Both horses and men were fairly exhausted from the gruelling strain of
many days of marching and fighting, so Norman of Torn went into camp
that night; nor did he again take up his march until the second
morning, three days after the battle of Lewes.
He bent his direction toward the north and Leicester’s castle, where he
had reason to believe he would find a certain young woman, and though
it galled his sore heart to think upon the humiliation that lay waiting
his coming, he could not do less than that which he felt his honor
demanded.
Beside him on the march rode the fierce red giant, Shandy, and the
wiry, gray little man of Torn, whom the outlaw called father.
In no way, save the gray hair and the parchment-surfaced skin, had the
old fellow changed in all these years. Without bodily vices, and
clinging ever to the open air and the exercise of the foil, he was
still young in muscle and endurance.
For five years, he had not crossed foils with Norman of Torn, but he
constantly practiced with the best swordsmen of the wild horde, so that
it had become a subject often discussed among the men as to which of
the two, father or son, was the greater swordsman.
Always taciturn, the old fellow rode in his usual silence. Long since
had Norman of Torn usurped by the force of his strong character and
masterful ways, the position of authority in the castle of Torn. The
old man simply rode and fought with the others when it pleased him; and
he had come on this trip because he felt that there was that impending
for which he had waited over twenty years.
Cold and hard, he looked with no love upon the man he still called “my
son.” If he held any sentiment toward Norman of Torn, it was one of
pride which began and ended in the almost fiendish skill of his pupil’s
mighty sword arm.
The little army had been marching for some hours when the advance guard
halted a party bound south upon a crossroad. There were some twenty or
thirty men, mostly servants, and a half dozen richly garbed knights.
As Norman of Torn drew rein beside them, he saw that the leader of the
party was a very handsome man of about his own age, and evidently a
person of distinction; a profitable prize, thought the outlaw.
“Who are you,” said the gentleman, in French, “that stops a prince of
France upon the highroad as though he were an escaped criminal? Are you
of the King’s forces, or De Montfort’s?”
“Be this Prince Philip of France?” asked Norman of Torn.
“Yes, but who be you?”
“And be you riding to meet my Lady Bertrade de Montfort?” continued the
outlaw, ignoring the Prince’s question.
“Yes, an it be any of your affair,” replied Philip curtly.
“It be,” said the Devil of Torn, “for I be a friend of My Lady
Bertrade, and as the way be beset with dangers from disorganized bands
of roving soldiery, it is unsafe for Monsieur le Prince to venture on
with so small an escort. Therefore will the friend of Lady Bertrade de
Montfort ride with Monsieur le Prince to his destination that Monsieur
may arrive there safely.”
“It is kind of you, Sir Knight, a kindness that I will not forget. But,
again, who is it that shows this solicitude for Philip of France?”
“Norman of Torn, they call me,” replied the outlaw.
“Indeed!” cried Philip. “The great and bloody outlaw?” Upon his
handsome face there was no look of fear or repugnance.
Norman of Torn laughed.
“Monsieur le Prince thinks, mayhap, that he will make a bad name for
himself,” he said, “if he rides in such company?”
“My Lady Bertrade and her mother think you be less devil than saint,”
said the Prince. “They have told me of how you saved the daughter of De
Montfort, and, ever since, I have been of a great desire to meet you,
and to thank you. It had been my intention to ride to Torn for that
purpose so soon as we reached Leicester, but the Earl changed all our
plans by his victory and only yesterday, on his orders, the Princess
Eleanor, his wife, with the Lady Bertrade, rode to Battel, where Simon
de Montfort and the King are to be today. The Queen also is there with
her retinue, so it be expected that, to show the good feeling and
renewed friendship existing between De Montfort and his King, there
will be gay scenes in the old fortress. But,” he added, after a pause,
“dare the Outlaw of Torn ride within reach of the King who has placed a
price upon his head?”
“The price has been there since I was eighteen,” answered Norman of
Torn, “and yet my head be where it has always been. Can you blame me if
I look with levity upon the King’s price? It be not heavy enough to
weigh me down; nor never has it held me from going where I listed in
all England. I am freer than the King, My Lord, for the King be a
prisoner today.”
Together they rode toward Battel, and as they talked, Norman of Torn
grew to like this brave and handsome gentleman. In his heart was no
rancor because of the coming marriage of the man to the woman he loved.
If Bertrade de Montfort loved this handsome French prince, then Norman
of Torn was his friend; for his love was a great love, above jealousy.
It not only held her happiness above his own, but the happiness and
welfare of the man she loved, as well.
It was dusk when they reached Battel and as Norman of Torn bid the
prince adieu, for the horde was to make camp just without the city, he
said:
“May I ask My Lord to carry a message to Lady Bertrade? It is in
reference to a promise I made her two years since and which I now, for
the first time, be able to fulfill.”
“Certainly, my friend,” replied Philip. The outlaw, dismounting, called
upon one of his squires for parchment, and, by the light of a torch,
wrote a message to Bertrade de Montfort.
Half an hour later, a servant in the castle of Battel handed the
missive to the daughter of Leicester as she sat alone in her apartment.
Opening it, she read:
To Lady Bertrade de Montfort, from her friend, Norman of Torn.
Two years have passed since you took the hand of the Outlaw of Torn in
friendship, and now he comes to sue for another favor.
It is that he may have speech with you, alone, in the castle of Battel
this night.
Though the name Norman of Torn be fraught with terror to others, I know
that you do not fear him, for you must know the loyalty and friendship
which he bears you.
My camp lies without the city’s gates, and your messenger will have
safe conduct whatever reply he bears to,
Norman of Torn.
Fear? Fear Norman of Torn? The girl smiled as she thought of that
moment of terrible terror two years ago when she learned, in the castle
of Peter of Colfax, that she was alone with, and in the power of, the
Devil of Torn. And then she recalled his little acts of thoughtful
chivalry, nay, almost tenderness, on the long night ride to Leicester.
What a strange contradiction of a man! She wondered if he would come
with lowered visor, for she was still curious to see the face that lay
behind the cold, steel mask. She would ask him this night to let her
see his face, or would that be cruel? For, did they not say that it was
from the very ugliness of it that he kept his helm closed to hide the
repulsive sight from the eyes of men!
As her thoughts wandered back to her brief meeting with him two years
before, she wrote and dispatched her reply to Norman of Torn.
In the great hall that night as the King’s party sat at supper, Philip
of France, addressing Henry, said:
“And who thinkest thou, My Lord King, rode by my side to Battel today,
that I might not be set upon by knaves upon the highway?”
“Some of our good friends from Kent?” asked the King.
“Nay, it was a man upon whose head Your Majesty has placed a price,
Norman of Torn; and if all of your English highwaymen be as courteous
and pleasant gentlemen as he, I shall ride always alone and unarmed
through your realm that I may add to my list of pleasant
acquaintances.”
“The Devil of Torn?” asked Henry, incredulously. “Some one be hoaxing
you.”
“Nay, Your Majesty, I think not,” replied Philip, “for he was indeed a
grim and mighty man, and at his back rode as ferocious and
awe-inspiring a pack as ever I beheld outside a prison; fully a
thousand strong they rode. They be camped not far without the city
now.”
“My Lord,” said Henry, turning to Simon de Montfort, “be it not time
that England were rid of this devil’s spawn and his hellish brood?
Though I presume,” he added, a sarcastic sneer upon his lip, “that it
may prove embarrassing for My Lord Earl of Leicester to turn upon his
companion in arms.”
“I owe him nothing,” returned the Earl haughtily, “by his own word.”
“You owe him victory at Lewes,” snapped the King. “It were indeed a sad
commentary upon the sincerity of our loyalty-professing lieges who
turned their arms against our royal person, ‘to save him from the
treachery of his false advisers,’ that they called upon a cutthroat
outlaw with a price upon his head to aid them in their ‘righteous
cause’.”
“My Lord King,” cried De Montfort, flushing with anger, “I called not
upon this fellow, nor did I know he was within two hundred miles of
Lewes until I saw him ride into the midst of the conflict that day.
Neither did I know, until I heard his battle cry, whether he would fall
upon baron or royalist.”
“If that be the truth, Leicester,” said the King, with a note of
skepticism which he made studiously apparent, “hang the dog. He be just
without the city even now.”
“You be King of England, My Lord Henry. If you say that he shall be
hanged, hanged he shall be,” replied De Montfort.
“A dozen courts have already passed sentence upon him, it only remains
to catch him, Leicester,” said the King.
“A party shall sally forth at dawn to do the work,” replied De
Montfort.
“And not,” thought Philip of France, “if I know it, shall the brave
Outlaw of Torn be hanged tomorrow.”
In his camp without the city of Battel, Norman of Torn paced back and
forth waiting an answer to his message.
Sentries patrolled the entire circumference of the bivouac, for the
outlaw knew full well that he had put his head within the lion’s jaw
when he had ridden thus boldly to the seat of English power. He had no
faith in the gratitude of De Montfort, and he knew full well what the
King would urge when he learned that the man who had sent his soldiers
naked back to London, who had forced his messenger to eat the King’s
message, and who had turned his victory to defeat at Lewes, was within
reach of the army of De Montfort.
Norman of Torn loved to fight, but he was no fool, and so he did not
relish pitting his thousand upon an open plain against twenty thousand
within a walled fortress.
No, he would see Bertrade de Montfort that night and before dawn his
rough band would be far on the road toward Torn. The risk was great to
enter the castle, filled as it was with his mighty enemies. But if he
died there, it would be in a good cause, thought he and, anyway, he had
set himself to do this duty which he dreaded so, and do it he would
were all the armies of the world camped within Battel.
Directly he heard a low challenge from one of his sentries, who
presently appeared escorting a lackey.
“A messenger from Lady Bertrade de Montfort,” said the soldier.
“Bring him hither,” commanded the outlaw.
The lackey approached and handed Norman of Torn a dainty parchment
sealed with scented wax wafers.
“Did My Lady say you were to wait for an answer?” asked the outlaw.
“I am to wait, My Lord,” replied the awestruck fellow, to whom the
service had been much the same had his mistress ordered him to Hell to
bear a message to the Devil.
Norman of Torn turned to a flickering torch and, breaking the seals,
read the message from the woman he loved. It was short and simple.
To Norman of Torn, from his friend always, Bertrade de Montfort.
Come with Giles. He has my instructions to lead thee secretly to where
I be.
Bertrade de Montfort.
Norman of Torn turned to where one of his captains squatted upon the
ground beside an object covered with a cloth.
“Come, Flory,” he said, and then, turning to the waiting Giles, “lead
on.”
They fell in single file: first the lackey, Giles, then Norman of Torn
and last the fellow whom he had addressed as Flory bearing the object
covered with a cloth. But it was not Flory who brought up the rear.
Flory lay dead in the shadow of a great oak within the camp; a thin
wound below his left shoulder blade marked the spot where a keen dagger
had found its way to his heart, and in his place walked the little
grim, gray, old man, bearing the object covered with a cloth. But none
might know the difference, for the little man wore the armor of Flory,
and his visor was drawn.
And so they came to a small gate which let into the castle wall where
the shadow of a great tower made the blackness of a black night doubly
black. Through many dim corridors, the lackey led them, and up winding
stairways until presently he stopped before a low door.
“Here,” he said, “My Lord,” and turning left them.
Norman of Torn touched the panel with the mailed knuckles of his right
hand, and a low voice from within whispered, “Enter.”
Silently, he strode into the apartment, a small antechamber off a large
hall. At one end was an open hearth upon which logs were burning
brightly, while a single lamp aided in diffusing a soft glow about the
austere chamber. In the center of the room was a table, and at the
sides several benches.
Before the fire stood Bertrade de Montfort, and she was alone.
“Place your burden upon this table, Flory,” said Norman of Torn. And
when it had been done: “You may go. Return to camp.”
He did not address Bertrade de Montfort until the door had closed
behind the little grim, gray man who wore the armor of the dead Flory
and then Norman of Torn advanced to the table and stood with his left
hand ungauntleted, resting upon the table’s edge.
“My Lady Bertrade,” he said at last, “I have come to fulfill a
promise.”
He spoke in French, and she started slightly at his voice. Before,
Norman of Torn had always spoken in English. Where had she heard that
voice! There were tones in it that haunted her.
“What promise did Norman of Torn e’er make to Bertrade de Montfort?”
she asked. “I do not understand you, my friend.”
“Look,” he said. And as she approached the table he withdrew the cloth
which covered the object that the man had placed there.
The girl started back with a little cry of terror, for there upon a
golden platter was a man’s head; horrid with the grin of death baring
yellow fangs.
“Dost recognize the thing?” asked the outlaw. And then she did; but
still she could not comprehend. At last, slowly, there came back to her
the idle, jesting promise of Roger de Conde to fetch the head of her
enemy to the feet of his princess, upon a golden dish.
But what had the Outlaw of Torn to do with that! It was all a sore
puzzle to her, and then she saw the bared left hand of the grim,
visored figure of the Devil of Torn, where it rested upon the table
beside the grisly head of Peter of Colfax; and upon the third finger
was the great ring she had tossed to Roger de Conde on that day, two
years before.
What strange freak was her brain playing her! It could not be, no it
was impossible; then her glance fell again upon the head grinning there
upon the platter of gold, and upon the forehead of it she saw, in
letters of dried blood, that awful symbol of sudden death—NT!
Slowly her eyes returned to the ring upon the outlaw’s hand, and then
up to his visored helm. A step she took toward him, one hand upon her
breast, the other stretched pointing toward his face, and she swayed
slightly as might one who has just arisen from a great illness.
“Your visor,” she whispered, “raise your visor.” And then, as though to
herself: “It cannot be; it cannot be.”
Norman of Torn, though it tore the heart from him, did as she bid, and
there before her she saw the brave strong face of Roger de Conde.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried, “Tell me it is but a cruel joke.”
“It be the cruel truth, My Lady Bertrade,” said Norman of Torn sadly.
And, then, as she turned away from him, burying her face in her raised
arms, he came to her side, and, laying his hand upon her shoulder, said
sadly:
“And now you see, My Lady, why I did not follow you to France. My heart
went there with you, but I knew that naught but sorrow and humiliation
could come to one whom the Devil of Torn loved, if that love was
returned; and so I waited until you might forget the words you had
spoken to Roger de Conde before I came to fulfill the promise that you
should know him in his true colors.
“It is because I love you, Bertrade, that I have come this night. God
knows that it be no pleasant thing to see the loathing in your very
attitude, and to read the hate and revulsion that surges through your
heart, or to guess the hard, cold thoughts which fill your mind against
me because I allowed you to speak the words you once spoke, and to the
Devil of Torn.
“I make no excuse for my weakness. I ask no forgiveness for what I know
you never can forgive. That, when you think of me, it will always be
with loathing and contempt is the best that I can hope.
“I only know that I love you, Bertrade; I only know that I love you,
and with a love that surpasseth even my own understanding.
“Here is the ring that you gave in token of friendship. Take it. The
hand that wore it has done no wrong by the light that has been given it
as guide.
“The blood that has pulsed through the finger that it circled came from
a heart that beat for Bertrade de Montfort; a heart that shall continue
to beat for her alone until a merciful providence sees fit to gather in
a wasted and useless life.
“Farewell, Bertrade.” Kneeling he raised the hem of her garment to his
lips.
A thousand conflicting emotions surged through the heart of this proud
daughter of the new conqueror of England. The anger of an outraged
confidence, gratitude for the chivalry which twice had saved her honor,
hatred for the murderer of a hundred friends and kinsmen, respect and
honor for the marvellous courage of the man, loathing and contempt for
the base born, the memory of that exalted moment when those handsome
lips had clung to hers, pride in the fearlessness of a champion who
dared come alone among twenty thousand enemies for the sake of a
promise made her; but stronger than all the rest, two stood out before
her mind’s eye like living things—the degradation of his low birth, and
the memory of the great love she had cherished all these long and
dreary months.
And these two fought out their battle in the girl’s breast. In those
few brief moments of bewilderment and indecision, it seemed to Bertrade
de Montfort that ten years passed above her head, and when she reached
her final resolution she was no longer a young girl but a grown woman
who, with the weight of a mature deliberation, had chosen the path
which she would travel to the end—to the final goal, however sweet or
however bitter.
Slowly she turned toward him who knelt with bowed head at her feet,
and, taking the hand that held the ring outstretched toward her, raised
him to his feet. In silence she replaced the golden band upon his
finger, and then she lifted her eyes to his.
“Keep the ring, Norman of Torn,” she said. “The friendship of Bertrade
de Montfort is not lightly given nor lightly taken away,” she
hesitated, “nor is her love.”
“What do you mean?” he whispered. For in her eyes was that wondrous
light he had seen there on that other day in the far castle of
Leicester.
“I mean,” she answered, “that, Roger de Conde or Norman of Torn,
gentleman or highwayman, it be all the same to Bertrade de Montfort—it
be thee I love; thee!”
Had she reviled him, spat upon him, he would not have been surprised,
for he had expected the worst; but that she should love him! Oh God,
had his overwrought nerves turned his poor head? Was he dreaming this
thing, only to awaken to the cold and awful truth?
But these warm arms about his neck, the sweet perfume of the breath
that fanned his cheek; these were no dream!
“Think thee what thou art saying, Bertrade!” he cried. “Dost forget
that I be a low-born knave, knowing not my own mother and questioning
even the identity of my father? Could a De Montfort face the world with
such a man for husband?”
“I know what I say, perfectly,” she answered. “Were thou born out of
wedlock, the son of a hostler and a scullery maid, still would I love
thee, and honor thee, and cleave to thee. Where thou be, Norman of
Torn, there shall be happiness for me. Thy friends shall be my friends;
thy joys shall be my joys; thy sorrows, my sorrows; and thy enemies,
even mine own father, shall be my enemies.
“Why it is, my Norman, I know not. Only do I know that I did often
question my own self if in truth I did really love Roger de Conde, but
thee—oh Norman, why is it that there be no shred of doubt now, that
this heart, this soul, this body be all and always for the Outlaw of
Torn?”
“I do not know,” he said simply and gravely. “So wonderful a thing be
beyond my poor brain; but I think my heart knows, for in very joy, it
is sending the hot blood racing and surging through my being till I
were like to be consumed for the very heat of my happiness.”
“Sh!” she whispered, suddenly, “methinks I hear footsteps. They must
not find thee here, Norman of Torn, for the King has only this night
wrung a promise from my father to take thee in the morning and hang
thee. What shall we do, Norman? Where shall we meet again?”
“We shall not be separated, Bertrade; only so long as it may take thee
to gather a few trinkets, and fetch thy riding cloak. Thou ridest north
tonight with Norman of Torn, and by the third day, Father Claude shall
make us one.”
“I am glad thee wish it,” she replied. “I feared that, for some reason,
thee might not think it best for me to go with thee now. Wait here, I
will be gone but a moment. If the footsteps I hear approach this door,”
and she indicated the door by which he had entered the little room,
“thou canst step through this other doorway into the adjoining
apartment, and conceal thyself there until the danger passes.”
Norman of Torn made a wry face, for he had no stomach for hiding
himself away from danger.
“For my sake,” she pleaded. So he promised to do as she bid, and she
ran swiftly from the room to fetch her belongings.