CHAPTER VII
It was a beautiful spring day in May, 1262, that Norman of Torn rodealone down the narrow trail that led to the pretty cottage with which hehad replaced the hut of his old friend, Father Claude.
As was his custom, he rode with lowered visor, and nowhere upon hisperson or upon the trappings of his horse were sign or insignia of rankor house. More powerful and richer than many nobles of the court, he waswithout rank or other title than that of outlaw and he seemed to assumewhat in reality he held in little esteem.
He wore armor because his old guardian had urged him to do so, and notbecause he craved the protection it afforded. And, for the same cause,he rode always with lowered visor, though he could never prevail uponthe old man to explain the reason which necessitated this precaution.
"It is enough that I tell you, my son," the old fellow was wont to say,"that for your own good as well as mine, you must not show your face toyour enemies until I so direct. The time will come and soon now, I hope,when you shall uncover your countenance to all England."
The young man gave the matter but little thought, usually passing it offas the foolish whim of an old dotard; but he humored it nevertheless.
Behind him, as he rode down the steep declivity that day, loomed a verydifferent Torn from that which he had approached sixteen years before,when, as a little boy he had ridden through the darkening shadows ofthe night, perched upon a great horse behind the little old woman, whosemetamorphosis to the little grim, gray, old man of Torn their advent tothe castle had marked.
Today the great, frowning pile loomed larger and more imposing than everin the most resplendent days of its past grandeur. The original keep wasthere with its huge, buttressed Saxon towers whose mighty fifteen footwalls were pierced with stairways and vaulted chambers, lighted byembrasures which, mere slits in the outer periphery of the walls, spreadto larger dimensions within, some even attaining the area of smalltriangular chambers.
The moat, widened and deepened, completely encircled three sides of thecastle, running between the inner and outer walls, which were set atintervals with small projecting towers so pierced that a flanking firefrom long bows, cross bows and javelins might be directed against ascaling party.
The fourth side of the walled enclosure overhung a high precipice, whichnatural protection rendered towers unnecessary upon this side.
The main gateway of the castle looked toward the west and from it ranthe tortuous and rocky trail, down through the mountains toward thevalley below. The aspect from the great gate was one of quiet and ruggedbeauty. A short stretch of barren downs in the foreground only sparselystudded with an occasional gnarled oak gave an unobstructed view ofbroad and lovely meadowland through which wound a sparkling tributary ofthe Trent.
Two more gateways let into the great fortress, one piercing the northwall and one the east. All three gates were strongly fortified withtowered and buttressed barbicans which must be taken before the maingates could be reached. Each barbican was portcullised, while the innergates were similarly safeguarded in addition to the drawbridges which,spanning the moat when lowered, could be drawn up at the approach of anenemy, effectually stopping his advance.
The new towers and buildings added to the ancient keep under thedirection of Norman of Torn and the grim, old man whom he called father,were of the Norman type of architecture, the windows were larger, thecarving more elaborate, the rooms lighter and more spacious.
Within the great enclosure thrived a fair sized town, for, with his tenhundred fighting-men, the Outlaw of Torn required many squires, lackeys,cooks, scullions, armorers, smithies, farriers, hostlers and the like tocare for the wants of his little army.
Fifteen hundred war horses, beside five hundred sumpter beasts, werequartered in the great stables, while the east court was alive withcows, oxen, goats, sheep, pigs, rabbits and chickens.
Great wooden carts drawn by slow, plodding oxen were daily visitors tothe grim pile, fetching provender for man and beast from the neighboringfarm lands of the poor Saxon peasants, to whom Norman of Torn paid goodgold for their crops.
These poor serfs, who were worse than slaves to the proud barons whoowned the land they tilled, were forbidden by royal edict to sell orgive a pennysworth of provisions to the Outlaw of Torn, upon pain ofdeath, but nevertheless his great carts made their trips regularly andalways returned full laden, and though the husbandmen told sad talesto their overlords of the awful raids of the Devil of Torn in which heseized upon their stuff by force, their tongues were in their cheeks asthey spoke and the Devil's gold in their pockets.
And so, while the barons learned to hate him the more, the peasants'love for him increased. Them he never injured; their fences, theirstock, their crops, their wives and daughters were safe from molestationeven though the neighboring castle of their lord might be sacked fromthe wine cellar to the ramparts of the loftiest tower. Nor did anyonedare ride rough shod over the territory which Norman of Torn patrolled.A dozen bands of cut-throats he had driven from the Derby hills, andthough the barons would much rather have had all the rest than he, thepeasants worshipped him as a deliverer from the lowborn murderers whohad been wont to despoil the weak and lowly and on whose account thewomen of the huts and cottages had never been safe.
Few of them had seen his face and fewer still had spoken with him, butthey loved his name and his prowess and in secret they prayed for himto their ancient god, Wodin, and the lesser gods of the forest and themeadow and the chase, for though they were confessed Christians, stillin the hearts of many beat a faint echo of the old superstitions oftheir ancestors; and while they prayed also to the Lord Jesus and toMary, yet they felt it could do no harm to be on the safe side with theothers, in case they did happen to exist.
A poor, degraded, downtrodden, ignorant, superstitious people, theywere; accustomed for generations to the heel of first one invader andthen another and in the interims, when there were any, the heels oftheir feudal lords and their rapacious monarchs.
No wonder then that such as these worshipped the Outlaw of Torn, forsince their fierce Saxon ancestors had come, themselves as conquerors,to England, no other hand had ever been raised to shield them fromoppression.
On this policy of his toward the serfs and freedmen, Norman of Torn andthe grim, old man whom he called father had never agreed. The latter wasfor carrying his war of hate against all Englishmen, but the young manwould neither listen to it, nor allow any who rode out from Torn tomolest the lowly. A ragged tunic was a surer defence against this wildhorde than a stout lance or an emblazoned shield.
So, as Norman of Torn rode down from his mighty castle to visit FatherClaude, the sunlight playing on his clanking armor and glancing fromthe copper boss of his shield, the sight of a little group of woodmenkneeling uncovered by the roadside as he passed was not so remarkableafter all.
Entering the priest's study, Norman of Torn removed his armor and layback moodily upon a bench with his back against a wall and his strong,lithe legs stretched out before him.
"What ails you, my son?" asked the priest, "that you look sodisconsolate on this beautiful day?"
"I do not know, Father," replied Norman of Torn, "unless it be that Iam asking myself the question, 'What it is all for?' Why did my fathertrain me ever to prey upon my fellows? I like to fight, but there isplenty of fighting which is legitimate, and what good may all my stolenwealth avail me if I may not enter the haunts of men to spend it? ShouldI stick my head into London town, it would doubtless stay there, held bya hempen necklace.
"What quarrel have I with the King or the gentry? They have quarrelenough with me it is true, but, nathless, I do not know why I shouldhave hated them so before I was old enough to know how rotten theyreally are. So it seems to me that I am but the instrument of an oldman's spite, not even knowing the grievance to the avenging of which mylife has been dedicated by another.
"And at times, Father Claude, as I grow older, I doubt much that thenameless old man of Torn is my father, so little do I favor
him, andnever in all my life have I heard a word of fatherly endearment or felta caress, even as a little child. What think you, Father Claude?"
"I have thought much of it, my son," answered the priest. "It has everbeen a sore puzzle to me, and I have my suspicions, which I have heldfor years, but which even the thought of so frightens me that I shudderto speculate upon the consequences of voicing them aloud. Norman ofTorn, if you are not the son of the old man you call father, may Godforfend that England ever guesses your true parentage. More than this, Idare not say except that, as you value your peace of mind and your life,keep your visor down and keep out of the clutches of your enemies."
"Then you know why I should keep my visor down?"
"I can only guess, Norman of Torn, because I have seen another whom youresemble."
The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from without; the soundof horses' hoofs, the cries of men and the clash of arms. In an instant,both men were at the tiny unglazed window. Before them, on the highroad,five knights in armor were now engaged in furious battle with a party often or a dozen other steel-clad warriors, while crouching breathless onher palfry, a young woman sat a little apart from the contestants.
Presently, one of the knights detached himself from the melee and rodeto her side with some word of command, at the same time graspingroughly at her bridle rein. The girl raised her riding whip and struckrepeatedly but futilely against the iron headgear of her assailant whilehe swung his horse up the road, and, dragging her palfrey after him,galloped rapidly out of sight.
Norman of Torn sprang to the door, and, reckless of his unarmoredcondition, leaped to Sir Mortimer's back and spurred swiftly in thedirection taken by the girl and her abductor.
The great black was fleet, and, unencumbered by the usual heavy armorof his rider, soon brought the fugitives to view. Scarce a mile had beencovered ere the knight, turning to look for pursuers, saw the face ofNorman of Torn not ten paces behind him.
With a look of mingled surprise, chagrin and incredulity the knightreined in his horse, exclaiming as he did so, "Mon Dieu, Edward!"
"Draw and defend yourself," cried Norman of Torn.
"But, Your Highness," stammered the knight.
"Draw, or I stick you as I have stuck an hundred other English pigs,"cried Norman of Torn.
The charging steed was almost upon him and the knight looked to see therider draw rein, but, like a black bolt, the mighty Sir Mortimer struckthe other horse full upon the shoulder, and man and steed rolled in thedust of the roadway.
The knight arose, unhurt, and Norman of Torn dismounted to give fairbattle upon even terms. Though handicapped by the weight of his armor,the knight also had the advantage of its protection, so that thetwo fought furiously for several minutes without either gaining anadvantage.
The girl sat motionless and wide-eyed at the side of the road watchingevery move of the two contestants. She made no effort to escape, butseemed riveted to the spot by the very fierceness of the battle shewas beholding, as well, possibly, as by the fascination of the handsomegiant who had espoused her cause. As she looked upon her champion, shesaw a lithe, muscular, brown-haired youth whose clear eyes and perfectfigure, unconcealed by either bassinet or hauberk, reflected the clean,athletic life of the trained fighting man.
Upon his face hovered a faint, cold smile of haughty pride as the swordarm, displaying its mighty strength and skill in every move, played withthe sweating, puffing, steel-clad enemy who hacked and hewed so futilelybefore him. For all the din of clashing blades and rattling armor,neither of the contestants had inflicted much damage, for the knightcould neither force nor insinuate his point beyond the perfect guard ofhis unarmored foe, who, for his part, found difficulty in penetratingthe other's armor.
Finally, by dint of his mighty strength, Norman of Torn drove his bladethrough the meshes of his adversary's mail, and the fellow, with a cryof anguish, sank limply to the ground.
"Quick, Sir Knight!" cried the girl. "Mount and flee; yonder come hisfellows."
And surely, as Norman of Torn turned in the direction from which hehad just come, there, racing toward him at full tilt, rode threesteel-armored men on their mighty horses.
"Ride, madam," cried Norman of Torn, "for fly I shall not, nor may I,alone, unarmored, and on foot hope more than to momentarily delay thesethree fellows, but in that time you should easily make your escape.Their heavy-burdened animals could never o'ertake your fleet palfrey."
As he spoke, he took note for the first time of the young woman. Thatshe was a lady of quality was evidenced not alone by the richness ofher riding apparel and the trappings of her palfrey, but as well in hernoble and haughty demeanor and the proud expression of her beautifulface.
Although at this time nearly twenty years had passed over the head ofNorman of Torn, he was without knowledge or experience in the ways ofwomen, nor had he ever spoken with a female of quality or position. Nowoman graced the castle of Torn nor had the boy, within his memory, everknown a mother.
His attitude therefore was much the same toward women as it was towardmen, except that he had sworn always to protect them. Possibly, in away, he looked up to womankind, if it could be said that Norman of Tornlooked up to anything: God, man or devil--it being more his way to lookdown upon all creatures whom he took the trouble to notice at all.
As his glance rested upon this woman, whom fate had destined toalter the entire course of his life, Norman of Torn saw that she wasbeautiful, and that she was of that class against whom he had preyed foryears with his band of outlaw cut-throats. Then he turned once more toface her enemies with the strange inconsistency which had ever markedhis methods.
Tomorrow he might be assaulting the ramparts of her father's castle, buttoday he was joyously offering to sacrifice his life for her--had shebeen the daughter of a charcoal burner he would have done no less. Itwas enough that she was a woman and in need of protection.
The three knights were now fairly upon him, and with fine disregard forfair play, charged with couched spears the unarmored man on foot. But asthe leading knight came close enough to behold his face, he cried out insurprise and consternation:
"Mon Dieu, le Prince!" He wheeled his charging horse to one side. Hisfellows, hearing his cry, followed his example, and the three of themdashed on down the high road in as evident anxiety to escape as they hadbeen keen to attack.
"One would think they had met the devil," muttered Norman of Torn,looking after them in unfeigned astonishment.
"What means it, lady?" he asked turning to the damsel, who had made nomove to escape.
"It means that your face is well known in your father's realm, my LordPrince," she replied. "And the King's men have no desire to antagonizeyou, even though they may understand as little as I why you shouldespouse the cause of a daughter of Simon de Montfort."
"Am I then taken for Prince Edward of England?" he asked.
"An' who else should you be taken for, my Lord?"
"I am not the Prince," said Norman of Torn. "It is said that Edward isin France."
"Right you are, sir," exclaimed the girl. "I had not thought on that;but you be enough of his likeness that you might well deceive the Queenherself. And you be of a bravery fit for a king's son. Who are youthen, Sir Knight, who has bared your steel and faced death for Bertrade,daughter of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester?"
"Be you De Montfort's daughter, niece of King Henry?" queried Norman ofTorn, his eyes narrowing to mere slits and face hardening.
"That I be," replied the girl, "an' from your face I take it you havelittle love for a De Montfort," she added, smiling.
"An' whither may you be bound, Lady Bertrade de Montfort? Be you nieceor daughter of the devil, yet still you be a woman, and I do not waragainst women. Wheresoever you would go will I accompany you to safety."
"I was but now bound, under escort of five of my father's knights, tovisit Mary, daughter of John de Stutevill of Derby."
"I know the castle well," answered Norman of Torn, an
d the shadow ofa grim smile played about his lips, for scarce sixty days had elapsedsince he had reduced the stronghold, and levied tribute on the greatbaron. "Come, you have not far to travel now, and if we make haste youshall sup with your friend before dark."
So saying, he mounted his horse and was turning to retrace their stepsdown the road when he noticed the body of the dead knight lying where ithad fallen.
"Ride on," he called to Bertrade de Montfort, "I will join you in aninstant."
Again dismounting, he returned to the side of his late adversary, andlifting the dead knight's visor, drew upon the forehead with the pointof his dagger the letters NT.
The girl turned to see what detained him, but his back was toward herand he knelt beside his fallen foeman, and she did not see his act.Brave daughter of a brave sire though she was, had she seen what hedid, her heart would have quailed within her and she would have fled interror from the clutches of this scourge of England, whose mark shehad seen on the dead foreheads of a dozen of her father's knights andkinsmen.
Their way to Stutevill lay past the cottage of Father Claude, and hereNorman of Torn stopped to don his armor. Now he rode once more withlowered visor, and in silence, a little to the rear of Bertrade deMontfort that he might watch her face, which, of a sudden, had excitedhis interest.
Never before, within the scope of his memory, had he been so close to ayoung and beautiful woman for so long a period of time, although he hadoften seen women in the castles that had fallen before his vicious andterrible attacks. While stories were abroad of his vile treatment ofwomen captives, there was no truth in them. They were merely spread byhis enemies to incite the people against him. Never had Norman of Tornlaid violent hand upon a woman, and his cut-throat band were under oathto respect and protect the sex, on penalty of death.
As he watched the semi-profile of the lovely face before him, somethingstirred in his heart which had been struggling for expression for years.It was not love, nor was it allied to love, but a deep longing forcompanionship of such as she, and such as she represented. Norman ofTorn could not have translated this feeling into words for he did notknow, but it was the far faint cry of blood for blood and with it,mayhap, was mixed not alone the longing of the lion among jackals forother lions, but for his lioness.
They rode for many miles in silence when suddenly she turned, saying:
"You take your time, Sir Knight, in answering my query. Who be ye?"
"I am Nor--" and then he stopped. Always before he had answered thatquestion with haughty pride. Why should he hesitate, he thought. Was itbecause he feared the loathing that name would inspire in the breast ofthis daughter of the aristocracy he despised? Did Norman of Torn fearto face the look of seem and repugnance that was sure to be mirrored inthat lovely face?
"I am from Normandy," he went on quietly. "A gentleman of France."
"But your name?" she said peremptorily. "Are you ashamed of your name?"
"You may call me Roger," he answered. "Roger de Conde."
"Raise your visor, Roger de Conde," she commanded. "I do not takepleasure in riding with a suit of armor; I would see that there is a manwithin."
Norman of Torn smiled as he did her bidding, and when he smiled thus, ashe rarely did, he was good to look upon.
"It is the first command I have obeyed since I turned sixteen, Bertradede Montfort," he said.
The girl was about nineteen, full of the vigor and gaiety of youth andhealth; and so the two rode on their journey talking and laughing asthey might have been friends of long standing.
She told him of the reason for the attack upon her earlier in the day,attributing it to an attempt on the part of a certain baron, Peter ofColfax, to abduct her, his suit for her hand having been peremptorilyand roughly denied by her father.
Simon de Montfort was no man to mince words, and it is doubtless thatthe old reprobate who sued for his daughter's hand heard some unsavorytruths from the man who had twice scandalized England's nobility by hisrude and discourteous, though true and candid, speeches to the King.
"This Peter of Colfax shall be looked to," growled Norman of Torn. "And,as you have refused his heart and hand, his head shall be yours for theasking. You have but to command, Bertrade de Montfort."
"Very well," she laughed, thinking it but the idle boasting so muchindulged in in those days. "You may bring me his head upon a goldendish, Roger de Conde."
"And what reward does the knight earn who brings to the feet of hisprincess the head of her enemy?" he asked lightly.
"What boon would the knight ask?"
"That whatsoever a bad report you hear of your knight, of whatsoevercalumnies may be heaped upon him, you shall yet ever be his friend, andbelieve in his honor and his loyalty."
The girl laughed gaily as she answered, though something seemed to tellher that this was more than play.
"It shall be as you say, Sir Knight," she replied. "And the boon oncegranted shall be always kept."
Quick to reach decisions and as quick to act, Norman of Torn decidedthat he liked this girl and that he wished her friendship more than anyother thing he knew of. And wishing it, he determined to win it by anymeans that accorded with his standard of honor; an honor which in manyrespects was higher than that of the nobles of his time.
They reached the castle of De Stutevill late in the afternoon, andthere, Norman of Torn was graciously welcomed and urged to accept theBaron's hospitality overnight.
The grim humor of the situation was too much for the outlaw, and, whenadded to his new desire to be in the company of Bertrade de Montfort, hemade no effort to resist, but hastened to accept the warm welcome.
At the long table upon which the evening meal was spread sat the entirehousehold of the Baron, and here and there among the men were evidencesof painful wounds but barely healed, while the host himself still worehis sword arm in a sling.
"We have been through grievous times," said Sir John, noticing that hisguest was glancing at the various evidences of conflict. "That fiend,Norman the Devil, with his filthy pack of cut-throats, besieged us forten days, and then took the castle by storm and sacked it. Life is nolonger safe in England with the King spending his time and money withforeign favorites and buying alien soldiery to fight against his ownbarons, instead of insuring the peace and protection which is the rightof every Englishman at home.
"But," he continued, "this outlaw devil will come to the end of a shorthalter when once our civil strife is settled, for the barons themselveshave decided upon an expedition against him, if the King will not subduehim."
"An' he may send the barons naked home as he did the King's soldiers,"laughed Bertrade de Montfort. "I should like to see this fellow; whatmay he look like--from the appearance of yourself, Sir John, and many ofyour men-at-arms, there should be no few here but have met him."
"Not once did he raise his visor while he was among us," replied theBaron, "but there are those who claim they had a brief glimpse of himand that he is of horrid countenance, wearing a great yellow beard andhaving one eye gone, and a mighty red scar from his forehead to hischin."
"A fearful apparition," murmured Norman of Torn. "No wonder he keeps hishelm closed."
"But such a swordsman," spoke up a son of De Stutevill. "Never in allthe world was there such swordplay as I saw that day in the courtyard."
"I, too, have seen some wonderful swordplay," said Bertrade de Montfort,"and that today. O he!" she cried, laughing gleefully, "verily do Ibelieve I have captured the wild Norman of Torn, for this very knight,who styles himself Roger de Conde, fights as I ne'er saw man fightbefore, and he rode with his visor down until I chide him for it."
Norman of Torn led in the laugh which followed, and of all the companyhe most enjoyed the joke.
"An' speaking of the Devil," said the Baron, "how think you he will sideshould the King eventually force war upon the barons? With his thousandhell-hounds, the fate of England might well be in the palm of his bloodyhand."
"He loves neither King nor baro
n," spoke Mary de Stutevill, "and Irather lean to the thought that he will serve neither, but ratherplunder the castles of both rebel and royalist whilst their masters beabsent at war."
"It be more to his liking to come while the master be home to welcomehim," said De Stutevill, ruthfully. "But yet I am always in fear for thesafety of my wife and daughters when I be away from Derby for any time.May the good God soon deliver England from this Devil of Torn."
"I think you may have no need of fear on that score," spoke Mary, "forNorman of Torn offered no violence to any woman within the wall ofStutevill, and when one of his men laid a heavy hand upon me, it was thegreat outlaw himself who struck the fellow such a blow with his mailedhand as to crack the ruffian's helm, saying at the time, 'Know you,fellow, Norman of Torn does not war upon women?'"
Presently the conversation turned to other subjects and Norman of Tornheard no more of himself during that evening.
His stay at the castle of Stutevill was drawn out to three days, andthen, on the third day, as he sat with Bertrade de Montfort in anembrasure of the south tower of the old castle, he spoke once more ofthe necessity for leaving and once more she urged him to remain.
"To be with you, Bertrade of Montfort," he said boldly, "I would foregoany other pleasure, and endure any privation, or face any danger, butthere are others who look to me for guidance and my duty calls me awayfrom you. You shall see me again, and at the castle of your father,Simon de Montfort, in Leicester. Provided," he added, "that you willwelcome me there."
"I shall always welcome you, wherever I may be, Roger de Conde," repliedthe girl.
"Remember that promise," he said smiling. "Some day you may be glad torepudiate it."
"Never," she insisted, and a light that shone in her eyes as she said itwould have meant much to a man better versed in the ways of women thanwas Norman of Torn.
"I hope not," he said gravely. "I cannot tell you, being but poorlytrained in courtly ways, what I should like to tell you, that youmight know how much your friendship means to me. Goodbye, Bertrade deMontfort," and he bent to one knee, as he raised her fingers to hislips.
As he passed over the drawbridge and down toward the highroad a fewminutes later on his way back to Torn, he turned for one last look atthe castle and there, in an embrasure in the south tower, stood ayoung woman who raised her hand to wave, and then, as though by suddenimpulse, threw a kiss after the departing knight, only to disappear fromthe embrasure with the act.
As Norman of Torn rode back to his grim castle in the hills of Derby, hehad much food for thought upon the way. Never till now had he realizedwhat might lie in another manner of life, and he felt a twinge ofbitterness toward the hard, old man whom he called father, and whoseteachings from the boy's earliest childhood had guided him in the waysthat had cut him off completely from the society of other men, exceptthe wild horde of outlaws, ruffians and adventurers that rode beneaththe grisly banner of the young chief of Torn.
Only in an ill-defined, nebulous way did he feel that it was the girlwho had come into his life that caused him for the first time to feelshame for his past deeds. He did not know the meaning of love, and so hecould not know that he loved Bertrade de Montfort.
And another thought which now filled his mind was the fact of hisstrange likeness to the Crown Prince of England. This, together with thewords of Father Claude, puzzled him sorely. What might it mean? Was it aheinous offence to own an accidental likeness to a king's son?
But now that he felt he had solved the reason that he rode always withclosed helm, he was for the first time anxious himself to hide his facefrom the sight of men. Not from fear, for he knew not fear, but fromsome inward impulse which he did not attempt to fathom.
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