The Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs (read with me .txt) 📕

true, but, nathless, I do not know why I should have hated them so before I was old enough to know how rotten they really are. So it seems to me that I am but the instrument of an old man’s spite, not even knowing the grievance to the avenging of which my life has been dedicated by another.

“And at times, Father Claude, as I grow older, I doubt much that the nameless old man of Torn is my father, so little do I favor him, and never in all my life have I heard a word of fatherly endearment or felt a caress, even as a little child. What think you, Father Claude ?”

“I have thought much of it, my son,” answered the priest. “It has ever been a sore puzzle to me, and I have my suspicions, which I have held for years, but which even the thought of so frightens me that I shudder to speculate upon the consequences of voicing them aloud. Norman of Torn, if you are not the son of the old man you call father, may God forfend that England ever guesses your true parentage. More than this, I dare not say except that, as you value your peace of mind and your life, keep your visor down and keep out of the clutches of your enemies.”

“Then you know why I should keep my visor down ?”

“I can only guess, Norman of Torn, because I have seen another whom you resemble.”

The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from without; the sound of horses’ hoofs, the cries of men and the clash of arms. In an instant, both men were at the tiny unglazed window. Before them, on the highroad, five knights in armor were now engaged in furious battle with a party of ten or a dozen other steel-clad warriors, while crouching breathless on her palfry , a young woman sat a little apart from the contestants.

Presently, one of the knights detached himself from the melee and rode to her side with some word of command, at the same time grasping roughly at her bridle rein. The girl raised her riding whip and struck repeatedly but futilely against the iron headgear of her assailant while he swung his horse up the road, and, dragging her palfrey after him, galloped rapidly out of sight.

Norman of Torn sprang to the door, and, reckless of his unarmored condition, leaped to Sir Mortimer’s back and spurred swiftly in the direction taken by the girl and her abductor.

The great black was fleet, and, unencumbered by the usual heavy armor of his rider, soon brought the fugitives to view. Scarce a mile had been covered ere the knight, turning to look for pursuers, saw the face of Norman of Torn not ten paces behind him.

With a look of mingled surprise, chagrin and incredulity the knight reined in his horse, exclaiming as he did so, “Mon Dieu, Edward !”

“Draw and defend yourself,” cried Norman of Torn.

“But, Your Highness,” stammered the knight.

“Draw, or I stick you as I have stuck an hundred other English pigs,” cried Norman of Torn.

The charging steed was almost upon him and the knight looked to see the rider draw rein, but, like a black bolt, the mighty Sir Mortimer struck the other horse full upon the shoulder, and man and steed rolled in the dust of the roadway.

The knight arose, unhurt, and Norman of Torn dismounted to give fair battle upon even terms. Though handicapped by the weight of his armor, the knight also had the advantage of its protection, so that the two fought furiously for several minutes without either gaining an advantage.

The girl sat motionless and wide-eyed at the side of the road watching every move of the two contestants. She made no effort to escape, but seemed riveted to the spot by the very fierceness of the battle she was beholding, as well, possibly, as by the fascination of the handsome giant who had espoused her cause. As she looked upon her champion, she saw a lithe, muscular, brown-haired youth whose clear eyes and perfect figure, unconcealed by either bassinet or hauberk, reflected the clean, athletic life of the trained fighting man.

Upon his face hovered a faint, cold smile of haughty pride as the sword arm, displaying its mighty strength and skill in every move, played with the sweating, puffing, steel-clad enemy who hacked and hewed so futilely before him. For all the din of clashing blades and rattling armor, neither of the contestants had inflicted much damage, for the knight could neither force nor insinuate his point beyond the perfect guard of his unarmored foe, who, for his part, found difficulty in penetrating the other’s armor.

Finally, by dint of his mighty strength, Norman of Torn drove his blade through the meshes of his adversary’s mail, and the fellow, with a cry of anguish, sank limply to the ground.

“Quick, Sir Knight !” cried the girl. “Mount and flee; yonder come his fellows.”

And surely, as Norman of Torn turned in the direction from which he had just come, there, racing toward him at full tilt, rode three steel-armored men on their mighty horses.

“Ride, madam,” cried Norman of Torn, “for fly I shall not, nor may I, alone, unarmored, and on foot hope more than to momentarily delay these three fellows, but in that time you should easily make your escape. Their heavy-burdened animals could never o’ertake your fleet palfrey.”

As he spoke, he took note for the first time of the young woman. That she was a lady of quality was evidenced not alone by the richness of her riding apparel and the trappings of her palfrey, but as well in her noble and haughty demeanor and the proud expression of her beautiful face.

Although at this time nearly twenty years had passed over the head of Norman of Torn, he was without knowledge or experience in the ways of women, nor had he ever spoken with a female of quality or position. No woman graced the castle of Torn nor had the boy, within his memory, ever known a mother.

His attitude therefore was much the same toward women as it was toward men, except that he had sworn always to protect them. Possibly, in a way, he looked up to womankind, if it could be said that Norman of Torn looked up to anything: God, man or devil — it being more his way to look down upon all creatures whom he took the trouble to notice at all.

As his glance rested upon this woman, whom fate had destined to alter the entire course of his life, Norman of Torn saw that she was beautiful, and that she was of that class against whom he had preyed for years with his band of outlaw cutthroats. Then he turned once more to face her enemies with the strange inconsistency which had ever marked his methods.

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 NT.

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,