While Norman of Torn and his thousand fighting men marched slowly south
on the road toward Dover, the army of Simon de Montfort was preparing
for its advance upon Lewes, where King Henry, with his son Prince
Edward, and his brother, Prince Richard, King of the Romans, together
with the latter’s son, were entrenched with their forces, sixty
thousand strong.
Before sunrise on a May morning in the year 1264, the barons’ army set
out from its camp at Fletching, nine miles from Lewes and, marching
through dense forests, reached a point two miles from the city,
unobserved.
From here, they ascended the great ridge of the hills up the valley
Combe, the projecting shoulder of the Downs covering their march from
the town. The King’s party, however, had no suspicion that an attack
was imminent and, in direct contrast to the methods of the baronial
troops, had spent the preceding night in drunken revelry, so that they
were quite taken by surprise.
It is true that Henry had stationed an outpost upon the summit of the
hill in advance of Lewes, but so lax was discipline in his army that
the soldiers, growing tired of the duty, had abandoned the post toward
morning, and returned to town, leaving but a single man on watch. He,
left alone, had promptly fallen asleep, and thus De Montfort’s men
found and captured him within sight of the bell-tower of the Priory of
Lewes, where the King and his royal allies lay peacefully asleep, after
their night of wine and dancing and song.
Had it not been for an incident which now befell, the baronial army
would doubtless have reached the city without being detected, but it
happened that, the evening before, Henry had ordered a foraging party
to ride forth at daybreak, as provisions for both men and beasts were
low.
This party had scarcely left the city behind them ere they fell into
the hands of the baronial troops. Though some few were killed or
captured, those who escaped were sufficient to arouse the sleeping army
of the royalists to the close proximity and gravity of their danger.
By this time, the four divisions of De Montfort’s army were in full
view of the town. On the left were the Londoners under Nicholas de
Segrave; in the center rode De Clare, with John Fitz-John and William
de Monchensy, at the head of a large division which occupied that
branch of the hill which descended a gentle, unbroken slope to the
town. The right wing was commanded by Henry de Montfort, the oldest son
of Simon de Montfort, and with him was the third son, Guy, as well as
John de Burgh and Humphrey de Bohun. The reserves were under Simon de
Montfort himself.
Thus was the flower of English chivalry pitted against the King and his
party, which included many nobles whose kinsmen were with De Montfort;
so that brother faced brother, and father fought against son, on that
bloody Wednesday, before the old town of Lewes.
Prince Edward was the first of the royal party to take the field and,
as he issued from the castle with his gallant company, banners and
pennons streaming in the breeze and burnished armor and flashing blade
scintillating in the morning sunlight, he made a gorgeous and
impressive spectacle as he hurled himself upon the Londoners, whom he
had selected for attack because of the affront they had put upon his
mother that day at London on the preceding July.
So vicious was his onslaught that the poorly armed and unprotected
burghers, unused to the stern game of war, fell like sheep before the
iron men on their iron shod horses. The long lances, the heavy maces,
the six-bladed battle axes, and the well-tempered swords of the knights
played havoc among them, so that the rout was complete; but, not
content with victory, Prince Edward must glut his vengeance, and so he
pursued the citizens for miles, butchering great numbers of them, while
many more were drowned in attempting to escape across the Ouse.
The left wing of the royalist army, under the King of the Romans and
his gallant son, was not so fortunate, for they met a determined
resistance at the hands of Henry de Montfort.
The central divisions of the two armies seemed well matched also, and
thus the battle continued throughout the day, the greatest advantage
appearing to lie with the King’s troops. Had Edward not gone so far
afield in pursuit of the Londoners, the victory might easily have been
on the side of the royalists early in the day, but by thus eliminating
his division after defeating a part of De Montfort’s army, it was as
though neither of these two forces had been engaged.
The wily Simon de Montfort had attempted a little ruse which centered
the fighting for a time upon the crest of one of the hills. He had
caused his car to be placed there, with the tents and luggage of many
of his leaders, under a small guard, so that the banners there
displayed, together with the car, led the King of the Romans to believe
that the Earl himself lay there, for Simon de Montfort had but a month
or so before suffered an injury to his hip when his horse fell with
him, and the royalists were not aware that he had recovered
sufficiently to again mount a horse.
And so it was that the forces under the King of the Romans pushed back
the men of Henry de Montfort, and ever and ever closer to the car came
the royalists until they were able to fall upon it, crying out insults
against the old Earl and commanding him to come forth. And when they
had killed the occupants of the car, they found that Simon de Montfort
was not among them, but instead he had fastened there three important
citizens of London, old men and influential, who had opposed him, and
aided and abetted the King.
So great was the wrath of Prince Richard, King of the Romans, that he
fell upon the baronial troops with renewed vigor, and slowly but
steadily beat them back from the town.
This sight, together with the routing of the enemy’s left wing by
Prince Edward, so cheered and inspired the royalists that the two
remaining divisions took up the attack with refreshed spirits so that,
what a moment before had hung in the balance, now seemed an assured
victory for King Henry.
Both De Montfort and the King had thrown themselves into the melee with
all their reserves. No longer was there semblance of organization.
Division was inextricably bemingled with division; friend and foe
formed a jumbled confusion of fighting, cursing chaos, over which
whipped the angry pennons and banners of England’s noblest houses.
That the mass seemed moving ever away from Lewes indicated that the
King’s arms were winning toward victory, and so it might have been had
not a new element been infused into the battle; for now upon the brow
of the hill to the north of them appeared a great horde of armored
knights, and as they came into position where they could view the
battle, the leader raised his sword on high, and, as one man, the
thousand broke into a mad charge.
Both De Montfort and the King ceased fighting as they gazed upon this
body of fresh, well armored, well mounted reinforcements. Who might
they be? To which side owned they allegiance? And, then, as the black
falcon wing on the banners of the advancing horsemen became
distinguishable, they saw that it was the Outlaw of Torn.
Now he was close upon them, and had there been any doubt before, the
wild battle cry which rang from a thousand fierce throats turned the
hopes of the royalists cold within their breasts.
“For De Montfort! For De Montfort!” and “Down with Henry!” rang loud
and clear above the din of battle.
Instantly the tide turned, and it was by only the barest chance that
the King himself escaped capture, and regained the temporary safety of
Lewes.
The King of the Romans took refuge within an old mill, and here it was
that Norman of Torn found him barricaded. When the door was broken
down, the outlaw entered and dragged the monarch forth with his own
hand to the feet of De Montfort, and would have put him to death had
not the Earl intervened.
“I have yet to see my mark upon the forehead of a King,” said Norman of
Torn, “and the temptation be great; but, an you ask it, My Lord Earl,
his life shall be yours to do with as you see fit.”
“You have fought well this day, Norman of Torn,” replied De Montfort.
“Verily do I believe we owe our victory to you alone; so do not mar the
record of a noble deed by wanton acts of atrocity.”
“It is but what they had done to me, were I the prisoner instead,”
retorted the outlaw.
And Simon de Montfort could not answer that, for it was but the simple
truth.
“How comes it, Norman of Torn,” asked De Montfort as they rode together
toward Lewes, “that you threw the weight of your sword upon the side of
the barons? Be it because you hate the King more?”
“I do not know that I hate either, My Lord Earl,” replied the outlaw.
“I have been taught since birth to hate you all, but why I should hate
was never told me. Possibly it be but a bad habit that will yield to my
maturer years.
“As for why I fought as I did today,” he continued, “it be because the
heart of Lady Bertrade, your daughter, be upon your side. Had it been
with the King, her uncle, Norman of Torn had fought otherwise than he
has this day. So you see, My Lord Earl, you owe me no gratitude.
Tomorrow I may be pillaging your friends as of yore.”
Simon de Montfort turned to look at him, but the blank wall of his
lowered visor gave no sign of the thoughts that passed beneath.
“You do much for a mere friendship, Norman of Torn,” said the Earl
coldly, “and I doubt me not but that my daughter has already forgot
you. An English noblewoman, preparing to become a princess of France,
does not have much thought to waste upon highwaymen.” His tone, as well
as his words were studiously arrogant and insulting, for it had stung
the pride of this haughty noble to think that a low-born knave boasted
the friendship of his daughter.
Norman of Torn made no reply, and could the Earl of Leicester have seen
his face, he had been surprised to note that instead of grim hatred and
resentment, the features of the Outlaw of Torn were drawn in lines of
pain and sorrow; for he read in the attitude of the father what he
might expect to receive at the hands of the daughter.