Tomorrow he might be assaulting the ramparts of her father’s castle, but today he was joyously offering to sacrifice his life for her—had she been the daughter of a charcoal burner he would have done no less. It was enough that she was a woman and in need of protection.
The three knights were now fairly upon him, and with fine disregard for fair play, charged with couched spears the unarmored man on foot. But as the leading knight came close enough to behold his face, he cried out in surprise and consternation:
“Mon Dieu, le Prince!” He wheeled his charging horse to one side. His fellows, hearing his cry, followed his example, and the three of them dashed on down the high road in as evident anxiety to escape as they had been 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 no move to escape.
“It means that your face is well known in your father’s realm, my Lord Prince,” she replied. “And the King’s men have no desire to antagonize you, even though they may understand as little as I why you should espouse 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 is in 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 Queen herself. And you be of a bravery fit for a king’s son. Who are you then, 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 of Torn, his eyes narrowing to mere slits and face hardening.
“That I be,” replied the girl, “an’ from your face I take it you have little love for a De Montfort,” she added, smiling.
“An’ whither may you be bound, Lady Bertrade de Montfort? Be you niece or daughter of the devil, yet still you be a woman, and I do not war against 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, to visit Mary, daughter of John de Stutevill of Derby.”
“I know the castle well,” answered Norman of Torn, and the shadow of a grim smile played about his lips, for scarce sixty days had elapsed since he had reduced the stronghold, and levied tribute on the great baron. “Come, you have not far to travel now, and if we make haste you shall sup with your friend before dark.”
So saying, he mounted his horse and was turning to retrace their steps down the road when he noticed the body of the dead knight lying where it had fallen.
“Ride on,” he called to Bertrade de Montfort, “I will join you in an instant.”
Again dismounting, he returned to the side of his late adversary, and lifting the dead knight’s visor, drew upon the forehead with the point of his dagger the letters N. T.
The girl turned to see what detained him, but his back was toward her and 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 he did, her heart would have quailed within her and she would have fled in terror from the clutches of this scourge of England, whose mark she had seen on the dead foreheads of a dozen of her father’s knights and kinsmen.
Their way to Stutevill lay past the cottage of Father Claude, and here Norman of Torn stopped to don his armor. Now he rode once more with lowered visor, and in silence, a little to the rear of Bertrade de Montfort that he might watch her face, which, of a sudden, had excited his interest.
Never before, within the scope of his memory, had he been so close to a young and beautiful woman for so long a period of time, although he had often seen women in the castles that had fallen before his vicious and terrible attacks. While stories were abroad of his vile treatment of women captives, there was no truth in them. They were merely spread by his enemies to incite the people against him. Never had Norman of Torn laid violent hand upon a woman, and his cutthroat band were under oath to respect and protect the sex, on penalty of death.
As he watched the semi-profile of the lovely face before him, something stirred 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 for companionship of such as she, and such as she represented. Norman of Torn could not have translated this feeling into words for he did not know, 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 for other 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 that question with haughty pride. Why should he hesitate, he thought. Was it because he feared the loathing that name would inspire in the breast of this daughter of the aristocracy he despised? Did Norman of Torn fear to face the look of seem and
