Norman of Torn did not return to the castle of Leicester “in a few
days,” nor for many months. For news came to him that Bertrade de
Montfort had been posted off to France in charge of her mother.
From now on, the forces of Torn were employed in repeated attacks on
royalist barons, encroaching ever and ever southward until even
Berkshire and Surrey and Sussex felt the weight of the iron hand of the
outlaw.
Nearly a year had elapsed since that day when he had held the fair form
of Bertrade de Montfort in his arms, and in all that time he had heard
no word from her.
He would have followed her to France but for 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 that the pressing of his suit could mean
only suffering and mortification for the woman he loved.
His better judgment told him that she, on her part, when freed from the
subtle spell woven by the nearness and the 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 threw them
together, and should that ever chance, while she was still free, he
would let her know that Roger de Conde and the Outlaw of Torn were one
and the same.
If she wants me then, he thought, but she will not. No, it is
impossible. It is better that she marry her French prince 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 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 Bohun last fall, and to
carry the ravages of war throughout the Welsh border provinces,
convinces me that he be, by this time, well equipped to resist De
Montfort and his associates.”
“If that be the case,” said Norman of Torn, “we shall have war and
fighting in real earnest ere many months.”
“And under which standard does My Lord Norman expect to fight?” asked
Father Claude.
“Under the black falcon’s wing,” laughed he of Torn.
“Thou be indeed a close-mouthed man, my son,” said the priest, smiling.
“Such an attribute helpeth make a great statesman. With thy soldierly
qualities in addition, my dear boy, 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’t. I have one more duty
to perform here in England and then, it may be, that I shall act on thy
suggestion, but only on one condition.”
“What be that, my son?”
“That wheresoere I go, thou must go also. Thou be my best friend; in
truth, my father; none other have I ever known, for the little old man
of Torn, even though I be the product of his loins, which I much
mistrust, be no father to me.”
The priest sat looking intently at the young 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 cats-paw of another. Thyself
hast said an hundred times that thou knowst not the reason for thy
hatred against them. Thou be too strong a man to so throw thy life
uselessly away to satisfy the choler of another.
“There be that of which I dare not speak to thee yet and only may I
guess and dream of what I think, nor do I know 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
be an old man and versed in reading true between the lines, and so I
know that thou lovest Bertrade de Montfort. Nay, do not deny it. And
now, what I would say be this. In all England there lives no more
honorable man than Simon de 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.”
“Yea, even with my life and honor, my father,” replied the outlaw.
“Then promise me, that with the old man of Torn alone, thou wilt come
hither when I bidst thee and meet Simon de 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 fool 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 that
now be as good a time as any. If we come near enough to the King’s men
on this trip south, the gibbet shall have its own, and a Plantagenet
dog shall taste the fruits of his own tyranny,” then glancing up and
realizing that Spizo, the Spaniard, had been a listener, the old man,
scowling, cried:
“What said I, sirrah? What didst hear?”
“Naught, My Lord; thou didst but mutter incoherently,” replied the
Spaniard.
The old man eyed him closely.
“An did I more, Spizo, thou heardst naught but muttering, remember.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
An hour later, the old man of Torn dismounted before the cottage of
Father Claude and entered.
“I am honored,” said the priest, 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 there were, with squires and
other servants, and five hundred sumpter 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 sumpter 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 pennons, 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. Beside those whom we
have met, there was Don Piedro Castro y Pensilo of Spain; Baron of
Cobarth of Germany, and Sir John Mandecote of England. Like their
leader, each of these fierce warriors carried a great price upon his
head, and the story of the life of any one would fill a large volume
with romance, war, 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 they were ten against a
thousand, and there were two women with them.
“Who be ye?” said the outlaw.
“I am Richard de Tany of Essex,” said the oldest knight, he who had
first spoken, “and these be my daughter and her friend, Mary de
Stutevill. We are upon our way from London to my castle. What would you
of us? Name your price, if it can be paid with honor, it 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 ye 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 little more than a year since. We are neighbors, and
the lady can tell you that women are safer at the hands of Norman of
Torn than they might be in the King’s palace.”
“Right he is,” spoke up Lady Mary. “Norman of Torn accorded my mother,
my sister, and myself the utmost respect; though I cannot say as much
for his treatment of my father,” she added, half smiling.
“I have no quarrel with you, Richard de Tany,” said Norman of Torn.
“Ride on.”
The next day, a young man hailed the watch upon the walls of the castle
of Richard de Tany, telling him to bear word to Joan de Tany that Roger
de Conde, a friend of her guest Lady Mary de Stutevill, was without.
In a few moments, the great drawbridge sank slowly into place and
Norman of Torn trotted into the courtyard.
He was escorted to an apartment where Mary de Stutevill and Joan de
Tany were waiting to receive him. Mary de Stutevill greeted him as an
old friend, and the daughter of de Tany was no less 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 Tany, 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 Bertrade de Montfort.
“Thrice within the year have I received missives from her,” replied
Mary. “In the first two she spoke only of Roger de Conde, 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 Conde narrowly,
but no sign of the sorrow which filled his heart showed itself upon his
face.
“I guess it be better so,” he said quietly. “The daughter of a De
Montfort could scarcely be happy with a nameless adventurer,” he added,
a little bitterly.
“You wrong her, my friend,” said Mary de Stutevill. “She loved you and,
unless I know not the friend of my childhood as well as I know myself,
she loves you yet; but Bertrade de 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 could not well be blamed,” said Joan de Tany, generously.
“Bertrade 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 Tany was beautiful, and that when she
spoke, her face lighted with a hundred little changing expressions of
intelligence and character that cast a spell of fascination about her.
Yes, Joan de Tany was good to look upon, and Norman of Torn carried a
wounded heart in his breast that longed for 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 Tany, 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 Tany. His life had been a hard
and lonely one. The only ray of brilliant and warming sunshine that had
entered it had been his love for Bertrade de Montfort and hers for him.
His every thought was loyal to the woman 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 Tany 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 Stutevill saw and she thought the man but fickle and shallow in
matters of the heart—many there were, she knew, who were thus. She
might have warned him had she known the truth, but instead, she let
things drift except for a single word of warning to Joan de Tany.
“Be careful of thy heart, Joan,” she said, “lest it be getting away
from thee into the keeping of one who seems to love no less quickly
than he forgets.”
The daughter of De Tany flushed.
“I am quite capable of safeguarding my own heart, Mary de Stutevill,”
she replied warmly. “If thou covet this man thyself, why, but say so.
Do not think though that, because thy heart glows in his presence, mine
is equally susceptible.”
It was Mary’s turn now to show offense, and a sharp retort was on her
tongue when suddenly she realized the folly of such a useless quarrel.
Instead she put her arms about Joan and kissed her.
“I do not love him,” she said, “and I be glad that you do not, for I
know that Bertrade does, and that but a short year since, he swore
undying 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 earlier 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 III.
Not even were the wives and daughters of the barons exempt from the
attacks of the royalists; and it was no uncommon occurrence to find
them suffering imprisonment, and sometimes worse, at the hands of the
King’s supporters.
And in the midst of these alarms, it entered the willful head of Joan
de Tany 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 Tany and the city of
London was beset with many dangers.
“Why,” cried the girl’s mother in exasperation, “between robbers and
royalists and the Outlaw of Torn, 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 with 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 Tany was a spoiled child, they set out upon the road
to London; the two girls with a dozen servants and knights; and Roger
de Conde was of the party.
At the same time a grim, gray, old man dispatched a messenger from the
outlaw’s camp; a swarthy fellow, disguised as a priest, whose orders
were to proceed to London, and when he saw the party of Joan de Tany,
with Roger de Conde, enter the city, he was to deliver the letter he
bore to the captain of the gate.
The letter contained this brief message:
“The tall knight in gray with closed helm is Norman of Torn,” and was
unsigned.
All went well and Joan was laughing merrily at the fears of those who
had attempted to dissuade her when, at a cross road, they discovered
two parties of armed men approaching from opposite directions. 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 asked not your mission,” cried the fellow. “I asked, who be ye?
Answer, and be quick about it.”
“I be Roger de Conde, gentleman of France, and these be my sisters and
servants,” lied the outlaw, “and were it not that the ladies be with
me, your answer would be couched in steel, as 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.
Joan de Tany was sitting her horse where she could see the face of
Roger de Conde, 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 Tany alight with the fire of battle as she followed
every move of the wondrous swordplay of Roger de Conde.
He had not even taken the precaution to lower his visor, and the grim
and haughty smile that played upon his lips spoke louder than many
words the utter contempt in which he held the sword of his adversary.
And as Joan de Tany watched, she saw the smile suddenly freeze to a
cold, hard line, and the eyes of the man narrow to mere slits, and her
woman’s intuition read the death warrant of the King’s officer ere the
sword of the outlaw buried itself in his heart.
The other members of the two bodies of royalist soldiers had sat
spellbound as they watched the battle, but now, as their leader’s
corpse rolled from the saddle, they spurred furiously in upon De 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 Tany and Mary de Stutevill.
“Come, my ladies,” he cried, “quick and you may escape. They 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 remain with him to the end.”
“But, My Lady—” cried John.
“But nothing, sirrah!” 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’s palfrey across
the rump so that the animal nearly unseated his fair rider as he leaped
frantically to one side and started madly up the road 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 the 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 Stutevill.
As Joan de Tany turned again to the encounter before her, she saw fully
twenty men surrounding Roger de Conde, and while he was taking heavy
toll of those before him, he could not cope with the men 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-tramped 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 Tany 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 newcomer was a man of about forty-five or fifty; tall, handsome,
black-mustached 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 Fulm, Earl of Buckingham, a foreigner by birth and for
years one of the King’s favorites; the bitterest enemy of De Montfort
and the barons.
“What now?” he cried. “What goes on here?”
The soldiers fell back, and one of them replied:
“A party of the King’s enemies attacked us, My Lord Earl, but we routed
them, taking these two prisoners.”
“Who be ye?” he said, turning toward Joan who was kneeling beside De
Conde, and as she raised her head, “My God! The daughter of De Tany! a
noble prize indeed my men. And who be the knight?”
“Look for yourself, My Lord Earl,” replied the girl removing the helm,
which she had been unlacing from the 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 Tany, “except that he be the most
marvelous 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 Tany, madam, 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 De Tany is yet a different matter and so I
will grant you at least one favor. I will not take you to the King, but
a prisoner you shall be in mine own castle for I am 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 eye.
“Think you, John de Fulm, 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 a daughter of a De Tany?”
“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 the old
fox Richard de Tany kept such a package as this hid in his grimy old
castle.”
“Then you refuse to release us?” said Joan de Tany.
“Let us not put it thus harshly,” countered the Earl. “Rather let us
say that it be so late in the day, and the way so beset with dangers
that the Earl of Buckingham could not bring himself to expose the
beautiful daughter of his old friend to the perils of the road, and
so—”
“Let us have an end to such foolishness,” cried the girl. “I might have
expected naught better from a turncoat foreign knave such as thee, who
once joined in the councils of De Montfort, and then betrayed his
friends to curry favor with the King.”
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 prisoner with you. If the man lives bring him also. I would
learn more of this fellow who masquerades in the countenance of a crown
prince.”
And turning, he spurred on towards the neighboring castle of a rebel
baron which had been captured by the royalists, and was now used as
headquarters by De Fulm.