Cold and hard, he looked with no love upon the man he still called “my son.” If he held any sentiment toward Norman of Torn, it was one of pride which began and ended in the almost fiendish skill of his pupil’s mighty sword arm.
The little army had been marching for some hours when the advance guard halted a party bound south upon a crossroad. There were some twenty or thirty men, mostly servants, and a half dozen richly garbed knights.
As Norman of Torn drew rein beside them, he saw that the leader of the party was a very handsome man of about his own age, and evidently a person of distinction; a profitable prize, thought the outlaw.
“Who are you,” said the gentleman, in French, “that stops a prince of France upon the highroad as though he were an escaped criminal? Are you of the King’s forces, or De Montfort’s?”
“Be this Prince Philip of France?” asked Norman of Torn.
“Yes, but who be you?”
“And be you riding to meet my Lady Bertrade de Montfort?” continued the outlaw, ignoring the Prince’s question.
“Yes, an it be any of your affair,” replied Philip curtly.
“It be,” said the Devil of Torn, “for I be a friend of My Lady Bertrade, and as the way be beset with dangers from disorganized bands of roving soldiery, it is unsafe for Monsieur le Prince to venture on with so small an escort. Therefore will the friend of Lady Bertrade de Montfort ride with Monsieur le Prince to his destination that Monsieur may arrive there safely.”
“It is kind of you, Sir Knight, a kindness that I will not forget. But, again, who is it that shows this solicitude for Philip of France?”