Norman of Torn turned to where one of his captains squatted upon the ground beside an object covered with a cloth.
“Come, Flory,” he said, and then, turning to the waiting Giles, “lead on.”
They fell in single file: first the lackey, Giles, then Norman of Torn and last the fellow whom he had addressed as Flory bearing the object covered with a cloth. But it was not Flory who brought up the rear. Flory lay dead in the shadow of a great oak within the camp; a thin wound below his left shoulder blade marked the spot where a keen dagger had found its way to his heart, and in his place walked the little grim, gray, old man, bearing the object covered with a cloth. But none might know the difference, for the little man wore the armor of Flory, and his visor was drawn.
And so they came to a small gate which let into the castle wall where the shadow of a great tower made the blackness of a black night doubly black. Through many dim corridors, the lackey led them, and up winding stairways until presently he stopped before a low door.
“Here,” he said, “My Lord,” and turning left them.
Norman of Torn touched the panel with the mailed knuckles of his right hand, and a low voice from within whispered, “Enter.”
Silently, he strode into the apartment, a small antechamber off a large hall. At one end was an open hearth upon which logs were burning brightly, while a single lamp aided in diffusing a soft glow about the austere chamber. In the center of the room was a table, and at the sides several benches.
Before the fire stood Bertrade de Montfort, and she was alone.
“Place your burden upon this table, Flory,” said Norman of Torn. And when it had been done: “You may go. Return to camp.”
He did not address Bertrade de Montfort until the door had closed behind the little grim, gray man who wore the armor of the dead Flory and then Norman of Torn advanced to the table and stood with his left hand ungauntleted, resting upon the table’s edge.