“Then promise me, that with the old man of Torn alone, thou wilt come hither when I bidst thee and meet Simon de Montfort, and abide by his decision should my surmises concerning thee be correct. He will be the best judge of any in England, save two who must now remain nameless.”
“I will come, Father, but it must be soon for on the fourth day we ride south.”
“It shall be by the third day, or not at all,” replied Father Claude, and Norman of Torn, rising to leave, wondered at the moving leaves of the lilac bush without the window, for there was no breeze.
Spizo the Spaniard reached Torn several minutes before the outlaw chief and had already poured his tale into the ears of the little, grim, gray, old man.
As the priest’s words were detailed to him the old man of Torn paled in anger.
“The fool priest will upset the whole work to which I have devoted near twenty years,” he muttered, “if I find not the means to quiet his half-wit tongue. Between priest and petticoat, it be all but ruined now. Well then, so much the sooner must I act, and I know not but that now be as good a time as any. If we come near enough to the King’s men on this trip south, the gibbet shall have its own, and a Plantagenet dog shall taste the fruits of his own tyranny,” then glancing up and realizing that Spizo the Spaniard had been a listener, the old man, scowling, cried:
“What said I, sirrah? What didst hear?”
“Naught, My Lord; thou didst but mutter incoherently,” replied the Spaniard.
The old man eyed him closely.
“An did I more, Spizo, thou heardst naught but muttering, remember.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
An hour later, the old man of Torn dismounted before the cottage of Father Claude and entered.
“I am honored,” said the priest, rising.
“Priest,” cried the old man, coming immediately to the point, “Norman of Torn tells me that thou wish him and me and Leicester to meet here. I know not what thy purpose may be, but for the boy’s sake, carry not out thy design as yet. I may not tell thee my reasons, but it be best that this meeting take place after we return from the south.”
The old man had never spoken so fairly to Father Claude before, and so the latter was quite deceived and promised to let the matter rest until later.
A few days after, in the summer of 1263, Norman of Torn rode at the head of his army of outlaws through the county of Essex, down toward London town. One thousand fighting men there were, with squires and other servants, and five hundred sumpter beasts to transport their tents and other impedimenta, and bring back the loot.
But a small force of ailing men-at-arms, and servants had been left to guard the castle of Torn under the able direction of Peter the Hermit.
At the column’s head rode Norman of Torn and the little grim, gray, old man; and behind them, nine companies of knights, followed by the catapult detachment; then came the sumpter beasts. Horsan the Dane, with his company, formed the rear guard. Three hundred yards in advance of the column rode ten men to guard against surprise and ambuscades.
The pennons, and the banners and the bugles; and the loud rattling of sword, and lance and armor and iron-shod hoof carried to the eye and ear ample assurance that this great cavalcade of iron men was bent upon no peaceful mission.
All his captains rode today with Norman of Torn. Beside those whom we have met, there was Don Piedro Castro y Pensilo of Spain; Baron of Cobarth of Germany, and Sir John Mandecote of England. Like their leader, each of these fierce warriors carried a great price upon his head, and the story of the life of any one would fill a large volume with romance, war, intrigue, treachery, bravery and death.
Toward noon one day, in the midst of a beautiful valley of Essex, they came upon a party of ten knights escorting two young women. The meeting was at a turn in the road, so that the two parties were upon each other before the ten knights had an opportunity to escape with their fair wards.
“What the devil be this,” cried one of the knights, as the main body of the outlaw horde came into view, “the King’s army or one of his foreign legions?”
“It be Norman of Torn and his fighting men,” replied the outlaw.
The faces of the knights blanched, for they were ten against a thousand, and there were two women with them.
“Who be ye?” said the outlaw.
“I am Richard de Tany of Essex,” said the oldest knight, he who had first spoken, “and these be my daughter and her friend, Mary de Stutevill. We are upon our way from London to my castle. What would you of us? Name your price, if it can be paid with honor, it shall be paid; only let us go our way in peace. We cannot hope to resist the Devil of Torn, for we be but ten lances. If ye must have blood, at least let the women go unharmed.”
“My Lady Mary is an old friend,” said the outlaw. “I called at her father’s home but little more than a year since. We are neighbors, and the lady can tell you that women are safer at the hands of Norman of Torn than they might be in the King’s palace.”
“Right he is,” spoke up Lady Mary. “Norman of Torn accorded my mother, my sister, and myself the utmost respect; though I cannot say as much for his treatment of my father,” she added, half smiling.
“I have no quarrel with you, Richard de Tany,” said Norman of Torn. “Ride on.”
The next day, a young man hailed the watch upon the walls of the castle of Richard de Tany, telling him to bear word to Joan de Tany that Roger de
