For three weeks after his meeting with Bertrade de Montfort and his
sojourn at the castle of John de Stutevill, Norman of Torn was busy
with his wild horde in reducing and sacking the castle of John de Grey,
a royalist baron who had captured and hanged two of the outlaw’s
fighting men; and 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 moments 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 Bertrade, whom you stole upon the highroad two days
since, after murdering the knights of John de Stutevill who were
fetching her home from a visit upon the Baron’s daughter. We know that
it was you for the foreheads of the dead men bore your devil’s mark.”
“Shandy!” roared Norman of Torn. “WHAT MEANS THIS? Who has been upon
the road, attacking women, in my absence? You were here and in charge
during my visit to my Lord de Grey. As you value your hide, Shandy, the
truth!”
“Since you laid me low in the hut of the good priest, I have served you
well, Norman of Torn. You should know my loyalty by this time and that
never have I lied to you. No man of yours has done this thing, nor is
it the first time that vile scoundrels have placed your mark upon their
dead that they might thus escape suspicion, themselves.”
“Henry de Montfort,” said Norman of Torn, turning to his visitor, “we
of Torn bear no savory name, that I know full well, but no man may say
that we unsheath our swords against women. 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 to God I knew who
had done this thing, or which way to search for my sister.”
Norman of Torn made no reply, his thoughts 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
the 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
banded mail of the Saxon to the richly ornamented plate armor 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 horses’ head
armor showed the rich loot which had fallen to the portion of Norman of
Torn’s wild raiders.
Fluttering pennons 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 villosa faced with black wolf skin, so that
notwithstanding the richness of the armor and the horse trappings,
there was a grim, gray warlike appearance to these wild companies that
comported well with their reputation.
Recruited from all ranks of society and from 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, Scot,
Pict and Irish.
Here birth caused no distinctions; the escaped serf, with the gall
marks of his brass collar still visible about his neck, rode shoulder
to shoulder with the outlawed scion of a noble house. The only
requisites for admission to the troop were willingness and ability to
fight, and an oath to obey the laws made by Norman of Torn.
The little army was divided into ten companies of one hundred men, each
company captained by a fighter of proven worth and ability.
Our old friends Red Shandy, and John and James Flory led the first
three companies, the remaining seven being under command of other
seasoned veterans of a thousand fights.
One Eye Kanty, owing to his early trade, held the always important post
of chief armorer, while Peter the Hermit, the last of the five
cut-throats whom Norman of Torn had bested that day, six years before,
in the hut of Father Claude, had become majordomo of the great castle
of Torn, which post included also the vital functions of quartermaster
and 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 the gaps made in the
companies, due to their constant encounters upon the highroad and their
battles at the taking of some feudal castle; 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 they 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; Edwild the Serf; Emilio, Count de Gropello of
Italy; and Sieur Ralph de la Campnee, of France.
The hamlets and huts which they passed in the morning and early
afternoon brought forth men, women and children to cheer and wave
God-speed to them; but as they passed farther from the vicinity of
Torn, where the black falcon wing was known more by the ferocity of its
name than by the kindly deeds of the great outlaw to the lowly of his
neighborhood, they saw only closed and barred doors with an occasional
frightened face peering from a tiny window.
It was midnight ere they sighted the black towers of Colfax silhouetted
against the 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 watchmen at the gate or upon the walls.
As he had sacked this castle some two years since, he was familiar with
its internal plan, and so he knew that through the scullery he could
reach a small antechamber above, which let directly into the great
hall.
And so it happened that, as Peter of Colfax wheeled toward the door of
the little room, he stopped short in terror, for there before him stood
a strange knight in armor, with lowered visor and 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.
“Ware! Sir Knight,” cried the girl, as she saw the three knaves rushing
to the aid of their master.
Turning to meet their assault, the knight was forced to abandon the
terror-stricken Baron for an instant, and again he had made for the
doorway bent only on escape; but the girl had divined his intentions,
and running quickly to the entrance, she turned the great lock and
threw the key with all her might to the far corner of the hall. In an
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 spell-bound 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 weighted by his heavy armor, forced
them steadily back; his flashing blade seeming 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 knight, 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
foot-stool, hurled it full at Peter of Colfax.
It struck him below the knees and toppled him to the floor just as the
knight’s sword passed through the throat of his final antagonist.
As the Baron fell, he struck heavily upon a table which supported the
only lighted cresset within the chamber. In an instant, all was
darkness. There was a rapid shuffling sound as of the scurrying of rats
and then the quiet of the tomb settled upon the great hall.
“Are you safe and unhurt, my Lady Bertrade?” asked a grave English
voice out of the darkness.
“Quite, Sir Knight,” she replied, “and you?”
“Not a scratch, but where is our good 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 Bertrade,” 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 Conde
who had saved her from the hirelings of Peter of Colfax but a few short
weeks since. Surely it was the same straight and mighty figure, and
there was the marvelous swordplay as well. It must be he, and yet Roger
de Conde had spoken no English while this man spoke it well, though, it
was true, with a slight French accent.
“My Lady Bertrade, I be Norman of Torn,” said the visored 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 of Leicester ere the sun marks noon. And you will be
safer under the protection of the hated Devil of Torn than with your
own mighty father, or your royal uncle.”
“It is said that you never lie, Norman of Torn,” spoke the girl, “and I
believe you, but tell me why you thus befriend a De Montfort.”
“It is not for love of your father or your brothers, nor yet hatred of
Peter of Colfax, nor neither for any reward whatsoever. It pleases me
to do as I do, that is all. Come.”
He led her in silence to the courtyard and across the lowered
drawbridge, to where they soon discovered a group of horsemen, and in
answer to a low challenge from Shandy, Norman of Torn replied that it
was he.
“Take a dozen men, Shandy, and search yon hellhole. Bring out to me,
alive, Peter of Colfax, and My Lady’s cloak and a palfrey—and Shandy,
when all is done as I say, you may apply the torch! 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 object
of his many raids, was at least a very important consideration.
The outlaw noticed the surprised hesitation of his faithful subaltern
and signing him to listen, said:
“Red Shandy, Norman of Torn has fought and sacked and pillaged for the
love of it, and for a principle which was at best but a vague
generality. Tonight we ride to redress a wrong done to My Lady Bertrade
de Montfort, and that, Shandy, is a different matter. The torch,
Shandy, from tower to scullery, but in the service of My Lady, no
looting.”
“Yes, My Lord,” answered Shandy, and departed with his little
detachment.
In a half hour he returned with a dozen 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 Bertrade de
Montfort, leaving their erstwhile prisoners sorely puzzled but unharmed
and free.
As they looked back, they saw the heavens red with the great flames
that sprang high above the lofty towers. Immense volumes of dense smoke
rolled southward across the sky line. Occasionally it would clear away
from the burning castle for an instant to show the black walls pierced
by their hundreds of embrasures, each lit up by the red of the raging
fire 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 this 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 use to think!
The little, grim, gray, old man of Torn nursed the spleen he did not
dare vent openly, and cursed the chance that had sent Henry de Montfort
to Torn to search for his sister; while the followers of the outlaw
swore quietly over the vagary which had brought them on this long ride
without either fighting or loot.
Bertrade de Montfort was but filled with wonder that she should owe her
life and honor to this fierce, wild cut-throat who had sworn especial
hatred against her family, because of its relationship to the house of
Plantagenet. She could not fathom it, and yet, he seemed fair 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 fastenings at his saddle’s
cantel and threw it about the shoulders of the girl, for the night air
was chilly, and again he dismounted and led her palfrey around a bad
place in the road, lest the beast might slip and fall.
She thanked him in her courtly manner for these services, but beyond
that, no word passed between them, and they came, in silence, about
midday within sight of the castle of Simon de Montfort.
The watch upon the tower was thrown into 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
that I keep a robbers’ roost!” cried the fierce old warrior.
“Norman of Torn dares ride where he will in all England,” boasted the
red giant. “Will you see him in peace, My Lord?”
“Let him enter,” said De Montfort, “but no knavery, now, we are a
thousand men here, well armed and ready fighters.”
Shandy returned to his master with the reply, and together, Norman of
Torn and Bertrade de Montfort clattered across the drawbridge beneath
the portcullis of the castle of the Earl of Leicester, brother-in-law
of Henry III of England.
The girl was still wrapped in the great cloak of her protector, for it
had been raining, so that she rode beneath the eyes of her father’s men
without being recognized. In the courtyard, they were met by Simon de
Montfort, and his sons Henry and Simon.
The girl threw herself impetuously from her 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 visored knight flew
from its scabbard, and, with a single lightning-like move, sent the
blade of 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 out-turned toward her kinsmen as
though to protect Norman of Torn from further assault.
“Be he outlaw or devil,” she cried, “he is a brave and courteous
knight, and he deserves from the hands of the De Montforts the best
hospitality they can give, and not cold steel and insults.” Then she
explained briefly to her astonished father and 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. Goodbye.” But as he turned to
go, Bertrade de Montfort confronted him with outstretched hand.
“You must take my hand in friendship,” she said, “for, to my dying day,
I must ever bless the name of Norman of Torn because of the horror from
which he has rescued me.”
He took the little fingers in his mailed hand, and bending upon one
knee raised them to his lips.
“To no other—woman, man, king, God, or devil—has Norman of Torn bent
the knee. If ever you need him, My Lady Bertrade, remember that his
services are yours for the asking.”
And turning, he mounted and rode in silence 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
today, 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, an he could be persuaded to our cause.”
“Who knows,” said Henry de Montfort, “but that an offer of friendship
might have won him to a better life. It seemed that in his speech was a
note of wistfulness. I wish, father, that we had taken his hand.”