When word of the death of Joan de Tany 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 Tany 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
knights, 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 De Tany, 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. “Naught but sorrow and death follow in my footsteps.
I and all my acts be accurst, 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 suppose thou would result were Norman of Torn to turn his great
band of cut-throats, leaderless, upon England? Hast thought on’t,
Father?
“Wouldst thou draw a single breath in security if thou knew Edwild the
Serf were ranging 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 Holy
Church.
“And Horsan the Dane, Father. How thinkest thou the safety of the roads
would be for either rich or poor an I turned Horsan the Dane loose upon
ye?
“And Pensilo, 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.
Wouldst like to feel, Father, that Don Piedro Castro y Pensilo ranged
free through forest and hill of England?
“And Red Shandy, and the two Florys, and Peter the Hermit, and One Eye
Kanty, and Gropello, and Campanee, and Cobarth, and Mandecote, and the
thousand others, each with a special hatred for some particular class
or individual, and 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 Torn ceased speaking, the priest sat silent for many
minutes.
“Thou hast indeed a grave 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 one 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 reverence I have
attempted to plant within thy breast hath borne poor fruit.”
“That dependeth upon the viewpoint, Father; as I take not the Lord into
partnership in my successes 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, dost wholly trust the old man whom
thou call father?”
“I know of no treachery,” replied the outlaw, “which he hath 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 at his 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, that 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 grisly
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 majordomo,
tired of the din and racket, came stalking into the chamber with drawn
sword and laid upon the revellers 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 enjoying 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
pleasures of the wine cup. The only effect that 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 wondrous 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 clew, however vague, which might lead nearer to a true knowledge
of the fate of Prince Richard, we shall most gladly receive and give
our best attention. Therefore, if thou wilst find it convenient, we
shall visit thee, good father, on the fifth day from today.”
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 the
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 often 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.”
That same spring evening in the year 1264, 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 visor 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 deigned to address you, sirrah,” 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, 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, “were 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 Lewes, 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. Witnessed myself, at Lewes, 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 shall the King’s messenger 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 beating 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, Battel 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 Bertrade 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 that
time, of the certainty of victory for the royal arms in the impending
conflict with the rebel barons.
Norman of Torn had determined that he would see Bertrade de Montfort
once again, and clear his conscience by a frank avowal of his identity.
He knew what the result must be. His experience with Joan de Tany 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, that it might be she who spurned 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 as 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 preparation
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 caparisoned; sumpter 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 ailette, coude, and
rondel; buckling cuisse and jambe to thigh and leg. The open forges of
armorer and smithy smoked and hissed, and the din 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 hoof 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 fluttering pennon and
waving banner 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 in 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 cote seemed dismally prophetic of a
near future without the beaming, jovial face of his friend and adviser.
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 hath 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 remained 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 will 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 him men
call!!!!!
Here the letter stopped, evidently cut short by the dagger of the
assassin.
“Mon Dieu! 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 good Fathers 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 armory twenty years before passed
from the eyes of men.