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

there were many accidents, and then one or both of them would nurse a punctured skin for a few days. So, while blood was often let on both sides, the training produced a fearless swordsman who was so truly the master of his point that he could stop a thrust within a fraction of an inch of the spot he sought.

At fifteen, he was a very strong and straight and handsome lad. Bronzed and hardy from his outdoor life; of few words, for there was none that he might talk with save the taciturn old man; hating the English, for that he was taught as thoroughly as swordsmanship; speaking French fluently and English poorly — and waiting impatiently for the day when the old man should send him out into the world with clanking armor and lance and shield to do battle with the knights of England.

It was about this time that there occurred the first important break in the monotony of his existence. Far down the rocky trail that led from the valley below through the Derby hills to the ruined castle, three armored knights urged their tired horses late one afternoon of a chill autumn day. Off the main road and far from any habitation, they had espied the castle’s towers through a rift in the hills, and now they spurred toward it in search of food and shelter.

As the road led them winding higher into the hills, they suddenly emerged upon the downs below the castle where a sight met their eyes which caused them to draw rein and watch in admiration. There, before them upon the downs, a boy battled with a lunging, rearing horse — a perfect demon of a black horse. Striking and biting in a frenzy of rage, it sought ever to escape or injure the lithe figure which clung leech-like to its shoulder.

The boy was on the ground. His left hand grasped the heavy mane; his right arm lay across the beast’s withers and his right hand drew steadily in upon a halter rope with which he had taken a half hitch about the horse’s muzzle. Now the black reared and wheeled, striking and biting, full upon the youth, but the active figure swung with him — always just behind the giant shoulder — and ever and ever he drew the great arched neck farther and farther to the right.

As the animal plunged hither and thither in great leaps, he dragged the boy with him, but all his mighty efforts were unavailing to loosen the grip upon mane and withers. Suddenly, he reared straight into the air carrying the youth with him, then with a vicious lunge he threw himself backward upon the ground.

“It’s death !” exclaimed one of the knights, “he will kill the youth yet, Beauchamp.”

“No !” cried he addressed. “Look ! He is up again and the boy still clings as tightly to him as his own black hide.”

“‘Tis true,” exclaimed another, “but he hath lost what he had gained upon the halter — he must needs fight it all out again from the beginning.”

And so the battle went on again as before, the boy again drawing the iron neck slowly to the right — the beast fighting and squealing as though possessed of a thousand devils. A dozen times, as the head bent farther and farther toward him, the boy loosed his hold upon the mane and reached quickly down to grasp the near fore pastern. A dozen times the horse shook off the new hold, but at length the boy was successful, and the knee was bent and the hoof drawn up to the elbow.

Now the black fought at a disadvantage, for he was on but three feet and his neck was drawn about in an awkward and unnatural position. His efforts became weaker and weaker. The boy talked incessantly to him in a quiet voice, and there was a shadow of a smile upon his lips. Now he bore heavily upon the black withers, pulling the horse toward him. Slowly the beast sank upon his bent knee — pulling backward until his off fore leg was stretched straight before him. Then, with a final surge, the youth pulled him over upon his side, and, as he fell, slipped prone beside him. One sinewy hand shot to the rope just beneath the black chin — the other grasped a slim, pointed ear.

For a few minutes the horse fought and kicked to gain his liberty, but with his head held to the earth, he was as powerless in the hands of the boy as a baby would have been. Then he sank panting and exhausted into mute surrender.

“Well done !” cried one of the knights. “Simon de Montfort himself never mastered a horse in better order, my boy. Who be thou ?”

In an instant, the lad was upon his feet his eyes searching for the speaker. The horse, released, sprang up also, and the two stood — the handsome boy and the beautiful black — gazing with startled eyes, like two wild things, at the strange intruder who confronted them.

“Come, Sir Mortimer !” cried the boy, and turning he led the prancing but subdued animal toward the castle and through the ruined barbican into the court beyond.

“What ho, there, lad !” shouted Paul of Merely. “We wouldst not harm thee — come, we but ask the way to the castle of De Stutevill.”

The three knights listened but there was no answer.

“Come, Sir Knights,” spoke Paul of Merely, “we will ride within and learn what manner of churls inhabit this ancient rookery.”

As they entered the great courtyard, magnificent even in its ruined grandeur, they were met by a little, grim old man who asked them in no gentle tones what they would of them there.

“We have lost our way in these devilish Derby hills of thine, old man,” replied Paul of Merely. “We seek the castle of Sir John de Stutevill.”

“Ride down straight to the river road, keeping the first trail to the right, and when thou hast come there, turn again to thy right and ride north beside the river — thou canst not miss the way — it be plain as the nose before thy face,” and with that the old man turned to enter the castle.

“Hold, old fellow !” cried the spokesman. “It be nigh onto sunset now, and we care not to sleep out again this night as we did the last. We will tarry with you then till morn that we may take up our journey refreshed, upon rested steeds.”

The old man grumbled, and it was with poor grace that he took them in to feed and house them over night. But there was nothing else for it, since they would have taken his hospitality by force had he refused to give it voluntarily.

From their guests, the two learned something of the conditions outside their Derby hills. The old man showed less interest than he felt, but to the boy, notwithstanding that the names he heard meant nothing to him, it was like unto a fairy tale to hear of the wondrous doings of earl and baron, bishop and king.

“If the King does not mend his ways,” said one of the knights, “we will drive his whole accursed pack of foreign blood-suckers into the sea.”

“De Montfort has told him as much a dozen times, and now that all of us, both Norman and Saxon barons, have already met together and formed a pact for our mutual protection, the King must surely realize that the time for temporizing be past, and that unless he would have a civil war upon his hands, he must keep the promises he so glibly makes, instead of breaking them the moment De Montfort’s back be turned.”

“He fears his brother-in-law,” interrupted another of the knights, “even more than the devil fears holy water. I was in attendance on his majesty some weeks since when he was going down the Thames upon the royal barge. We were overtaken by as severe a thunder storm as I have ever seen, of which the King was in such abject fear that he commanded that we land at the Bishop of Durham’s palace opposite which we then were. De Montfort, who was residing there, came to meet Henry, with all due respect, observing, ‘What do you fear, now, Sire, the tempest has passed ?’ And what thinkest thou old ‘waxen heart’ replied ? Why, still trembling, he said, ‘I do indeed fear thunder and lightning much, but, by the hand of God, I tremble before you more than for all the thunder in Heaven !’”

“I surmise,” interjected the grim, old man, “that De Montfort has in some manner gained an ascendancy over the King. Think you he looks so high as the throne itself ?”

“Not so,” cried the oldest of the knights. “Simon de Montfort works for England’s weal alone — and methinks, nay knowest, that he would be first to spring to arms to save the throne for Henry. He but fights the King’s rank and covetous advisers, and though he must needs seem to defy the King himself, it be but to save his tottering power from utter collapse. But, gad, how the King hates him. For a time it seemed that there might be a permanent reconciliation when, for years after the disappearance of the little Prince Richard, De Montfort devoted much of his time and private fortune to prosecuting a search through all the world for the little fellow, of whom he was inordinately fond. This self-sacrificing interest on his part won over the King and Queen for many years, but of late his unremitting hostility to their continued extravagant waste of the national resources has again hardened them toward him.”

The old man, growing uneasy at the turn the conversation threatened, sent the youth from the room on some pretext, and himself left to prepare supper.

As they were sitting at the evening meal, one of the nobles eyed the boy intently, for he was indeed good to look upon; his bright handsome face, clear, intelligent gray eyes, and square strong jaw framed in a mass of brown waving hair banged at the forehead and falling about his ears, where it was again cut square at the sides and back, after the fashion of the times.

His upper body was clothed in a rough under tunic of wool, stained red, over which he wore a short leathern jerkin, while his doublet was also of leather, a soft and finely tanned piece of undressed doeskin. His long hose, fitting his shapely legs as closely as another layer of skin, were of the same red wool as his tunic, while his strong leather sandals were cross-gartered halfway to his knees with narrow bands of leather.

A leathern girdle about his waist supported a sword and a dagger and a round skull cap of the same material, to which was fastened a falcon’s wing, completed his picturesque and becoming costume.

“Your son ?” he asked, turning to the old man.

“Yes,” was the growling response.

“He favors you but little, old fellow, except in his cursed French accent.

“‘S blood, Beauchamp,” he continued, turning to one of his companions, “an’ were he set down in court, I wager our gracious Queen would he hard put to it to tell him from the young Prince Edward. Dids’t ever see so strange a likeness ?”

“Now that you speak of it, My Lord, I see it plainly. It is indeed a marvel,” answered Beauchamp.

Had they glanced at the old man during this colloquy, they would have seen a blanched face, drawn with inward fear and rage.

Presently the oldest member of the party of three knights spoke in a grave quiet tone.

“And how old