As Norman of Torn rode out from the castle of De Stutevill, 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 this same influence, though, which won
for Father Claude his only enemy in Torn; the little, grim, gray, old
man whose sole aim in life seemed to have been to smother every finer
instinct of chivalry and manhood in the boy, to whose training he had
devoted the past nineteen years of his life.
As Father Claude climbed down from his donkey—fat people do not
“dismount”—a half dozen young squires ran forward to assist him, and to
lead the animal to the stables.
The good priest called each of his willing 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 in through the great gate, the men-at-arms threw him
laughing, though respectful, welcomes and within the great court,
beautified with smooth lawn, beds of gorgeous plants, fountains,
statues and small shrubs and bushes, he came upon the giant, Red
Shandy, now the principal lieutenant of Norman of Torn.
“Good morrow, Saint Claude!” cried 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 unregenerate villain,” cried the priest, laughing.
“Though methinks ye merit chiding for the grievous poor courtesy with
which thou didst treat the great Bishop of Norwich the 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 an Archbishop of His
Church to walk in humility and poverty among His people, than to be
ever surrounded with the temptations of fine clothing, jewels and much
gold, to say nothing of two sumpter beasts heavy laden with runlets of
wine?”
“I warrant his temptations were less by at least as many runlets of
wine as may be borne by two sumpter beasts when 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 that temptation completely, and if you must
needs have proof in order to absolve me from my sins, come with me now
and you shall sample the excellent discrimination which the Bishop of
Norwich displays in the selection of his temptations.”
“They tell me you left the great man quite destitute of finery, Red
Shandy,” continued Father Claude, as he locked his arm in that of the
outlaw and proceeded toward the castle.
“One garment was all that Norman of Torn would permit him, and as the
sun was hot overhead, he selected for the Bishop a bassinet for that
single article of apparel, to protect his tonsured pate from the rays
of old sol. Then, fearing that it might be stolen from him by some
vandals of the road, he had One Eye Kanty rivet it at each side of the
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 retinue for being abroad in bad
company; but come, here we are where you shall have the wine as proof
of my tale.”
As the two sat sipping the Bishop’s good 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 accurst priestly interference, he had made an
iron-barred nest in Torn for many of the doves of thy damned English
nobility. An’ thou leave him not alone, he will soon be seeking service
in the household of the King.”
“Where, perchance, he might be more at 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 mien be even 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 off-hand reply entirely deceive the old man.
At this juncture, a squire entered to say that Shandy’s presence was
required at the gates, and that worthy, with a 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 swordplay to learn the useless art of letters. Of what
benefit may a knowledge of Latin be to one whose doom looms large
before him. It may be years and again it may be but months, but as sure
as there be a devil in hell, Norman of Torn will swing from a king’s
gibbet. And thou knowst it, and he too, as well as I. The things which
thou hast 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 know 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 gibbet, as I only too well fear he must, there will be
more to mourn his loss than there be to curse him.
“His friends are from the ranks of the 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 of to his
honor when he is gone, and that he has been cruel to men will be
forgotten in the greater glory of his mercy to the weak.
“Whatever be thy object: whether revenge or the natural bent of a cruel
and degraded mind, I know not; but if any be curst 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 standeth. In the past
there has been peace between us, though no love; now let us both
understand that it be war and hate. My life work is cut out for me.
Others, like thyself, have stood in my path, yet today I am here, but
where are they? Dost understand me, priest?” And the old man leaned far
across 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 has my heart ached for each
crime laid at the door of Norman of Torn.”
“Come, come, Father,” replied the outlaw, “what do I that I have not
good example for from the barons, and the King, and Holy Church.
Murder, theft, rapine! Passeth a day over England which sees not one or
all perpetrated in the name of some of these?
“Be it wicked for Norman of Torn to prey upon the wolf, yet righteous
for the wolf to tear the sheep? Methinks not. Only do I collect from
those who have more than they need, from my natural enemies; while they
prey upon those who have naught.
“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 a soldier as Norman
of Torn. In the court of Louis, you would take your place among the
highest of the land. You be rich and brave and handsome. 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 wondrous 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.