville greeted him as an old friend, and the daughter of de Tenay was no less cordial in welcoming her friend's friend. to the hospitality of her father's castle. "'Are all your old friends and neighbors come after you to Essex?' cried Joan de Tenay, laughingly addressing Mary.
"'Today it is Roger de Conde. Yesterday it was the outlaw of Torn. Methinks 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 reason for his visit, but asked bluntly if she heard aught of Bertrard de Montfort. Thrice within the year have I received missiffs from her, replied Mary. In the first two she spoke only of Roger de Condi, wondering why he did not come to France after her. But in the last she mentions not his name, but speaks of her approaching marriage with Prince Philip.
Both girls were watching the countenance of Roger de Condi narrowly, but no sign of the sorrow which filled his heart showed itself upon his face. "'I guess it'd 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 Mary de Stouteville. "'She loved you, and unless I know not the friend of my childhood as well as I know myself, she loves you yet. But Bertrard de Montfort is a proud woman, and what can you expect when she hears no word from you for 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 would 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. You cannot be blamed, said Joanne to Ney generously. Betraud de Montfort is all and even more than 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 Tannay 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 Tannay was good to look upon, and Norman of Torn carried a wounded heart in his breast that longed for a surcease from its sufferings, for 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 Tornay. And the acquaintance between the man and the two girls ripened into a deep friendship, 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 Tornay. 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 Bertrand de Montfort, and hers for him. His every thought was loyal to the woman who he knew was not for him, but he longed for the companionship of his own kind, and so welcomed the friendship of such as Joan de Tannay and her fair guest. He did not dream that either looked upon him with any warmer sentiment than the sweet friendliness which was as new to him as love. How could he mark the line between, or foresee the terrible price of his ignorance? Mary de Stuteville saw, and she thought the man but fickle and shallow in matters of heart.
Many there were, she knew, who were thus. She might have warmed him, had she known the truth, but instead she let things drift, except for a single word of warning to Joan de Tannay. Be careful of thy heart, Joan, she said, lest it be getting away from thee into the keeping of one who seems to love no less quickly than he forgets. The daughter of Dtonay flushed. I am quite capable of safeguarding my own heart, Mary de Stouteville, she replied warmly. If thou covet this man thyself, why but say so? Do not think, though, that because thy heart glows in his presence, mine is equally susceptible. It was Mary's turn now to show offence, 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 Bertrard does, and that but a short year since he swore on dying love for her. Let us forget that we have spoken on the subject.' It was at this time that the king's soldiers were harassing the lands of the rebel barons, and taking a heavy toll in revenge for their stinging defeat at Rochester early in the year, so that it was scarcely safe for small parties to venture upon the roadways lest they fall into the hands of the mercenaries of Henry, the third. 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 the willful head of Joan de Tannay that she wished to ride to London Town, and visit 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 Tannay 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, you would not be safe if you had an army to escort you.' "'But then, as I have no army,' retorted 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 the devil of torn.
and told him that he might remain at home and lock himself safely in her mother's pantry. And so, as Joan de Tannay was a spoiled child, they set out upon the road to London. The two girls were the dozen servants and knights, and Roger de Conde was of the party. At the same time, a grim gray old man dispatched the 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 Tannay with Roger Conday 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 grey 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.
The leader of the nearer party spurred forward to intercept the little band, and, reining in before them, cried brusquely, "'Who be ye?' "'A party on a peaceful mission to the shops of London,' replied Norman of Torn. "'I ask not your mission,' cried the fellow. "'I ask, who be ye? Answer, and be quick about it.' "'I be Roger de Conde, gentlemen 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 you 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. "'Jean de Tannay was sitting her horse, where she could see the face of Roger De Condi.
And it filled her heart with pride and courage 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 each 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 officer 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 back to renew the battle, they settled down to fierce combat, their horses wheeling and turning shoulder to shoulder. The two girls sat rigid in their saddles, watching the encounter. The eyes of Joan de Tannay alight with the fire of battle as she followed every move of the wondrous sword-play of Roger De Condi. 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 adversary. And as Jeanne de Tannay watched, she saw the smile suddenly freeze to a cold, hard line, and the eyes of the man narrowed 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 Conde 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, the 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 Tannay and Mary de Stouteville. "'Come, my ladies,' he cried. "'Quick, and you may escape. They'll be so busy with the battle that they will never notice.' Take the Lady Mary, John, cried Joan. I brought Roger de Conde to this pass against the advice of all, and I remained with him to the end. But my lady, cried Joan. But nothing, sir, she interrupted sharply. Do as you are bid. Follow my Lady Mary, and see that she comes to my father's castle in safety. And raising her riding-whip, she struck Mary Spalfrey 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 down 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 this imperious little lady, Joan, from her earliest childhood, and the habit was so strong upon him that he wheeled his horse and galloped after the flying palfrey of the lady, Mary de Stouteville. As Joan de Tannay turned again to the encounter before her, she saw fully twenty men surrounding Roger de Condi. And while he was taking heavy toll on those before him, he could not cope with the men who 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 lifeless body rolled from the back of Sir Mortimer to the battle-trampled clay of the highroad. She slid quickly from her palfrey and ran fearlessly toward his prostrate form, reckless of the tangled mass of snorting, 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 Tannay threw herself across the outlaw's body, shielding him as best she could from the threatening sword. Cursing loudly, the soldier grasped her roughly 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 new-comer was a man of about forty-five or fifty, tall, handsome, black-moustached, and with the haughty arrogance of pride most often seen upon the faces of those who have been raised by unmerited favor to positions of power and affluence.
He was John de Fom, 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 goes on here?' The soldiers fell back, and one of them replied, "'A party of King's enemies attacked us, my lord earl, but we routed them, taking these two prisoners.' "'Who be ye?' he said, turning toward Joanne, who was kneeling beside de Conde, and as she raised her head, "'My God, the daughter of Tine, 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 fallen man. "'Edward,' he ejaculated. "'But no, it cannot be.
I did but yesterday leave Edward in Dover.' "'I know not who he be,' said Joan de Tine, "'except that he be the most marvellous fighter and the bravest man 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 devil. I think he has no quarrel with either side, my lord, and so, as you certainly do not make war on women, you will let us go our way in peace, as we were when your soldiers wantonly set upon us. "'A de tine, madame, were a great and valuable capture in these troublous times,' replied the earl. "'And that alone were enough to necessitate my keeping you.' But a beautiful dine is yet a different matter, and so I will grant you at least one favour.
I will not take you to the king, but a prisoner ye shall be in my own castle, for I am alone, and need the cheering company of a fair and loving lady.
The girl's head went high as she looked the earl full in the eyes. Think you, John de Fom, Earl of Buckingham, that you be talking to some comely scullery maid? Do you forget that my house is honored in England, even though it does not share the king's favors with his foreign favorites? And you owe respect to the daughter of a de Tiney. "'All be fair in war, my beauty,' replied 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 that the old fox, Richard de Tiney.' Kept such a package as this hid in his grimy old castle. Then you refuse to release us? said John de Tine. Let us not put it that 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 favour with the king.' The Earl paled with rage, and pressed forward, as though to strike the girl. But thinking better of it, he turned to one of the soldiers, saying, "'Bring the prisoners 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 neighboring castle of a rebel baron, which had been captured by the Royalists, and was now used as headquarters by Defume.
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13 13 - Chapter 13 27:34
When Norman of Torn had regained his senses, he found 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 was 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 been when struck down, but his helmet was gone, as were also his sword and dagger. The day was drawing to a close, and as dusk fell 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 Tine and Mary de Stouteville. He hoped that they had escaped, and yet, no, Joan certainly 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 Stouteville had not been with her, as he had caught that glimpse of her. No, she had been all alone. Ah, that was friendship indeed. What else was it that tried to force its way above the threshold of his bruised and wavering memory? Words. Words of love? And lips pressed to his. No, it must be 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 filmy 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. In turning to the window, He watched the lighted rooms within his vision, and presently his view was rewarded by the sight of a night coming within the scope of the narrow casement of a nearby chamber. From his apparel he was a man of position, and he was evidently in heated discussion with someone who Norman of Torn could not see. The man, a great, tall, black-haired, and mustached nobleman, was pounding 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 watcher's view for a moment, and then at the far side of the apartment, Norman of Tornes 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 was that of Joan de Teney. With a muttered oath, the imprisoned man turned to hurl himself against the bolted door, but ere he had taken a single step, the 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 wall 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 center 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 the 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 scuffling 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 sought, and after tugging with ever-diminishing strength, he felt the blade slip from its sheath.
Slowly and feebly, he raised it high above the back of the man on top of him. With the last supreme effort, he drove the point downward, but ere it reached its goal, there was a sharp, snapping sound as of 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 Fulme, Earl of Buckingham, laid his vandal hands upon Joan de Tine, she turned upon him like a tigress. Blow after 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. There 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 for words here. The two men were upon each other and fighting to the death before the girl had regained her feet. It would have been short shrift for John Defoome 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 anxiety to get their swords into him. But once they met that master hand, they went more slowly, and in a moment two of them went no more at all, and the others, with the earl, were but circling warily in search of a chance opening, an opening which never came. Norman of torn stood with his back against the table in an angle of the room, and behind him stood Joan de Tine. Move toward the left, she whispered. I know this old pile. When you reach the table that bears the lamp, there 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 the 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 earl 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 slip into his from behind, and his sword swung with a resounding blow against the lamp. As darkness enveloped the chamber, Jeanne de Tiney 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-paneled room. Here the girl felt with swift fingers the edge of the molding. More and more rapidly she moved as the sound of hurrying footsteps resounded through the castle. What is wrong? asked Norman of torn, 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 you 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 fact, the reflection from the 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 room. Here it is, she whispered joyously. Here it has been all the time, running her fingers along the moulding until she found a little hidden spring. She pushed it, and one of the great panels swung slowly in, revealing the yawning mouth of a black opening behind. Quickly the girl entered, pulling de Conde after 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 Foum. 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, for 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 close 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 him, what wonder that his arm fell about her shoulder, as though to say, Fear not, for I be brave and powerful. Nought can harm you while I am here. Presently she reached her hand 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, and all for me, for my foolish stubbornness. Canst forgive me?' "'Forgive?' he asked, smiling to himself. "'Forgive, being given an opportunity to fight? There be nothing to forgive, 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 momentarily, 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 puzzled, 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, Another fair and beautiful face, Bertrade de Montfort's. And Norman of Torn was still more puzzled, for at heart he was clean, and love of loyalty was strong within him.
Love of women was a new thing to him, and robbed as he had been all his 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 acquaintance 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 Tine love him, or did she not? 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, "'we have been through much, and we are as little children in a dark attic. And so if I have presumed upon our acquaintance,' 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 Tine drew slowly away from him, and without reply took his hand and led him forward through the dark, cold corridor. "'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 led him forward, very slowly, down a flight of rough stone steps.
Normand of Torn wondered if she were angry with him, and then—' Being new at love, he blundered. "'Joan de Tine,' he said. "'Yes, Roger De Condi. What would you?' "'You be silent, and I fear that you be angry with me. Tell me that you forgive me what I have done, and it offended you. I have so few friends,' he added sadly, "'that I cannot afford to lose such as you.' "'You will never lose the friendship of Joan de Tine,' 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 Bertrard 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 Tannay loved him, and now he knew it. And while he marveled that so wondrous a creature could 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 survive the knowledge that it was possessed by the Devil of Torn. Presently, they reached the bottom of the stairway, and Joan de Tannay led him gropingly across what seemed from their echoing footsteps a large chamber. The air was chill and dank, smelling of mold, and no ray of light penetrated the subterranean vault, and no sound broke the stillness.
"'This be the castle's crypt,' whispered Joan, "'and they do say that strange happenings occur here in the still watches of the night, and that when the castle sleeps, the castles dead rise from their coffins and shake their dry bones.' Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh- I'm afraid, she whispered. If you can make a light, I am sure you will find an old lamp here in the crypt, and then it will be less fearsome.
As a child, I visited this castle often, and in search of adventure we passed through these corridors a 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,' 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.' Say no more of praise until we be out of this hole, and you safe in your father's halls.
The fright of the noises in the dark chamber had 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 arms, and stumbled on through the darkness and the shrubbery down the center of the ravine. It required the better part of an hour to traverse the little distance 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 toward her, and in the darkness, by chance, His lips brushed hers. He felt her little 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, clear-cut and distinct before his eyes, he saw the corpse of the outlaw of torn swinging by the neck from the arm of a wooden gibbet. And beside it knelt a woman, gowned 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-streak and 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 Bertrard de Montfort. Slowly, his arms relaxed, and gently and reverently, he lowered Joan de Tine 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 the girl turned, wide-eyed and wondering toward him. She had felt the wild call of love, and she could not understand his seeming coldness now, for she had seen no vision beyond the life of happiness within those strong arms.
Joan, he said, I would but now have wronged thee. Forgive me. Forget what has passed between us until I can come to you in my rightful colours, 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 Bertrard de Montfort, but it had been a thousand times better had he done 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, bristling mustache.
It was Shandy. Norman of Torn lowered his raised sword. "'It is I, Shandy,' he said. "'Keep 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 riderless Sir Mortimer, grazing by the roadside, and a short distance beyond had discovered evidences of the conflict at the crossroads. 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 further back in the bushes. "'Give us horses, and let two of the men ride behind us,' said the chief. "'And Shandy?' Let not the lady know that 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 Tornay. Joan de Tornay looked in silent wonder upon this grim force that sprang out of the shadows of the night to do the bidding of Roger De Condi, 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 Condi. Yes, somewhere else she had seen these two men together. But where and when? And then the strangeness of another incident came to her mind. Roger De Condi 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 one of his men who had picked it up at the crossroads, and now he rode in silence 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 Joan de Tannay.
Shortly before daylight, they reached the castle of Richard de Tannay, 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 all was bustle and excitement. A dozen voices asked a dozen questions, only to cry out still others without waiting for replies. Richard de Tannay with his family and Mary de Stouteville were still fully clothed, having not lain down during the whole night. They fairly fell upon Joan and Roger de Condi, 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 Norman of Torn.
"'I have little matter of business with my friend, the Earl of Buckingham. Business which I fear will not wait.' Jeanne de Tannay looked on in silence. Nor did she urge him to remain, as he raised her hand to his lips in farewell. So, Norman 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 Tornay watched them through the gate, and a great light broke upon her. For what she saw was the same as she had seen a few days since, when she had turned in her saddle to watch the retreating forms of the cut-throats of Torn as they rode on after halting her father's party.
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Some hours later, fifty men followed Norman of Torn on foot through the ravine below the castle, where John de Foom, 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 crawled unseen to the little door through which Joan de Tine 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 that had given the two fugitives egress. Slipping the spring lock, Norman of Torn entered the apartment, followed closely by his henchmen. On they went, through apartment after apartment, but no sign of the earl or his servitors rewarded their search, 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 nearly caused the old fellow to die of fright, for to see fifty armed men issue from the untenanted halls was well reckoned to blanch even a braver cheek. When Norman of Torn questioned him, he learned that the fume had ridden out early in the day, bound for Dover, where Prince Edward then was. The outlaw knew that it would be futile to pursue him, but yet... So fierce was his anger against this man that he ordered his band to mount, and spurring to their lead, he marched through Middlesex, and, crossing the Thames above London, entered Surrey late that same afternoon. As they were going into camp that night in Kent, midway between London and Rochester, word came to Norman of Torn that the Earl 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 servant 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 searching for Diffume, 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, unseeing, 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 upon 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, Norman of Torn advanced on foot with Shandy and eight others, close in the wake 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 feet above the ground.
Keep the fellow here till last, Shandy, said the outlaw. Till all be in, and, if there be any sign 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 where my lord sups, said Norman of Torn. You, Shandy, place your men where 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 window.
and followed the great outlaw down the unlighted corridor. A moment later, my lady of Leybourne 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, "'look behind you,' and as the Earl of Buckingham glanced behind him, he overturned the bench upon which he sat in his effort to gain his feet. For 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 voice in perfect French. "'Who are you?' cried the lady. "'I'd 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 noble house, and when she spurned his advances he struck her.
with his clenched fist 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 vile person who came in time to save the young woman from this noble flower of knighthood that would have ruined her young life. The outlaw wished to kill the knight, but many men-of-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 again 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 abductor, 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 Tannay, the noble was my lord, the Earl of Buckingham, and the outlaw stands before you to fulfill the duty he has sworn to do. On guard, 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 on the fair throat of Joan de Tannay, 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 this putrid heart that the point buried itself an inch in the oak panel beyond.
Claudia Leiburn 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 forehead of the dead nomalman. Outlaw or devil? said a stern voice behind them. Roger Layburn owes you his friendship for saving the honor of his home. Both turned to discover a male-clad figure standing in the doorway where Norman of Torn had first appeared. "'Roger!' shrieked Claudia Laybourne, and swooned. "'Who be you?' continued the master of Laybourne, addressing the outlaw. For answer, Norman of Torn pointed to the forehead of the dead Earl of Buckingham, and there Roger Laybourne saw in letters of blood N.T.' The Baron advanced with outstretched hand.
"'I owe you much. You have saved my poor silly wife from this beast, and Joan de Tannay is my cousin. So I am doubly beholden to you, Norman of Torn.'" The outlaw pretended that he did not see the hand. "'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 Laybourne and his lady, who had recovered from her swoon, and behind them on the rushes of the floor lay the body of de Fiume in a little pool of blood. Laybourne told him that he had heard that de Fiume was at his home, and had hastened back, having been in hiding about the castle for half an hour before the arrival of Norman of Torn, awaiting an opportunity 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 Roger Leyburn. For the first time within his memory, a welcome guest under his true name at the house of a gentleman. The following morning he bade his host good-bye, and returning to his camp, started on his homeward march toward Torn. Near midday, as they were approaching the Thames near the environs of London, they saw a great concourse of people hooting and jeering at a small party of gentlemen and gentlewomen. Some of the crowd were armed, and from the very force of numbers were waxing brave to lay violent hands upon the party. Mud and rocks and rotten vegetables were being hurled at the little cavalcade, Many of them barely missing the women of the party.
Norman of Tarn waited to ask no questions, but spurring into the thick of it, lay right and left of him with the flat of his sword, and his men, catching the contagion of it, swarmed after him until the whole pack of attacking ruffians were driven into the Thames. And then, without a backward glance at the party 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 ladies turned to a knight at her side with a word of command, and an imperious gesture 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 gentleman. The Queen would thank you in person for your brave defense of her. Ever keen to see the humor of a situation, Norman of Torn wheeled his horse and rode back with the Queen's messenger. As he faced Her Majesty, the outlaw of Torn bent low over his pommel. You be a strange knight that thinks so lightly of 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, said 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 would be more apt to hang me,' laughed the outlaw.
I be Norman of Torn. The entire party looked with startled astonishment upon him, for none of them had ever seen this bold raider whom all the nobility 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. "'They who have looked upon my face other than my friends,' replied Norman of Torn quietly, "'have never lived 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, cried Eleanor of England, in a rage. And so the outlaw of Torn and his mother met and parted after a period of twenty years. Two days later, Norman of Torn directed Rex Shandy 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 sumter beasts with rich 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, and 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 D'Tonne on an errand.' And I shall stop there but a few moments. I shall surely 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 troop camped close by the road which branches to Tine. I shall give them plenty of room, replied Norman of Torn. My neck itcheth not to be stretched. And he laughed and mounted. Five minutes after he had cantered down the road from the camp, Spizo, the Spaniard, sneaking his horse unseen into the surrounding forest, mounted and spurred rapidly after him.
The camp, in the throes of packing refractory half-broken Sumpter animals, and saddling their own wild 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 Tiney and escorted to a little room where he awaited the coming of the Lady Joan, a swarthy messenger handed a letter to the captain of the King's soldiers camped a few miles south of Tiney. 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 Tannay, 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 Tannay, in the vision 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 Tannay, one from the south, along which the King's soldiers were now riding, one from the west, which had guided Norman of Torn from his camp to the castle, and a third, which ran northwest through Cambridge and Huntington, toward Derby. All unconscious of the rapidly approaching foes, Norman of Torn waited composedly in the ante-room for Joan de Tannay. 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 who you typify must be my excuse. I—he paused. It was easy to tell her that he was the outlaw of torn, but if she loved him, as he feared, how was he to tell her that he loved only Bertrard de Montfort? You need tell me nothing, interrupted Joan de Tannay. I have guessed what you would tell me, Norman of Torn. The spell of moonlight and adventure is no longer upon us. And those are your own words, and still I am glad to call you friend. The little emphasis she put on the last words bespoke the finality of her decision that the outlaw of Torn could be no more than friend to her.
It is best, he replied, relieved that, 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 de Tine, if the Devil 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 known me. I thank you that you have not been angry with me. Remember me only to think 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. Wilt 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 girls, that which tumbled the structure of his new-found complacency about his ears. As he rode out into the bright sunlight upon the road which led northwest toward Derby, Norman of Torn bowed his head in sorrow. For he realized two things. One was that the girl he had left still loved him, and that some day, mayhap tomorrow, she would suffer because she had sent him away. And the other was that he did not love her, that his heart was locked in the fair breast of Bertrard 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 into this girl's life.
That he had been new to women and knew her 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 Bertrard 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 how charming or how beautiful. Another thing, a painful thing, he learned from it, too, that the attitude of Jeanne de Tine, daughter of an old and noble house, was but the attitude which the outlaw of torn must expect from any good woman of her class.
What he must expect from Bouchard de Montfort when she learned that Roger de Cond was Norman of torn. The outlaw had scarce passed out of sight upon the road to Derby, ere the girl, who stood in an embouchure of the South Tower, gazing with strangely drawn sad face up the road which had swallowed him, saw a body of soldiers galloping rapidly toward Tannay from the south. The king's banner waved above their heads, and intuitively, Joan de Tannay 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 outer gate ere the king's men drew rein before the castle.
In reply to their hail, Joan de Tannay asked their mission. "'We seek the outlaw, Norman of Torn, who hides now within this castle,' replied the officer. "'There be no outlaw here,' replied the 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 Tannay 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 he ye seek.' "'Which way rode he?' cried the officer. "'Straight toward the west by the middle road,' lied Joan de Tine, 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 J.T., and on the inside the initials N.T. In the other was a golden hair ornament set with precious stones, and about it was wound a strand of her own silken tresses. She looked long at the little trinkets, and then, pressing them against her lips, she threw herself face down on the 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 even than love.
That Norman of Torn was an outlaw she might have forgiven, but that he was, according to report, a low fellow of birth placed an impassable barrier between them. For hours the girl lay sobbing upon the bench, whilst within her raged the mighty battle of 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 learn the cause of her sorrow. Finally it came, poured from the floodgates 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 Détanay, "'I sorrow with thee that thy love has been cast upon so bleak and impossible is sure.
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 couldst have survived the sneers and affronts even the menials would have put upon him. "'Oh, mother, but I love him so,' moaned 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 powers 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 knowledge of my love surged through all my being.
Mother, thou canst know the honor and the bravery and the chivalry of the man as I do. Not since Arthur of Silurus kept his round table hath ridden forth upon English soil so true a knight as Norman, man of torn.
Couldst thou have but seen him fight, my mother, and witnessed the honour 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 gentleman than nine-tenths of the nobles of England. "'But his birth, my daughter,' argued the Lady of Tiney. "'Some even say that the gall-marks of his brass collar still showeth upon his neck, and others that he knoweth not himself the name of his own father, nor had he any mother. "'Ah, but this was the mighty argument. "'Nought could 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 fought 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 little heart. When the rising sun shone through the narrow window, it found Jeanne de Tine 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.
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15 15 - Chapter 15 26:27
When the word of the death of Joan de Tine 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 companies rode south toward Essex, without other halt than for necessary food and water for man and beast. When the body of Joan de Tine rode forth from her father's castle to the church at Colchester, and again As it was brought back to its final resting-place in the castle's crypt, a thousand strange and silent nights, 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 shadows 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 D'Tenay, 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 outlaw, as he threw himself upon his accustomed bench. "'Nought but sorrow and death follow in my footsteps. I, in all my acts, be accursed, 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 which surely would follow, should I thus remove both heart and head from the thing that I have built? What supposed thou would result were Norman of Torn to turn the great band of cut-throats leaderless upon England? Hast thought on it, father? Wouldst thou draw a single breath in security, if thou knew Edwild the serf were raging 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 arrow of another man. Edwild, whose mother was burned for witchcraft by the Holy Church. And Horsam the Dane, father.
How thinkest thou the safety of the roads would be, for either rich or poor? And I turned Horsan the Dane loose upon ye. And Pencillo, 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-herod 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. What's like the field father that Don Piedro Castro y Pansillo ranged free through the forests and hills of England? And Red Shandy, and the Two Flores, and Peter the Hermit, and One-Eyed Canty, and Grapello, and Campani, and Corbath, and Mandicott, and the thousand others, Each with a special hatred for some particular class or individual, 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 not 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 Torrens ceased speaking, the priest sat silent for many minutes. "'Thou hast indeed a great 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 other 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 what 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 reference I have attempted to plant within thy breast has borne poor fruit.' "'That dependeth upon the viewpoint, father. As I take not the Lord into partnership in my success, 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 there 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, doest wholly trust the old man whom thou call father?"
I know of no treachery, replied the outlaw, which he has 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 in 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, if 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 that it became a matter of grievous import to the king's party. For no one was safe 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 cause of the barons, it now seemed a matter of little doubt but that, in any crisis, his gristly 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 stole in through the east windows.
Or Peter the Hermit, the fierce major-domo, tired of the din and racket, came stalking into the chamber with drawn sword, and laid upon the revelers with the flat of it to enforce the authority of his commands to disperse. Norman of Torn and the old man seldom joined in these wild orgies. But when Minstrel, or Troubadour, or Storyteller, wandered to his grim lair, the outlaw of Torn would sit and enjoy the break in the winter'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 pleasure of the wine-cup. The only effect the liquor seemed to have upon him was to increase 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. Tales 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 spring came, with the ever-wonderous miracle of awakening life, with soft zephyrs, warm 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 baron and had followed him around until he had but just received it.
The message closed with these words. Any clue, however vague, which might lead nearer to the true knowledge of the fate of Prince Richard, we shall most gladly receive and give our best attention. Therefore, if thou willest find it convenient, we shall visit thee, good father, on the fifth day from to-day. 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 a matter of but a moment's work for Spizo to transfer the message from its 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 penned.
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 prince of England, and now that the period of his silence was drawing to a close, Now that more and more the 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. The same spring evening in the year, Twelve Sixty Four, 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 messenger be admitted. and the knight was quickly ushered into the great hall of the castle. The outlaw presently entered in full armor, with vizor 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 dine to address ye, sir,' 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, and crying. It ill becomes, such a low fellow, to speak thus disrespectfully of our gracious king.
If he were less generous, he would have sent you a halter rather than this message which I bear. A bridle for thy tongue, my friend, replied Norman of Torn. We're in better taste than a halter for my neck. But come, let us see what the king writes to his friend, the outlaw of Torn. Taking the parchment from the messenger, Norman 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 you be harassing and plundering the persons and property of our faithful lieges. We therefore, by virtue of the authority vested 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 Luz, 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 threaten and menace our person and kingdom. Or otherwise shall you suffer death by hanging for your long unpunished crimes. Witness myself at Luce on May the third In the forty-eighth year of our reign, Henry Rex. The closing paragraph be unfortunately worded, said Norman of Torn. For because of it, the king's messenger shall eat the king's message, and thus take back in his belly the answer 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 devil 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 neck with one powerful hand, and despite his struggles and the beatings of his mailed fists, bent him back upon the table, and there, forcing his teeth apart 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 king at Winchelsea, and reported the outcome of his mission, Henry raged and stormed, 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, Battle, 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 Bertrard 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 held in the minds of all royalists at the time of the certainty of victory for the royal arms in the impending conflict with the rebel barons. Norman of Torren had determined that he would see Bertrard de Montfort once again, and clearest conscience by a frank avowal of his identity.
He knew what the result must be. His experience with Joan de Tannay had taught him that. But the fine sense of chivalry which ever dominated all 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. Thus it might be she who spurred and rejected, For, as it must appear now, it had been he whose love had grown cold. It was a bitter thing to contemplate, for not alone would 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 Claude ask Norman of Torn to come with his father to the priest's cottage the morning of the march, to meet Simon de Montfort upon an important matter, but what the 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 yet divulged the tenor of his conjecture to the outlaw of Torn. On the evening of the day preceding that set for 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 his 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 preparations 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 carapacened. Sumter beasts snubbed 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 aiding their masters to don armor, lacing helm to hauberk, tying the points of Alette, Coody, and Rondell, Buckling quists and jambi to thigh and leg.
The open forges of armors and smithies smoked and hissed, and the dim of hammer on anvil rose above the thousand lesser noises of the castle courts. The shouting of commands, the rattle of steel, the ringing of iron hoofs 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 downs below the castle, and there held to await the column. Then, one by one, The companies were formed, and marched out beneath the fluttering pennon and waving banners 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 gates, 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 turned 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 of his helm. "'Tis passing strange," said Norman of Torn. But that was his only comment. And so they joined the column, which moved slowly down toward the valley. And as they passed the cottage of Father Claude, Norman of Torn saw that the door was closed, and that there was no sign of life about the place. A wave of melancholy passed over him, for the deserted aspect of the little flower-hedged coat seemed dismally prophetic of a near future without the beaming, jovial face of his friend and advisor. Scarcely had the horde of torn passed out of sight down the east edge of the valley, ere a party of richly-dressed knights, coming from the south by another road along the west bank of the river, crossed over and drew rein before the cottage of father Claude.
As their hails were unanswered, one of the party 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 Montfort. "'The devil of Torn has no quarrel with me.' Striding up the little 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 good father Claude, stretched upon his back on the floor, the breast of his priestly robes dark with dried and clotted blood. Turning again to the door, de Montfort summoned 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 box littered every room. Though that the object was not rich plunder, was evidenced by many pieces of jewelry and money, which remain 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. "'But 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 commenced. 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 narrate herein. He who beareth 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, though thou may not know the wondrous chivalry and true nobility of character of his men call—here the letter stopped, evidently cut short by the dagger of the assassin.
Mon do the damnable luck, cried de Montfort, but a second more, and the name we have sought for twenty years 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, 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 goodfathers 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 Abbey 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 insatiable hate and vengeance, which had been born in the King's Armoury twenty years before, Passed from the eyes of men.
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16 16 - Chapter 16 12:06
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 Luz, where King Henry, with his son Prince 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, Twelve Sixty Four, the Baron's army set out from its camp at Fletching, nine miles from Luz, and marching through dense forests, reached a point two miles from the city, unobserved. From here, They ascended the great ridge of the hills up the valley Combi, the projecting shoulder of the downs covering their march from the town.
The king's party, however, had no suspicion that an attack 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 Luz, but so lax was discipline in his army that the soldiers, growing tired of the duty, had abandoned the post 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 Luz, where the 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 befell, the baronial army would doubtless have reached the city without being detected. But it happened that, the evening before, Henry had ordered a foraging party to ride forth at daybreak, as provisions for both men and beasts were low. This party had scarcely left the city behind them 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 Montfort's army were in full view of the town, On the left were the Londoners, under Nicholas de Segrieve.
In the center rode de Clare, with John, Fitz-John, and William de Manchesi, 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 Montfort. 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 were with de Montfort. So that brother faced brother, and father fought against son on that bloody Wednesday before the old town of Luz. 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 impressive spectacle as he hurled himself upon the Londoners, whom he had selected for attack because of the affront they had put on his mother that day at London on the preceding July.
So vicious was his onslaught that the poorly armed 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 mesas, the six-bladed battle-axes, and the well-tempered swords of the knights played havoc among them, so that the rout was complete. But, not content with victory, 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 division 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 been 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 neither of these two forces had been engaged. The wily Simon de Montfort had attempted a little ruse which centered the fighting for a time upon the crest of one of the hills. He had caused his car to be placed there, with the tents and luggage of many of his leaders, under a small guard, so that the banners there displayed together with the car led the king of the Romans to believe that the Earl himself lay there.
For Simon de Montfort had, but a month or so before, suffered an injury 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 closer 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 that the two remaining divisions took up the attack with refreshed spirits, so that what a moment before had hung in the balance now seemed an assured victory for King Henry. But de Montfort and the king had thrown themselves into the melee with all their reserves. No longer was there semblance of organization. Division was inextricably bemingled with division, Friend and foe formed the jumbled confusion of fighting, cursing chaos, over which whipped the angry penions and banners of England's noblest houses.
That the mass seemed moving ever away from Luz 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, the 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 reinforcements. Whom might they be? To which side owed 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. Forty, Montfort! Forty, 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 temporary safety of Luz. The king of the Romans took refuge within an old mill, and here it was that Norman of Torn found him barricaded. When the door 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 the earl intervened.
I have yet to set my mark upon the forehead of a king, said Norman of Torn. And the temptation be great. But, and 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 victory 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, for it was but the simple truth. "'How comes it, Norman of Torn?' asked de Montfort as they rode together toward Lewes, that you threw the weight 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 you 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 to-day, he continued, it be because the heart of Lady Pertrard, your daughter, be upon your side. Had it been with the king, her uncle, Norman of Torn had fought 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 the blank wall of his lowered visor gave no sign of the thoughts that passed beneath. "'You do much for a mere friendship, Norman of Torn,' said the earl, coldly.
"'And I doubt me not but that my daughter has already forgotten you. An English noblewoman, preparing to become a Princess of France, does not have much thought to waste upon highwaymen. His tone, as well as his words, were studiously arrogant and insulting, for it had stung 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 Earl 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.
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17 17 - Chapter 17 12:17
When those of the royalists who had not deserted the king and fled precipitately toward the coast had regained the castle and the priory, the city was turned over to looting and raping. In this, Norman of Torn and his men did not participate, but camped a little apart from the town until 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 Torrens searched the castle for the one he sought, but finding it entirely deserted, continued his eastward march.
Some few miles further on, he overtook a party of deserting royalist soldiery, and from them he easily, by dint of threats, elicited the information he desired, 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 Roger de Leybourne. This time the outlaw threw his fierce horde completely around the embattled pile, before he advanced with a score of sturdy ruffians to reconnoitre. Making sure that the drawbridge was raised, and that he could not hope for a 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 Claudia on earth.
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 twenty soldiers stood beside their chief within the walls of Leybourne. Noiselessly they moved through the halls and corridors of the castle, until a maid, bearing a great pastry from the kitchen, turned a sudden corner, and bumped full into the outlaw of Torn. With a shriek that might have been heard at Lew's, She dropped the dish upon the stone floor, and turning ran, still shrieking, at the top of her lungs, straight for the 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 door, with twenty drawn swords at his back.
The hall was filled with knights and gentlewomen, and house-servants and men-at-arms. Fifty swords flashed from fifty scabbards 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 right hand, raised his left aloft in a gesture for silence. "'Hold!' he cried, and turning directly to Roger de Leybourne, "'I have no quarrel with thee, my lord. But again I come for a guest within thy halls. Methinks thou hast as bad a taste in whom thou entertainest as didst thy fair lady. Who be ye that thus rudely breaks in upon the peace of my castle, and makes bold to insult my guests, demanded Roger de Leybourne. Who be I?
If you wait, you shall see my mark upon the forehead of yon grinning baboon, replied the outlaw. pointing a mailed finger at one who had been seated close to de Leybourne. All eyes turned in the direction that the rigid finger of the outlaw indicated. And there, indeed, was the fearful apparition of a man. With livid face he stood, leaning for support against the table, his craven knees wobbling beneath his fat carcass, while his lips were drawn apart against his yellow teeth in a horrid grimace of awful fear. "'If you recognize me not, Sir Roger,' said Norman of Torn dryly, "'it is evident that your honored guest hath 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 outlaw, he addressed the master of Leiborne, shrieking in a high, all-emasculated falsetto.
"'Seize him, kill him, set your men upon him. Do you wish to live another moment?' Draw and defend yourself, for he be the Devil of Torn, and there be a great price upon his head. Oh, save me, save me, for he is come to kill me. He ended in a pitiful wail. The Devil of Torn? How that name froze the hearts of the assembled guests. The Devil of Torn? Slowly the men standing there at the board of Sir Roger de Leybourne 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 Leybourne spoke.
"'Norman of Torn, but once before you have entered within the walls of Leybourne, and then you did in the service of another a great service for the House of Leybourne.' And you stayed the night 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 Leybourne greets Norman of Torn? Shall it be without stretched hand or naked sword? I come for this man, for 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 must 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 afterwards, if he cares to explain at all. Come forth, Peter of Colfax, and for once in your life fight like a man, 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 space 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 draw of brandy, said the outlaw, or he will sink down and choke in the froth of his own terror. When they had forced a goblet of the fiery liquid upon him, Peter of Colfax regained his lost nerve enough so that he could raise 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 Norman of Torn was but playing with his victim, that he might make the torture long, drawn out, and wreck as terrible a punishment upon Peter of Colfax before he killed him as the Baron had visited upon Betraud 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 One. "'Never was such swordplay seen.' Since the day the first sword was drawn from the first scabbard, replied Roger Deleyborn. Is it not marvelous? Slowly but surely was Norman of Torn, cutting Peter of Colfax to pieces, little by little, and with such fiendish care that, except 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 fulfillment of his design. And Peter of Colfax, cornered and fighting for his life, was no marrowless antagonist, even against the Devil of Torn.
Furiously he fought. In the extremity of his fear, rushing upon his executioner with frenzied agony, grape-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 Peter of Colfax, was a thin vertical cut from which the red blood had barely started 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 forehead of Peter of Colfax, until the watchers saw there, upon the brow of the doomed man, the seal of death, in letters of blood, N.T. It was the end. Peter of Colfax cut the ribbons, yet fighting like the maniac he had become was as good as dead, for the mark of the outlaw of torn was upon his brow.
Now, shrieking and gibbering through 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 outlaw 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 Leybourne. 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 Leybourne.
"'I would borrow yon golden platter, my lord. It shall be returned, or a mightier one, in its stead.' Leybourne 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 quietly from the hall and from the castle."
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18 18 - Chapter 18 26:48
Both horses and men were fairly exhausted from the gruelling strain of many days of marching and fighting. So Norman of Torn went into camp that night. Nor did he take up his march until the second morning, Three days after the Battle of Luz. 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 a sore heart to think upon the humiliation that lay waiting his coming, he could do no less than that which he felt his honor demanded. Beside him on the march rode the fierce red giant Shandy, and the wiry, gray little man of torn, whom the outlaw called father. In no way save the gray hair and the parchment surfaced skin had the old fellow changed in all these years.
Without bodily vices, and clinging ever to the open air and the exercise of the foil, 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 swordsman 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 usual 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 Torn. The old man simply rode and fought with the others when it pleased him, and he had come upon 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 skill of his pupil's mighty sword-arm. The little army had been marching for some hours when the advance guard halted a party bound south upon a cross-road. There were 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. "'Who are you?' said the gentleman in French. "'That stops a prince of France upon the high road, as though he were an escaped criminal.
Are you of the king's forces? Or de Montfort's?' "'Be this Prince Philip of France?' asked Norman of Torn. "'Yes. But who be you?' "'And be you riding to meet my lady Betraud de Montfort?' continued the outlaw. Ignoring the prince's question. "'Yes. And it be any of your affair?' replied Philip curtly. "'It be,' said the devil of torn. "'For I be a friend of my lady Bertrard, and as the way be beset with dangers from disorganized band of roving soldiery, it is unsafe for monsieur le prince to venture on with so small an escort. Therefore will the friend of lady Bertrard de Montfort Ride with Monsieur Le Prince to his destination, that 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,' replied the outlaw. "'Indeed,' cried Philip, "'the great 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 if he rides in such company?' "'My lady Bertrard and her mother think you 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 great desire to meet you, and to thank you. It has been my intention to ride to Torn for that purpose, So soon as we reached Leicester. But the Earl changed all her plans by his victory, and only yesterday, on his orders, the Princess Eleonore, his wife, with the Lady Bertrard, rode to Battelle, where Simon de Montfort and the King are to be to-day.
The Queen also is there with her retinae, so it be expected that, to show the good feeling and renewed friendship existing between 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 within reach of the king, who has placed the 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 is not heavy enough to weigh me down.' Nor never has it held me from going where I listed in all England. I am freer than the king, my lord, for the king be a prisoner to-day. Together they rode toward Battelle, 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. If Petrard de Montfort loved this handsome French 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 happiness and welfare of the man she loved as well. It was dusk when they reached Patel, and as Norman of Torn bid the prince adieu, for the horde was to make camp just without the city, he said, May I ask my lord to carry a message to Lady Bertrard? It is in reference to a promise I made her two years since. and which I now, for the first time, be able to fulfill. "'Certainly, my friend,' replied Philip. The outlaw, dismounting, called upon one of his squires for parchment, and by the light of a torch wrote a message to Bertrard de Montfort.
Half an hour later, a servant in the castle of Mattel handed the missive to the daughter of Leicester, as she sat alone in her apartment. Opening it, she read, to Lady Bertrand 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 Battelle this night. Though the name of Norman of Torn be fought 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 that she recalled his little acts of thoughtful chivalry, nay, almost tenderness, on that 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 Thetty kept his helm closed to hide the repulsive sight from the eyes of men.
As her thoughts wandered back to her brief meeting 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 party sat at supper, Philip of France, addressing Henry, said, "'And who thinkest thou, my lord king, rode by my side to Battelle to-day?' 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 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.
Someone be hoaxing you. Nay, your majesty, I think not, replied Philip, for he was indeed a grim and mighty man, and at his back rode as ferocious and awe-inspiring a pack as I ever beheld outside a prison. Fully a thousand strong they rode. They be camped not far without the city now. My lord, said Henry, turning to Simon de Montfort, Be it not time that England were rid of this devil's spawn 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 Earl haughtily. "'By his own word.' "'You owe him victory at Luz,' snapped 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 cut-throat 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 Luz, until I saw him ride into the midst of the conflict that day. Neither did I know, until I heard his battle-cry, whether he would fall upon Baron or Royalist. If that be the truth, Leicester, said 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 Montfort. "'A dozen courts have already passed sentence 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 Battelle, Norman of Torn paced back and forth, waiting in 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 king would urge when he learned that the man who had sent his soldiers naked back 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 the fight, but he was no fool, and so he did not relish pitting his thousand upon an open plain against twenty thousand within a walled fortress. No, he would see Bertard de Montfort that night, and before dawn his rough band would be far on the road toward Torn. The risk was too great to enter the castle, filled as it was with his mighty enemies. But if he died there, it would be in a good cause, thought he, and, anyway, he set himself to do his duty, which he dreaded so, and do it he would, where all the armies of the world camped within Battelle. Directly he heard a low challenge from one of his sentries, who presently appeared escorting a lackey. A messenger from Lady Bertrard de Montfort, said the soldier.
Bring him hither, commanded the outlaw. The lackey approached and handed Norman of Torn 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 mistress ordered him to hell to bear a message to the devil. Norman of Torn turned to a flickering torch, and, breaking the seals, read the message from the woman he loved. It was short and simple. To Norman of Torn, from his friend always, Bertrard de Montfort. Come with Giles. He has my instructions to lead thee secretly to where be Bertrard de Montfort. Norman of Torn turned to where one of his captains 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, Giles, then Norman of Torn, and last the fellow whom he had addressed as Flory, bearing the object covered with a cloth. But it was not Flory who brought up the rear. Flory lay dead in the shadow of a great oak within the camp. A thin wound below his 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 little man wore the armor of Flory, and his visor was drawn. And so they came to a small gate which led into the castle wall, where the shadow of a great tower made the blackness of a black 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 mailed 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 about the austere chamber. In the center of the room was a table, and at the sides several benches. Before the fire stood Boutre de Montfort, and she was alone. Place your burden upon this table, Florey, said Norman of Torn.
And when it had been done, you may go. Return to camp. He did not address Bertrard de Montfort until the door had closed behind the little grim gray man, who wore the armor of the dead Florey, and then Norman of Torn advanced to the table and stood with his left hand ungauntleted, resting upon the table's edge. My Lady Bertrard, 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 she heard that voice? There were tones in it that haunted her. What promise did Norman of Torn e'er make to Bertrard de Montfort? she asked. I do not understand you, my friend. Look, he said. And as she approached 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 terror, for there, upon a golden platter, was a man's head, horrid with the grin of death, bearing yellow fangs. "'Dust recognize the thing?' asked the outlaw. And then she did. But still she could not comprehend. At last, slowly, there came back to her the idle, jesting promise of Roger De Condi, 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 that? 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 gristly head of Peter of Colfax, and upon the third finger was the great ring she had tossed to Roger De Condi on that day, Two years before.
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 saw, in letters of dried blood, that awful symbol of sudden death. N.T. 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. Raise your visor. And then, as though to herself, it cannot be. It cannot 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 Condi.
"'Mon Dieu!' she cried. "'Tell me, it is but a cruel joke.' "'It be the cruel truth, my lady Bouchard,' said Norman of Torn, sadly. And then, as she turned away from 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 that love was returned. And so I waited until you might forget the words you had spoken to Roger De Condi before I came to fulfill the promise that you should know him in his true colors.
It is because I love you, Bertrard, 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 surges 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, Bertrand. I only know that I love you, and with a love that surpasses 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 that has been given it as guide. The blood that has pulsed through the finger that it circled came from a heart that beat for Bertrard de Montfort, a heart that shall continue to beat for her alone until a merciful providence sees fit to gather in a wasted and useless life. Farewell, Bertrard. Kneeling, he raised a 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 murder of a hundred friends and kinsmen. Respect and honor for the marvelous courage of the man.
Loathing and contempt for the base-born. The memory of that exalted moment when those handsome lips had clung to hers. 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 degradation of his low birth, and the memory of the great love she had cherished all these 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 Bertrard de Montfort that ten years passed above her head, and when 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 which she would travel to the end, to the final goal, however sweet or however bitter.
Slowly she turned toward him who knelt with bowed head at her feet, and taking the hand that held the ring outstretched toward her, raised him to his feet. In silence, She replaced the golden band upon his finger, and then she lifted her eyes to his. "'Keep the ring, Norman of Torn,' she said. "'The friendship of Bertrard de Montfort is not lightly given, nor lightly taken away.' She hesitated. "'Nor is her love.' "'What do you mean?' he whispered. "'For 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 Condé or Norman of Torn, gentlemen or highwaymen, it be all the same to Bertrard de Montfort. It be thee, I love, thee.
Had she reviled him, spat upon him, he would not 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 dreaming 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, Bertrard, he cried. Doest forget that I be a low-born knave, knowing 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 honour 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 my own father, shall be my enemies. Why is it, my Norman? I know not. Only do I know that I didst often question my own self if, in truth, I did really love Roger De Condi. But thee, O Norman, why is it that there be no such shred of doubt, 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 by the very heat of my happiness.
"'Shh,' she whispered suddenly. Methinks I hear footsteps. They must not find thee here, Norman of Torn, for the king has only this night wrung a promise from my father to take thee in the morning and hang thee. What shall we do, Norman? Where shall we meet again? We shall not be separated, Bertrard, only so long as it may take thee to gather a few trinkets and fetch thy riding-cloak. Thou ridest north to-night with Norman of Torn, and by the third day Father Claude shall make us one. "'I am glad thee wish it,' she replied. "'I feared that, for some reason, thee might not think it best for me to go with thee now. Wait here. I will be gone but a moment. If the footsteps I hear 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.' 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.
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19 19 - Chapter 19 28:34
The Outlaw of Torn Chapter XIX When the little grim gray man had set the object covered with 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 little door, which he had left a trifle ajar. And there he waited, listening to all that passed between Bertrard 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 lip. "'It will be better than I had hoped,' he murmured. "'And easier.' S'blood. How much easier now that Leicester, too, 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 a hundredfold 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 thou take the devil of torn, my lord king? He be now alone, where a few men may seize him. What now, what now? ejaculated Henry. What madman be this? "'I be no madman, your majesty. Never did Brayne 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 Bertrard, daughter of my lord, Earl of Leicester.
Even now she did but 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 very face?' "'There be no lies, Simon de Montfort. And I tell thee that Roger de Condie 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 others. "'Thou hadst better bring twenty fighting-men. Thou'll need them all to take Norman of Torn,' he advised de Montfort. And so as they passed the guardroom, the party was increased by twenty men-at-arms.
Scarcely had Bertrard 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 way, 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, with their ladies.
There was no hiding now, and no escape. For run 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 the 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 bear in a tramp. With an army at their call, it were an easy thing 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 doest thou here, Norman of Torn?' cried de Montfort angrily. Where be my daughter, Bertrard? "'I be here, my lord, earl, to attend to my 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 should she have to do with the devil of Torn, my lord?' De Montfort turned toward the little grey man. "'He lies!' shouted he. Her kisses be yet wet upon his lips. Norman of Torn looked at the speaker, and beneath 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 must have gone mad. But why, Flory's armor? And where was the faithful Flory? "'Father,' he ejaculated. "'Leadest thou the hated English king against thy own son?' "'Thou be no son of mine, Norman of Torn,' retorted the old man. "'Thy days of usefulness to me be past. "'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. "'Wilt surrender, Norman of Torn?' cried 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 earl, 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 example, and so they pushed forward in a body toward Norman of Torn, twenty blades bared 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 the heart of a third. The soldiers fell back momentarily, awed by the frightful havoc of that mighty arm. Before de Montfort could urge them 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.
With a low cry of mingled rage and indignation, Bertrard 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 side, 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 outlaw of torn?' If I had not before known it, my lord, she replied haughtily, it would be plain to me now, as I see forty cowards 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. Enough, girl, cried the king. What be this knave to thee? He loves me, your majesty, she replied proudly, and I him. "'Thou lovest this low-born cut-throat Bertrard?' cried Henry. "'Thou, de Montfort, the daughter of my sister, who have seen this murderer's accursed mark upon the foreheads of thy kin? Thou have seen him flaunt his defiance in the king's, thy uncle's face, and bend his whole life to preying upon thy people. Thou lovest this monster?' "'I love him, my lord king.' "'Thou lovest him, Bertrard?' asked Philip of France, in a low tone, pressing nearer to the girl. "'Yes, Philip,' she said.
A little note 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 Dumontfort and the others, he backed to the side of Norman of Torn. "'That she loves him be enough for me to know, my gentleman,' he said. Who taketh the man Bertrard de Montfort loves must take Philip of France as well. Norman of Torn laid his left hand upon the other'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 suddenly to attack again.
It was a cowardly stratagem, 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 Bertrard 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, nay, 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 out of my way.' And without waiting for a reply, the grim gray man sprang in to engage him, who for twenty years he had called Son.
Norman of Torn came out of his corner to meet his newfound enemy, and there, in the apartment of the Queen of England, in the castle of Battelle, was fought such a duel As no man there had ever seen before, nor is it credible that it was like 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 cunning 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 awe-stricken upon the marvelous sword-play scarcely breathed in the tensity 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.
Now 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 victory. 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 grim justice of the retribution he, at last, was to fall before its diabolical cunning. He could not win in fair fight against Norman of Torme. 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 die, 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 Torn 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 Norman 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 rose 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 his 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 that iron will, and as his body sank limply to the floor, rolling with outstretched 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 watcher stood as though petrified, and then Bertrard de Montfort, tearing herself from the restraining hands 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 the white forehead and the still lips. "'O God, O God,' she murmured. "'Why hast thou taken him? Outlaw, though he was, in his little finger was more honor of chivalry, of true manhood, than courses through the veins of all the nobles in England. "'I do not wonder that he preyed upon you,' she cried, turning upon the knights behind her. His life was 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, Bertrand 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 this 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 and nostrils. At last they saw 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. Doest thou not remember me? The foils, the blow, twenty long years, thou spat upon me. Henry knelt and peered into the dying face. Divock! he exclaimed. The old man nodded. Then he pointed to where lay 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 another moment with a final effort, de Vox's revenge, God damn the English, and slipped forward upon the rushes, dead.
The king had heard, and de Montfort and the queen. 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 feared 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 still, quiet face turned up to hers. "'Edward,' she whispered. "'Not Edward, madam,' said de Montfort. "'But—' The king knelt beside the still form, across the breast which lay the unconscious body of Petrard 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 wide the tunic where it covered the left breast of the devil of torn.
"'Oh, God!' he cried, and buried his head 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!
Petrard 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 scene being enacted at her feet. Slowly, the lids of Norman of Torn lifted with returning consciousness. Before him, on her knees, in the blood-splattered rushes of the floor, knelt Eleanor, Queen of England, alternately chaffing and kissing 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 lifted 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 given him. But why could he not dream that Bertrard de Montfort held him? And then his eyes wandered among the throng of ladies, nobles, and soldiers, standing uncovered and with bowed heads about him. Presently he found her. "'Bertrard,' he whispered. The girl came and knelt beside him, opposite the queen. "'Bertrard, tell me, thou art real.' Let thou 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 to 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 surgeon was there also, while the king and de Montfort paced the corridor without. And it is ever thus, whether in hovel or palace, In the days of Moses, or in the days that be ours, the lamb that has been lost and is found again be always the best loved.
Toward morning, Norman of Torn fell into a quiet and natural sleep. The fever and delirium had succumbed before his perfect health and iron constitution. The surgeon turned to the Queen and Bertrand de Montfort. "'You had best retire, ladies,' he said, 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 surgeon could restrain him from arising. "'I beseech thee to lie quiet, my lord prince,' urged the surgeon. "'Why call thou me prince?' asked Norman of Torn. "'There be one without whose right it be to explain that to thee,' replied the surgeon. "'And when thou be clothed, If rise thou wilt, thou mayest see her, my lord.
The surgeon aided him to dress, and opening the door, he spoke to a sentry, who stood just without. The sentry transmitted the 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 phantom it, nor did 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 Elinor, coming to him and taking his face in her hands and kissing him. Madam, explained the surprised man. 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, madam, he said, or never would my sword have been bared in other service than thine. If thou canst forgive me, madam, 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 behind 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, and 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 first words to see the king standing behind them. And now Norman of Torn rose, half 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 pleas to those of the surgeon, prevailed upon him to lie down once more, and when 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 profile, 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, courtesying 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 rashly.
So let us forget what passed between Bertrard de Montfort and Norman of Torn. Prince Richard of England will in no wise disturb royal precedence, he replied, for he will not wed rashly, but most wisely, since he will wed none but Bertrard de Montfort. And he, who had been the outlaw of Torn, took the fair young girl in his arms, adding, 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, Richard. 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.
End of chapter 19 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas. End of the Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs