“But what about the Devil of Torn, Bertrade?” urged Mary. “Only yestereve, you wot, one of Lord de Grey’s men-at-arms came limping to us with the news of the awful carnage the foul fiend had wrought on his master’s household. He be abroad, Bertrade, and I can think of naught more horrible than to fall into his hands.”
“Why, Mary, thou didst but recently say thy very self that Norman of Torn was most courteous to thee when he sacked this, thy father’s castle. How be it thou so soon hast changed thy mind?”
“Yes, Bertrade, he was indeed respectful then, but who knows what horrid freak his mind may take, and they do say that he be cruel beyond compare. Again, forget not that thou be Leicester’s daughter and Henry’s niece; against both of whom the Outlaw of Torn openly swears his hatred and his vengeance. Oh, Bertrade, wait but for a day or so, I be sure my father must return ere then, and fifty knights shall accompany thee instead of five.”
“What be fifty knights against Norman of Torn, Mary? Thy reasoning is on a parity with thy fears, both have flown wide of the mark.
“If I am to meet with this wild ruffian, it were better that five knights were sacrificed than fifty, for either number would be but a mouthful to that horrid horde of unhung murderers. No, Mary, I shall start tomorrow and your good knights shall return the following day with the best of word from me.”
“If thou wilt, thou wilt,” cried Mary petulantly. “Indeed it were plain that thou be a De Montfort; that race whose historic bravery be second only to their historic stubbornness.”
Bertrade de Montfort laughed, and kissed her friend upon the cheek.
“Mayhap I shall find the brave Roger de Condé again upon the highroad to protect me. Then indeed shall I send back your five knights, for of a truth, his blade is more powerful than that of any ten men I e’er saw fight before.”
“Methinks,” said Mary, still peeved at her friend’s determination to leave on the morrow, “that should you meet the doughty Sir Roger all unarmed, that still would you send back my father’s knights.”
Bertrade flushed, and then bit her lip as she felt the warm blood mount to her cheek.
“Thou be a fool, Mary,” she said.
Mary broke into a joyful, teasing laugh; hugely enjoying the discomfiture of the admission the telltale flush proclaimed.
“Ah, I did but guess how thy heart and thy mind tended, Bertrade; but now I see that I divined all too truly. He be indeed good to look upon, but what knowest thou of him?”
“Hush, Mary!” commanded Bertrade. “Thou know not what thou sayest. I would not wipe my feet upon him, I care naught whatever for him, and then—it has been three weeks since he rode out from Stutevill and no word hath he sent.”
“Oh, ho,” cried the little plague, “so there lies the wind? My Lady would not wipe her feet upon him, but she be sore vexed that he has sent her no word. Mon Dieu, but thou hast strange notions, Bertrade.”
“I will not talk with you, Mary,” cried Bertrade, stamping her sandaled foot, and with a toss of her pretty head she turned abruptly toward the castle.
In a small chamber in the castle of Colfax two men sat at opposite sides of a little table. The one, Peter of Colfax, was short and very stout. His red, bloated face, bleary eyes and bulbous nose bespoke the manner of his life; while his thick lips, the lower hanging large and flabby over his receding chin, indicated the base passions to which his life had been given. His companion was a little, grim, gray man but his suit of armor and closed helm gave no hint to his host of whom his guest might be. It was the little armored man who was speaking.
“Is it not enough that I offer to aid you, Sir Peter,” he said, “that you must have my reasons? Let it go that my hate of Leicester be the passion which moves me. Thou failed in thy attempt to capture the maiden; give me ten knights and I will bring her to you.”
“How knowest thou she rides out tomorrow for her father’s castle?” asked Peter of Colfax.
“That again be no concern of thine, my friend, but I do know it, and, if thou wouldst have her, be quick, for we should ride out tonight that we may take our positions by the highway in ample time tomorrow.”
Still Peter of Colfax hesitated, he feared this might be a ruse of Leicester’s to catch him in some trap. He did not know his guest—the fellow might want the girl for himself and be taking this method of obtaining the necessary assistance to capture her.
“Come,” said the little, armored man irritably. “I cannot bide here forever. Make up thy mind; it be nothing to me other than my revenge, and if thou wilt not do it, I shall hire the necessary ruffians and then not even thou shalt see Bertrade de Montfort more.”
This last threat decided the Baron.
“It is agreed,” he said. “The men shall ride out with you in half an hour. Wait below in the courtyard.”
When the little man had left the apartment, Peter of Colfax summoned his squire whom he had send to him at once one of his faithful henchmen.
“Guy,” said Peter of Colfax, as the man entered, “ye made a rare fizzle of a piece of business some weeks ago. Ye wot of which I speak?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“It chances that on the morrow ye may have opportunity to retrieve thy blunder. Ride out with ten men where the stranger who waits in the courtyard below
