Chapter 18

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.