When the little, grim, gray man had set the object covered with a cloth
upon the table in the center of the room and left the apartment, he did
not return to camp as Norman of Torn had ordered.
Instead, he halted immediately without the little door, which he left a
trifle ajar, and there he waited, listening to all that passed between
Bertrade de Montfort and Norman of Torn.
As he heard the proud daughter of Simon de Montfort declare her love
for the Devil of Torn, a cruel smile curled his lip.
“It will be better than I had hoped,” he muttered, “and easier. ’S
blood! How much easier now that Leicester, too, may have his whole
proud heart in the hanging of Norman of Torn. Ah, what a sublime
revenge! I have waited long, thou cur of a King, to return the blow
thou struck that day, but the return shall be an hundred-fold increased
by long accumulated interest.”
Quickly, the wiry figure hastened through the passageways and
corridors, until he came to the great hall where sat De Montfort and
the King, with Philip of France and many others, gentlemen and nobles.
Before the guard at the door could halt him, he had broken into the
room and, addressing the King, cried:
“Wouldst take the Devil of Torn, My Lord King? He be now alone where a
few men may seize him.”
“What now! What now!” ejaculated Henry. “What madman be this?”
“I be no madman, Your Majesty. Never did brain work more clearly or to
more certain ends,” replied the man.
“It may doubtless be some ruse of the cut-throat himself,” cried De
Montfort.
“Where be the knave?” asked Henry.
“He stands now within this palace and in his arms be Bertrade, daughter
of My Lord Earl of Leicester. Even now she did but tell him that she
loved him.”
“Hold,” cried De Montfort. “Hold fast thy foul tongue. What meanest
thou by uttering such lies, and to my very face?”
“They be no lies, Simon de Montfort. An I tell thee that Roger de Conde
and Norman of Torn be one and the same, thou wilt know that I speak no
lie.”
De Montfort paled.
“Where be the craven wretch?” he demanded.
“Come,” said the little, old man. And turning, he led from the hall,
closely followed by De Montfort, the King, Prince Philip and the
others.
“Thou hadst better bring twenty fighting men—thou’lt need them all to
take Norman of Torn,” he advised De Montfort. And so as they passed the
guard room, the party was increased by twenty men-at-arms.
Scarcely had Bertrade de Montfort left him ere Norman of Torn heard the
tramping of many feet. They seemed approaching up the dim corridor that
led to the little door of the apartment where he stood.
Quickly, he moved to the opposite door and, standing with his hand upon
the latch, waited. Yes, they were coming that way, many of them and
quickly and, as he heard them pause without, he drew aside the arras
and pushed open the door behind him; backing into the other apartment
just as Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, burst into the room from
the opposite side.
At the same instant, a scream rang out behind Norman of Torn, and,
turning, he faced a brightly lighted room in which sat Eleanor, Queen
of England and another Eleanor, wife of Simon de Montfort, with their
ladies.
There was no hiding now, and no escape; for run he would not, even had
there been where to run. Slowly, he backed away from the door toward a
corner where, with his back against a wall and a table at his right, he
might die as he had lived, fighting; for Norman of Torn knew that he
could hope for no quarter from the men who had him cornered there like
a great bear in a trap.
With an army at their call, it were an easy thing to take a lone man,
even though that man were the Devil of Torn.
The King and De Montfort had now crossed the smaller apartment and were
within the room where the outlaw stood at bay.
At the far side, the group of royal and noble women stood huddled
together, while behind De Montfort and the King pushed twenty gentlemen
and as many men-at-arms.
“What dost thou here, Norman of Torn?” cried De Montfort, angrily.
“Where be my daughter, Bertrade?”
“I be here, My Lord Earl, to attend to mine own affairs,” replied
Norman of Torn, “which be the affair of no other man. As to your
daughter: I know nothing of her whereabouts. What should she have to do
with the Devil of Torn, My Lord?”
De Montfort turned toward the little gray man.
“He lies,” shouted he. “Her kisses be yet wet upon his lips.”
Norman of Torn looked at the speaker and, beneath the visor that was
now partly raised, he saw the features of the man whom, for twenty
years, he had called father.
He had never expected love from this hard old man, but treachery and
harm from him? No, he could not believe it. One of them must have gone
mad. But why Flory’s armor and where was the faithful Flory?
“Father!” he ejaculated, “leadest thou the hated English King against
thine own son?”
“Thou be no son of mine, Norman of Torn,” retorted the old man. “Thy
days of usefulness to me be past. Tonight thou serve me best swinging
from a wooden gibbet. Take him, My Lord Earl; they say there be a good
strong gibbet in the courtyard below.”
“Wilt surrender, Norman of Torn?” cried De Montfort.
“Yes,” was the reply, “when this floor be ankle deep in English blood
and my heart has ceased to beat, then will I surrender.”
“Come, come,” cried the King. “Let your men take the dog, De Montfort!”
“Have at him, then,” ordered the Earl, turning toward the waiting
men-at-arms, none of whom seemed overly anxious to advance upon the
doomed outlaw.
But an officer of the guard set them the example, and so they pushed
forward in a body toward Norman of Torn; twenty blades bared against
one.
There was no play now for the Outlaw of Torn. It was grim battle and
his only hope that he might take a fearful toll of his enemies before
he himself went down.
And so he fought as he never fought before, to kill as many and as
quickly as he might. And to those who watched, it was as though the
young officer of the Guard had not come within reach of that terrible
blade ere he lay dead upon the floor, and then the point of death
passed into the lungs of one of the men-at-arms, scarcely pausing ere
it pierced the heart of a third.
The soldiers fell back momentarily, awed by the frightful havoc of that
mighty arm. Before De Montfort could urge them on to renew the attack,
a girlish figure, clothed in a long riding cloak, burst through the
little knot of men as they stood facing their lone antagonist.
With a low cry of mingled rage and indignation, Bertrade de Montfort
threw herself before the Devil of Torn, and facing the astonished
company of king, prince, nobles and soldiers, drew herself to her full
height, and with all the pride of race and blood that was her right of
heritage from a French king on her father’s side and an English king on
her mother’s, she flashed her defiance and contempt in the single word:
“Cowards!”
“What means this, girl?” demanded De Montfort, “Art gone stark mad?
Know thou that this fellow be the Outlaw of Torn?”
“If I had not before known it, My Lord,” she replied haughtily, “it
would be plain to me now as I see forty cowards hesitating to attack a
lone man. What other man in all England could stand thus against forty?
A lion at bay with forty jackals yelping at his feet.”
“Enough, girl,” cried the King, “what be this knave to thee?”
“He loves me, Your Majesty,” she replied proudly, “and I, him.”
“Thou lov’st this low-born cut-throat, Bertrade,” cried Henry. “Thou, a
De Montfort, the daughter of my sister; who have seen this murderer’s
accursed mark upon the foreheads of thy kin; thou have seen him flaunt
his defiance in the King’s, thy uncle’s, face, and bend his whole life
to preying upon thy people; thou lov’st this monster?”
“I love him, My Lord King.”
“Thou lov’st him, Bertrade?” asked Philip of France in a low tone,
pressing nearer to the girl.
“Yes, Philip,” she said, a little note of sadness and finality in her
voice; but her eyes met his squarely and bravely.
Instantly, the sword of the young Prince leaped from its scabbard, and
facing De Montfort and the others, he backed to the side of Norman of
Torn.
“That she loves him be enough for me to know, my gentlemen,” he said.
“Who takes the man Bertrade de Montfort loves must take Philip of
France as well.”
Norman of Torn laid his left hand upon the other’s shoulder.
“No, thou must not do this thing, my friend,” he said. “It be my fight
and I will fight it alone. Go, I beg of thee, and take her with thee,
out of harm’s way.”
As they argued, Simon de Montfort and the King had spoken together,
and, at a word from the former, the soldiers rushed suddenly to the
attack again. It was a cowardly strategem, for they knew that the two
could not fight with the girl between them and their adversaries. And
thus, by weight of numbers, they took Bertrade de Montfort and the
Prince away from Norman of Torn without a blow being struck, and then
the little, grim, gray, old man stepped forward.
“There be but one sword in all England, nay in all the world that can,
alone, take Norman of Torn,” he said, addressing the King, “and that
sword be mine. Keep thy cattle back, out of my way.” And, without
waiting for a reply, the grim, gray man sprang in to engage him whom
for twenty years he had called son.
Norman of Torn came out of his corner to meet his new-found enemy, and
there, in the apartment of the Queen of England in the castle of
Battel, was fought such a duel as no man there had ever seen before,
nor is it credible that its like was ever fought before or since.
The world’s two greatest swordsmen: teacher and pupil—the one with the
strength of a young bull, the other with the cunning of an old gray
fox, and both with a lifetime of training behind them, and the lust of
blood and hate before them—thrust and parried and cut until those that
gazed awestricken upon the marvellous swordplay scarcely breathed in
the tensity of their wonder.
Back and forth about the room they moved, while those who had come to
kill pressed back to make room for the contestants. Now was the young
man forcing his older foeman more and more upon the defensive. Slowly,
but as sure as death, he was winning ever nearer and nearer to victory.
The old man saw it too. He had devoted years of his life to training
that mighty sword arm that it might deal out death to others, and
now—ah! The grim justice of the retribution—he, at last, was to fall
before its diabolical cunning.
He could not win in fair fight against Norman of Torn; that the wily
Frenchman saw; but now that death was so close upon him that he felt
its cold breath condensing on his brow, he had no stomach to die, and
so he cast about for any means whereby he might escape the result of
his rash venture.
Presently he saw his opportunity. Norman of Torn stood beside the body
of one of his earlier antagonists. Slowly the old man worked around
until the body lay directly behind the outlaw, and then with a final
rally and one great last burst of supreme swordsmanship, he rushed
Norman of Torn back for a bare step—it was enough. The outlaw’s foot
struck the prostrate corpse; he staggered, and for one brief instant
his sword arm rose, ever so little, as he strove to retain his
equilibrium; but that little was enough. It was what the gray old snake
had expected, and he was ready. Like lightning, his sword shot through
the opening, and, for the first time in his life of continual combat
and death, Norman of Torn felt cold steel tear his flesh. But ere he
fell, his sword responded to the last fierce command of that iron will,
and as his body sank limply to the floor, rolling with outstretched
arms, upon its back, the little, grim, gray man went down also,
clutching frantically at a gleaming blade buried in his chest.
For an instant, the watchers stood as though petrified, and then
Bertrade de Montfort, tearing herself from the restraining hand of her
father, rushed to the side of the lifeless body of the man she loved.
Kneeling there beside him she called his name aloud, as she unlaced his
helm. Tearing the steel headgear from him, she caressed his face,
kissing the white forehead and the still lips.
“Oh God! Oh God!” she murmured. “Why hast thou taken him? Outlaw though
he was, in his little finger was more of honor, of chivalry, of true
manhood than courses through the veins of all the nobles of England.
“I do not wonder that he preyed upon you,” she cried, turning upon the
knights behind her. “His life was clean, thine be rotten; he was loyal
to his friends and to the downtrodden, ye be traitors at heart, all;
and ever be ye trampling upon those who be down that they may sink
deeper into the mud. Mon Dieu! How I hate you,” she finished. And as
she spoke the words, Bertrade de Montfort looked straight into the eyes
of her father.
The old Earl turned his head, for at heart he was a brave, broad,
kindly man, and he regretted what he had done in the haste and heat of
anger.
“Come, child,” said the King, “thou art distraught; thou sayest what
thou mean not. The world is better that this man be dead. He was an
enemy of organized society, he preyed ever upon his fellows. Life in
England will be safer after this day. Do not weep over the clay of a
nameless adventurer who knew not his own father.”
Someone had lifted the little, grim, gray, old man to a sitting
posture. He was not dead. Occasionally he coughed, and when he did, his
frame was racked with suffering, and blood flowed from his mouth and
nostrils.
At last they saw that he was trying to speak. Weakly he motioned toward
the King. Henry came toward him.
“Thou hast won thy sovereign’s gratitude, my man,” said the King,
kindly. “What be thy name?”
The old fellow tried to speak, but the effort brought on another
paroxysm of coughing. At last he managed to whisper.
“Look—at—me. Dost thou—not—remember me?
The—foils—the—blow—twenty-long-years. Thou—spat—upon—me.”
Henry knelt and peered into the dying face.
“De Vac!” he exclaimed.
The old man nodded. Then he pointed to where lay Norman of Torn.
“Outlaw—highwayman—scourge—of—England. Look—upon—his—face. Open—his
tunic—left—breast.”
He stopped from very weakness, and then in another moment, with a final
effort: “De—Vac’s—revenge. God—damn—the—English,” and slipped forward
upon the rushes, dead.
The King had heard, and De Montfort and the Queen. They stood looking
into each other’s eyes with a strange fixity, for what seemed an
eternity, before any dared to move; and then, as though they feared
what they should see, they bent over the form of the Outlaw of Torn for
the first time.
The Queen gave a little cry as she saw the still, quiet face turned up
to hers.
“Edward!” she whispered.
“Not Edward, Madame,” said De Montfort, “but—”
The King knelt beside the still form, across the breast of which lay
the unconscious body of Bertrade de Montfort. Gently, he lifted her to
the waiting arms of Philip of France, and then the King, with his own
hands, tore off the shirt of mail, and with trembling fingers ripped
wide the tunic where it covered the left breast of the Devil of Torn.
“Oh God!” he cried, and buried his head in his arms.
The Queen had seen also, and with a little moan she sank beside the
body of her second born, crying out:
“Oh Richard, my boy, my boy!” And as she bent still lower to kiss the
lily mark upon the left breast of the son she had not seen to know for
over twenty years, she paused, and with frantic haste she pressed her
ear to his breast.
“He lives!” she almost shrieked. “Quick, Henry, our son lives!”
Bertrade de Montfort had regained consciousness almost before Philip of
France had raised her from the floor, and she stood now, leaning on his
arm, watching with wide, questioning eyes the strange scene being
enacted at her feet.
Slowly, the lids of Norman of Torn lifted with returning consciousness.
Before him, on her knees in the blood spattered rushes of the floor,
knelt Eleanor, Queen of England, alternately chafing and kissing his
hands.
A sore wound indeed to have brought on such a wild delirium, thought
the Outlaw of Torn.
He felt his body, in a half sitting, half reclining position, resting
against one who knelt behind him, and as he lifted his head to see who
it might be supporting him, he looked into the eyes of the King, upon
whose breast his head rested.
Strange vagaries of a disordered brain! Yes it must have been a very
terrible wound that the little old man of Torn had given him; but why
could he not dream that Bertrade de Montfort held him? And then his
eyes wandered about among the throng of ladies, nobles and soldiers
standing uncovered and with bowed heads about him. Presently he found
her.
“Bertrade!” he whispered.
The girl came and knelt beside him, opposite the Queen.
“Bertrade, tell me thou art real; that thou at least be no dream.”
“I be very real, dear heart,” she answered, “and these others be real,
also. When thou art stronger, thou shalt understand the strange thing
that has happened. These who were thine enemies, Norman of Torn, be thy
best friends now—that thou should know, so that thou may rest in peace
until thou be better.”
He groped for her hand, and, finding it, closed his eyes with a faint
sigh.
They bore him to a cot in an apartment next the Queen’s, and all that
night the mother and the promised wife of the Outlaw of Torn sat
bathing his fevered forehead. The King’s chirurgeon was there also,
while the King and De Montfort paced the corridor without.
And it is ever thus; whether in hovel or palace; in the days of Moses,
or in the days that be ours; the lamb that has been lost and is found
again be always the best beloved.
Toward morning, Norman of Torn fell into a quiet and natural sleep; the
fever and delirium had succumbed before his perfect health and iron
constitution. The chirurgeon turned to the Queen and Bertrade de
Montfort.
“You had best retire, ladies,” he said, “and rest. The Prince will
live.”
Late that afternoon he awoke, and no amount of persuasion or commands
on the part of the King’s chirurgeon could restrain him from arising.
“I beseech thee to lie quiet, My Lord Prince,” urged the chirurgeon.
“Why call thou me prince?” asked Norman of Torn.
“There be one without whose right it be to explain that to thee,”
replied the chirurgeon, “and when thou be clothed, if rise thou wilt,
thou mayst see her, My Lord.”
The chirurgeon aided him to dress and, opening the door, he spoke to a
sentry who stood just without. The sentry transmitted the message to a
young squire who was waiting there, and presently the door was thrown
open again from without, and a voice announced:
“Her Majesty, the Queen!”
Norman of Torn looked up in unfeigned surprise, and then there came
back to him the scene in the Queen’s apartment the night before. It was
all a sore perplexity to him; he could not fathom it, nor did he
attempt to.
And now, as in a dream, he saw the Queen of England coming toward him
across the small room, her arms outstretched; her beautiful face
radiant with happiness and love.
“Richard, my son!” exclaimed Eleanor, coming to him and taking his face
in her hands and kissing him.
“Madame!” exclaimed the surprised man. “Be all the world gone crazy?”
And then she told him the strange story of the little lost prince of
England.
When she had finished, he knelt at her feet, taking her hand in his and
raising it to his lips.
“I did not know, Madame,” he said, “or never would my sword have been
bared in other service than thine. If thou canst forgive me, Madame,
never can I forgive myself.”
“Take it not so hard, my son,” said Eleanor of England. “It be no fault
of thine, and there be nothing to forgive; only happiness and rejoicing
should we feel, now that thou be found again.”
“Forgiveness!” said a man’s voice behind them. “Forsooth, it be we that
should ask forgiveness; hunting down our own son with swords and
halters.
“Any but a fool might have known that it was no base-born knave who
sent the King’s army back, naked, to the King, and rammed the King’s
message down his messenger’s throat.
“By all the saints, Richard, thou be every inch a King’s son, an’
though we made sour faces at the time, we be all the prouder of thee
now.”
The Queen and the outlaw had turned at the first words to see the King
standing behind them, and now Norman of Torn rose, half smiling, and
greeted his father.
“They be sorry jokes, Sire,” he said. “Methinks it had been better had
Richard remained lost. It will do the honor of the Plantagenets but
little good to acknowledge the Outlaw of Torn as a prince of the
blood.”
But they would not have it so, and it remained for a later King of
England to wipe the great name from the pages of history—perhaps a
jealous king.
Presently the King and Queen, adding their pleas to those of the
chirurgeon, prevailed upon him to lie down once more, and when he had
done so they left him, that he might sleep again; but no sooner had the
door closed behind them than he arose and left the apartment by another
exit.
It was by chance that, in a deep set window, he found her for whom he
was searching. She sat looking wistfully into space, an expression half
sad upon her beautiful face. She did not see him as he approached, and
he stood there for several moments watching her dear profile, and the
rising and falling of her bosom over that true and loyal heart that had
beaten so proudly against all the power of a mighty throne for the
despised Outlaw of Torn.
He did not speak, but presently that strange, subtle sixth sense which
warns us that we are not alone, though our eyes see not nor our ears
hear, caused her to turn.
With a little cry she arose, and then, curtsying low after the manner
of the court, said:
“What would My Lord Richard, Prince of England, of his poor subject?”
And then, more gravely, “My Lord, I have been raised at court, and I
understand that a prince does not wed rashly, and so let us forget what
passed between Bertrade de Montfort and Norman of Torn.”
“Prince Richard of England will in no wise disturb royal precedents,”
he replied, “for he will wed not rashly, but most wisely, since he will
wed none but Bertrade de Montfort.” And he who had been the Outlaw of
Torn took the fair young girl in his arms, adding: “If she still loves
me, now that I be a prince?”
She put her arms about his neck, and drew his cheek down close to hers.
“It was not the outlaw that I loved, Richard, nor be it the prince I
love now; it be all the same to me, prince or highwayman—it be thee I
love, dear heart—just thee.”