The visit of Bertrade de Montfort with her friend Mary de Stutevill was
drawing to a close. Three weeks had passed since Roger de Conde had
ridden out from the portals of Stutevill 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 Bertrade had elected
to return to Leicester.
“Methinks thou be very rash indeed, my Bertrade,” said Mary. “Were 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 setback from Roger de Conde recently, I do not think he will
venture again to molest me.”
“But what about the Devil of Torn, Bertrade?” urged Mary. “Only
yestereve, you wot, one of Lord de Grey’s men-at-arms came limping to
us with the news of the awful carnage the foul fiend had wrought on his
master’s household. He be abroad, Bertrade, and I can 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. How be it thou so soon hast changed thy mind?”
“Yes, Bertrade, 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. Oh, Bertrade, wait but for a day or so, I
be sure my father must return ere then, and fifty knights shall
accompany thee instead of five.”
“What be fifty knights against Norman of Torn, Mary? Thy reasoning is
on a parity with thy fears, both have flown 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 wilt, thou wilt,” cried Mary petulantly. “Indeed it were plain
that thou be a De Montfort; that race whose historic bravery be second
only to their historic stubbornness.”
Bertrade de Montfort laughed, and kissed her friend upon the cheek.
“Mayhap I shall find the brave Roger de Conde 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 the doughty Sir Roger all
unarmed, that still would you send back my father’s knights.”
Bertrade flushed, and then bit her lip as she felt the warm blood mount
to her cheek.
“Thou be a fool, Mary,” she said.
Mary broke into a joyful, teasing laugh; hugely enjoying the
discomfiture of the admission the tell-tale flush proclaimed.
“Ah, I did but guess how thy heart and thy mind tended, Bertrade; but
now I see that I divined all too truly. He be indeed good to look upon,
but what knowest thou of him?”
“Hush, Mary!” commanded Bertrade. “Thou know not what thou sayest. I
would not wipe my feet upon him, I care naught whatever for him, and
then—it has been three weeks since he rode out from Stutevill and no
word hath he sent.”
“Oh, ho,” cried the little plague, “so there lies the wind? My Lady
would not wipe her feet upon him, but she be sore vexed that he has
sent her no word. Mon Dieu, but thou hast strange notions, Bertrade.”
“I will not talk with you, Mary,” 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 of Leicester be the
passion which moves me. Thou failed 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 tonight that
we may take our positions by the highway in ample time tomorrow.”
Still Peter of Colfax hesitated, he feared this might be a ruse of
Leicester’s to catch him in some trap. He did not know his guest—the
fellow might want the girl for himself and be taking this method of
obtaining the necessary assistance to capture her.
“Come,” said the little, armored man irritably. “I cannot bide here
forever. Make up thy mind; it be nothing to me other than my revenge,
and if thou wilt 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 send to him at once one of his faithful
henchmen.
“Guy,” said Peter of Colfax, as the man entered, “ye made a rare fizzle
of a piece of business some weeks ago. Ye wot of which I speak?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“It chances that on the morrow ye may have opportunity to retrieve thy
blunder. Ride out with ten men where the 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
Stutevill plead with her friend to give up the idea of setting out upon
such a dismal day and without sufficient escort, but Bertrade de
Montfort was firm.
“Already have I overstayed my time three days, and it is not lightly
that even I, his daughter, fail in obedience to Simon de Montfort. I
shall have enough to account for as it be. Do not urge me to add even
one more day to my excuses. And again, perchance, my mother and my
father may be sore distressed by my continued absence. No, Mary, I must
ride today.” And so she did, with the five knights that could be spared
from the castle’s defence.
Scarcely half an hour had elapsed before a cold drizzle set in, so that
they were indeed a sorry company that splashed along the muddy road,
wrapped in mantle and surcoat. As they proceeded, the rain and wind
increased in volume, until it was being driven into their faces in 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 the grim wood, and then, without cry or warning, a band
of steel-clad horsemen broke forth with couched spears. Charging at
full run down upon them, they overthrew three of the girl’s escort
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 had disappeared in the forest
toward the castle of Colfax.
Then he rode back to the scene of the encounter where lay the five
knights of Sir John de Stutevill. Three were already 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 Stutevill.
Bertrade de Montfort was so long overdue that the Earl and Princess
Eleanor, his wife, filled with grave apprehensions, had posted their
oldest son off to the castle of John de Stutevill to fetch her home.
With the wind and rain at their backs, the 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 no further evidence of the girl’s whereabouts, so
they pressed on toward Stutevill.
Some two miles beyond the spot where the white palfrey had been found,
they came upon the dead bodies of the five knights who had accompanied
Bertrade from Stutevill.
Dismounting, Henry de Montfort examined the bodies of the fallen men.
The arms upon shield and helm confirmed his first fear that these had
been Bertrade’s escort from Stutevill.
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, NT, scratched there with a dagger’s point.
“The curse of God be on him!” cried De Montfort. “It be the work of the
Devil of Torn, my gentlemen,” he said to his followers. “Come, we need
no further guide to our destination.” And, remounting, the little party
spurred back toward Torn.
When Bertrade de Montfort regained her senses, she was in bed in a
strange room, and above her bent an old woman; a repulsive, toothless
old woman, whose smile was but a fangless snarl.
“Ho, ho!” she croaked. “The 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 can scarce
restrain his eager desire to fold thee in his arms. Below in the great
hall he paces to and fro, the red blood mantling his beauteous
countenance.”
“Who be ye?” cried Bertrade de Montfort, her mind still dazed from the
effects of her fall. “Where am I?” and then, “O, Mon Dieu!” as she
remembered the events of the 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 counter-balanced 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, Coll! Has the damsel awakened from her swoon?”
“Yes, Sir Peter,” replied the old woman. “I was but just urging her to
arise and clothe herself, saying that you awaited her below.”
“Haste then, My Lady Bertrade,” 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, will come to thee
here.”
The girl paled, more in loathing and contempt than in fear, but the
tones of her answer were calm and level.
“I will see thee below, Sir Peter, anon,” and rising, she hastened to
dress, while the receding footsteps of the Baron diminished down the
stairway which led from the tower room in 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 Ethelwolf. As the girl’s glance ranged the
hall in search of her jailer it rested upon the narrow, unglazed
windows beyond which lay freedom. Would she ever again breathe God’s
pure 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 the personal prowess of the present master of Colfax.
A single cresset lighted the chamber, while the flickering light from a
small wood fire upon one of the two great hearths seemed rather to
accentuate the dim shadows of the place.
Bertrade crossed the room and leaned against a massive oak table,
blackened by age and hard usage to the color of the beams above, dented
and nicked by the pounding of huge drinking horns and heavy swords when
wild and lusty brawlers had been moved to applause by the lay of some
wandering minstrel, or the sterner call of their mighty chieftains for
the oath of fealty.
Her wandering eyes took in the dozen benches 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 interspread with
such bones and scraps of food as the dogs had rejected or overlooked.
But to none of these surroundings did Bertrade de Montfort give but
passing heed; she looked for the man she sought that she might quickly
have the encounter over and learn what fate the future held in store
for her.
Her quick glance had shown her that the room was quite empty, and 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 past times. From
the black mouth of the aperture stepped Peter of Colfax. Silently, he
closed the panel after him, and with soundless steps, advanced toward
the girl. At the edge of the raised dais he halted, rattling his 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 neighbor’s daughter and thy sovereign’s niece?”
“When fond hearts be thwarted by a cruel parent,” replied the
pot-bellied old beast in a soft and fawning tone, “love must still find
its way; and so thy gallant swain hath dared the wrath of thy great
father and majestic uncle, and lays his heart at thy feet, O beauteous
Bertrade, knowing full well that thine hath been hungering after it
since we did 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.
Bertrade turned and 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 the red of humiliation to mottle his already
ruby visage to a semblance of purple, and now, as he attempted to rise
with dignity, he was still further covered with confusion by the fact
that his huge stomach made it necessary for him to go upon all fours
before he could rise, so that he got up much after the manner of a cow,
raising his stern high in air in a most ludicrous fashion. As he gained
his feet he saw the girl turn her head from him to hide the laughter on
her face.
“Return to thy chamber,” he thundered. “I will give thee until tomorrow
to decide whether thou wilt accept Peter of Colfax as thy husband, or
take another position in his household which will 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 imprisoned 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 Bertrade, she could
barricade herself within and thus delay, at least, her impending fate
in the hope that succor might come from some source. But her most
subtle wiles proved ineffectual in ridding her, even for a moment, of
her harpy jailer; and now that the final summons had come, she was
beside 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 girdle clasp, Bertrade 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.
Bertrade 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 within, Coll,” cried the Baron.
“The wench has wrested my dagger from me and is murdering me,” shrieked
the old woman.
“An’ that I will truly do, Peter of Colfax,” spoke Bertrade, “if you do
not immediately send for my friends to conduct me from thy castle, for
I will not step my foot from this room until I know that mine own
people stand without.”
Peter of Colfax pled and threatened, commanded and coaxed, but all in
vain. So passed the afternoon, and as darkness settled 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 endeavors to persuade
her to come out; he even admitted defeat and promised her safe conduct
to her father’s castle, but Bertrade de Montfort was not one to be
fooled by his lying tongue.
“Then will I starve you out,” he cried at length.
“Gladly will I 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 and so he set his men to work with cold chisels,
axes and saws upon the huge door.
For hours, they labored upon that mighty work of defence, and it was
late at night ere they made a little opening large 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 hand 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. Bertrade replied but once.
“Seest thou this poniard?” 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 toward 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 wrested the dagger from Bertrade’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, Bertrade de Montfort?” he asked angrily.
“I have offered you your choice; to be the honored wife of Peter of
Colfax, or, by force, his mistress. The good priest waits without, what
be your answer now?”
“The same as it has been these past two days,” she replied with haughty
scorn. “The same that it shall 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 toad, Peter of Colfax!”
“Hold, chit!” cried the Baron, livid with rage. “You have gone too far.
Enough of this; and you love me not now, I shall learn you to love ere
the sun rises.” And with a vile oath he grasped the girl roughly by the
arm, and dragged her toward the little doorway at the side of the room.