The Outlaw of Torn

the matter of but a moment’s work for Spizo to transfer the message from its hiding place to the breast of his tunic. The fellow could not read, but he to whom he took the missive could, laboriously, decipher the Latin in which it was penned.

The old man of Torn fairly trembled with suppressed rage as the full purport of this letter flashed upon him. It had been years since he had heard aught of the search for the little lost prince of England, and now that the period of his silence was drawing to a close, now that more and more often opportunities were opening up to him to wreak the last shred of his terrible vengeance, the very thought of being thwarted at the final moment staggered his comprehension.

“On the fifth day,” he repeated. “That is the day on which we were to ride south again. Well, we shall ride, and Simon de Montfort shall not talk with thee, thou fool priest.”

That same spring evening in the year 1264, a messenger drew rein before the walls of Torn and, to the challenge of the watch, cried:

“A royal messenger from His Illustrious Majesty, Henry, by the grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, to Norman of Torn. Open, in the name of the King!”

Norman of Torn directed that the King’s messenger be admitted, and the knight was quickly ushered into the great hall of the castle.

The outlaw presently entered in full armor, with visor lowered.

The bearing of the King’s officer was haughty and arrogant, as became a man of birth when dealing with a low born knave.

“His Majesty has deigned to address you, sirrah,” he said, withdrawing a parchment from his breast. “And, as you doubtless cannot read, I will read the King’s commands to you.”

“I can read,” replied Norman of Torn, “whatever the King can write. Unless it be,” he added, “that the King writes no better than he rules.”

The messenger scowled angrily, crying:

“It ill becomes such a low fellow to speak thus disrespectfully of our gracious King. If he were less generous, he would have sent you a halter rather than this message which I bear.”

“A bridle for thy tongue, my friend,” replied Norman of Torn, “were in better taste than a halter for my neck. But come, let us see what the King writes to his friend, the Outlaw of Torn.”

Taking the parchment from the messenger, Norman of Torn read:

Henry, by Grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine; to Norman of Torn:

Since it has been called to our notice that you be harassing and plundering the persons and property of our faithful lieges⁠—

We therefore, by virtue of the authority vested in us by Almighty God, do command that you cease these nefarious practices⁠—

And further, through the gracious intercession of Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor, we do offer you full pardon for all your past crimes⁠—

Provided, you repair at once to the town of Lewes, with all the fighting men, your followers, prepared to protect the security of our person, and wage war upon those enemies of England, Simon de Montfort, Gilbert de Clare and their accomplices, who even now are collected to threaten and menace our person and kingdom⁠—

Or, otherwise, shall you suffer death, by hanging, for your long unpunished crimes. Witnessed myself, at Lewes, on May the third, in the forty-eighth year of our reign.

Henry, rex.

“The closing paragraph be unfortunately worded,” said Norman of Torn, “for because of it shall the King’s messenger eat the King’s message, and thus take back in his belly the answer of Norman of Torn.” And crumpling the parchment in his hand, he advanced toward the royal emissary.

The knight whipped out his sword, but the Devil of Torn was even quicker, so that it seemed that the King’s messenger had deliberately hurled his weapon across the room, so quickly did the outlaw disarm him.

And then Norman of Torn took the man by the neck with one powerful hand and, despite his struggles, and the beating of his mailed fists, bent him back upon the table, and there, forcing his teeth apart with the point of his sword, Norman of Torn rammed the King’s message down the knight’s throat; wax, parchment and all.

It was a crestfallen gentleman who rode forth from the castle of Torn a half hour later and spurred rapidly⁠—in his head a more civil tongue.

When, two days later, he appeared before the King at Winchelsea and reported the outcome of his mission, Henry raged and stormed, swearing by all the saints in the calendar that Norman of Torn should hang for his effrontery before the snow flew again.

News of the fighting between the barons and the King’s forces at Rochester, Battel and elsewhere reached the ears of Norman of Torn a few days after the coming of the King’s message, but at the same time came other news which hastened his departure toward the south. This latter word was that Bertrade de Montfort and her mother, accompanied by Prince Philip, had landed at Dover, and that upon the same boat had come Peter of Colfax back to England⁠—the latter, doubtless reassured by the strong conviction, which held in the minds of all royalists at that time, of the certainty of victory for the royal arms in the impending conflict with the rebel barons.

Norman of Torn had determined that he would see Bertrade de Montfort once again, and clear his conscience by a frank avowal of his identity. He knew what the result must be. His experience with Joan de Tany had taught him that. But the fine sense of chivalry which ever dominated all his acts where the happiness or honor of women were concerned urged him to give himself over as a sacrifice upon the altar of a woman’s pride, that it might be she who spurned and rejected; for, as it must appear now, it had been he whose love had