The Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs (portable ebook reader txt) 📖

“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