The Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs (uplifting books for women .txt) 📗

“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