The Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📕

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 Conde, a friend of her guest Lady Mary de Stutevill, was without.

In a few moments, the great drawbridge sank slowly into place and Norman of Torn trotted into the courtyard.

He was escorted to an apartment where Mary de Stutevill and Joan de Tany were waiting to receive him. Mary de Stutevill greeted him as an old friend, and the daughter of de Tany was no less cordial in welcoming her friend’s friend to the hospitality of her father’s castle.

“Are all your old friends and neighbors come after you to Essex,” cried Joan de Tany, laughingly, addressing Mary. “Today it is Roger de Conde, yesterday it was the Outlaw of Torn. Methinks Derby will soon be depopulated unless you return quickly to your home.”

“I rather think it be for news of another that we owe this visit from Roger de Conde,” said Mary, smiling. “For I have heard tales, and I see a great ring upon the gentleman’s hand—a ring which I have seen before.”

Norman of Torn made no attempt to deny the reason for his visit, but asked bluntly if she heard aught of Bertrade de Montfort.

“Thrice within the year have I received missives from her,” replied Mary. “In the first two she spoke only of Roger de Conde, wondering why he did not come to France after her; but in the last she mentions not his name, but speaks of her approaching marriage with Prince Philip.”

Both girls were watching the countenance of Roger de Conde narrowly, but no sign of the sorrow which filled his heart showed itself upon his face.

“I guess it be better so,” he said quietly. “The daughter of a De Montfort could scarcely be happy with a nameless adventurer,” he added, a little bitterly.

“You wrong her, my friend,” said Mary de Stutevill. “She loved you and, unless I know not the friend of my childhood as well as I know myself, she loves you yet; but Bertrade de Montfort is a proud woman and what can you expect when she hears no word from you for a year? Thought you that she would seek you out and implore you to rescue her from the alliance her father has made for her?”

“You do not understand,” he answered, “and I may not tell you; but I ask that you believe me when I say that it was for her own peace of mind, for her own happiness, that I did not follow her to France. But, let us talk of other things. The sorrow is mine and I would not force it upon others. I cared only to know that she is well, and, I hope, happy. It will never be given to me to make her or any other woman so. I would that I had never come into her life, but I did not know what I was doing; and the spell of her beauty and goodness was strong upon me, so that I was weak and could not resist what I had never known before in all my life—love.”

“You could not well be blamed,” said Joan de Tany, generously. “Bertrade de Montfort is all and even more than you have said; it be a benediction simply to have known her.”

As she spoke, Norman of Torn looked upon her critically for the first time, and he saw that Joan de Tany was beautiful, and that when she spoke, her face lighted with a hundred little changing expressions of intelligence and character that cast a spell of fascination about her. Yes, Joan de Tany was good to look upon, and Norman of Torn carried a wounded heart in his breast that longed for surcease from its sufferings—for a healing balm upon its hurts and bruises.

And so it came to pass that, for many days, the Outlaw of Torn was a daily visitor at the castle of Richard de Tany, and the acquaintance between the man and the two girls ripened into a deep friendship, and with one of them, it threatened even more.

Norman of Torn, in his ignorance of the ways of women, saw only friendship in the little acts of Joan de Tany. His life had been a hard and lonely one. The only ray of brilliant and warming sunshine that had entered it had been his love for Bertrade de Montfort and hers for him.

His every thought was loyal to the woman who he knew was not for him, but he longed for the companionship of his own kind and so welcomed the friendship of such as Joan de Tany and her fair guest. He did not dream that either looked upon him with any warmer sentiment than the sweet friendliness which was as new to him as love—how could he mark the line between or foresee the terrible price of his ignorance!

Mary de Stutevill saw and she thought the man but fickle and shallow in matters of the heart—many there were, she knew, who were thus. She might have warned him had she known the truth, but instead, she let things drift except for a single word of warning to Joan de Tany.

“Be careful of thy heart, Joan,” she said, “lest it be getting away from thee into the keeping of one who seems to love no less quickly than he forgets.”

The daughter of De Tany flushed.

“I am quite capable of safeguarding my own heart, Mary de Stutevill,” she replied warmly. “If thou covet this man thyself, why, but say so. Do not think though that, because thy heart glows in his presence, mine is equally susceptible.”

It was Mary’s turn now to show offense, and a sharp retort was on her tongue when suddenly she realized the folly of such a useless quarrel. Instead she put her arms about Joan and kissed her.

“I do not love him,” she said, “and I be glad that you do not, for I know that Bertrade does, and that but a short year since, he swore undying love for her. Let us forget that we have spoken on the subject.”

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 Conde 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 Conde 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 Conde, 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 Conde, 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