As he heard the proud daughter of Simon de Montfort declare her love for the Devil of Torn, a cruel smile curled his lip.
“It will be better than I had hoped,” he muttered, “and easier. ’S blood! How much easier now that Leicester, too, may have his whole proud heart in the hanging of Norman of Torn. Ah, what a sublime revenge! I have waited long, thou cur of a King, to return the blow thou struck that day, but the return shall be an hundred-fold increased by long accumulated interest.”
Quickly, the wiry figure hastened through the passageways and corridors, until he came to the great hall where sat De Montfort and the King, with Philip of France and many others, gentlemen and nobles.
Before the guard at the door could halt him, he had broken into the room and, addressing the King, cried:
“Wouldst take the Devil of Torn, My Lord King? He be now alone where a few men may seize him.”
“What now! What now!” ejaculated Henry. “What madman be this?”
“I be no madman, Your Majesty. Never did brain work more clearly or to more certain ends,” replied the man.
“It may doubtless be some ruse of the cut-throat himself,” cried De Montfort.
“Where be the knave?” asked Henry.
“He stands now within this palace and in his arms be Bertrade, daughter of My Lord Earl of Leicester. Even now she did but tell him that she loved him.”