It was at this time that the King’s soldiers were harassing the lands of the rebel barons, and taking a heavy toll in revenge for their stinging defeat at Rochester earlier in the year, so that it was scarcely safe for small parties to venture upon the roadways lest they fall into the hands of the mercenaries of Henry III.
Not even were the wives and daughters of the barons exempt from the attacks of the royalists; and it was no uncommon occurrence to find them suffering imprisonment, and sometimes worse, at the hands of the King’s supporters.
And in the midst of these alarms, it entered the willful head of Joan de Tany that she wished to ride to London town and visit the shops of the merchants.
While London itself was solidly for the barons and against the King’s party, the road between the castle of Richard de Tany and the city of London was beset with many dangers.
“Why,” cried the girl’s mother in exasperation, “between robbers and royalists and the Outlaw of Torn, you would not be safe if you had an army to escort you.”
“But then, as I have no army,” retorted the laughing girl, “if you reason by your own logic, I shall be indeed quite safe.”
And when Roger de Condé attempted to dissuade her, she taunted him with being afraid of meeting with the Devil of Torn, and told him that he might remain at home and lock himself safely in her mother’s pantry.
And so, as Joan de Tany was a spoiled child, they set out upon the road to London; the two girls with a dozen servants and knights; and Roger de Condé was of the party.
At the same time a grim, gray, old man dispatched a messenger from the outlaw’s camp; a swarthy fellow, disguised as a priest, whose orders were to proceed to London, and when he saw the party of Joan de Tany, with Roger de Condé, enter the city, he was to deliver the letter he bore to the captain of the gate.
The letter contained this brief message:
“The tall knight in gray with closed helm is Norman of Torn,” and was unsigned.
All went well and Joan was laughing merrily at the fears of those who had attempted to dissuade her when, at a cross road, they discovered two parties of armed men approaching from opposite directions. The leader of the nearer party spurred forward to intercept the little band, and, reining in before them, cried brusquely,
“Who be ye?”
“A party on a peaceful mission to the shops of London,” replied Norman of Torn.
“I asked not your mission,” cried the fellow. “I asked, who be ye? Answer, and be quick about it.”
“I be Roger de Condé, gentleman of France, and these be my sisters and servants,” lied the outlaw, “and were it not that the ladies be with me, your answer would be couched in steel, as you deserve for your boorish insolence.”
“There be plenty of room and time for that even now, you dog of a French coward,” cried the officer, couching his lance as he spoke.
Joan de Tany was sitting her horse where she could see the face of Roger de Condé, and it filled her heart with pride and courage as she saw and understood the little smile of satisfaction that touched his lips as he heard the man’s challenge and lowered the point of his own spear.
Wheeling their horses toward one another, the two combatants, who were some ninety feet apart, charged at full tilt. As they came together the impact was so great that both horses were nearly overturned and the two powerful war lances were splintered into a hundred fragments as each struck the exact center of his opponent’s shield. Then, wheeling their horses and throwing away the butts of their now useless lances, De Condé and the officer advanced with drawn swords.
The fellow made a most vicious return assault upon De Condé, attempting to ride him down in one mad rush, but his thrust passed harmlessly from the tip of the outlaw’s sword, and as the officer wheeled back to renew the battle, they settled down to fierce combat, their horses wheeling and turning shoulder to shoulder.
The two girls sat rigid in their saddles watching the encounter, the eyes of Joan de Tany alight with the fire of battle as she followed every move of the wondrous swordplay of Roger de Condé.
He had not even taken the precaution to lower his visor, and the grim and haughty smile that played upon his lips spoke louder than many words the utter contempt in which he held the sword of his adversary. And as Joan de Tany watched, she saw the smile suddenly freeze to a cold, hard line, and the eyes of the man narrow to mere slits, and her woman’s intuition read the death warrant of the King’s officer ere the sword of the outlaw buried itself in his heart.
The other members of the two bodies of royalist soldiers had sat spellbound as they watched the battle, but now, as their leader’s corpse rolled from the saddle, they spurred furiously in upon De Condé and his little party.
The Baron’s men put up a noble fight, but the odds were heavy and even with the mighty arm of Norman of Torn upon their side the outcome was apparent from the first.
Five swords were flashing about the outlaw, but his blade was equal to the thrust and one after another of his assailants crumpled up in their saddles as his leaping point found their vitals.
Nearly all of the Baron’s men were down, when one, an old servitor, spurred to the side of Joan de Tany and Mary de Stutevill.
“Come, my ladies,” he cried, “quick and you may escape. They be so busy with the battle that they will never notice.”
“Take the Lady Mary, John,” cried Joan, “I brought Roger de Condé to this pass against the advice of all and I remain with him to the end.”
“But, My Lady—” cried John.
“But
