“Mon Dieu, le Prince!” He wheeled his charging horse to one side. His fellows, hearing his cry, followed his example, and the three of them dashed on down the high road in as evident anxiety to escape as they had been keen to attack.
“One would think they had met the devil,” muttered Norman of Torn, looking after them in unfeigned astonishment.
“What means it, lady?” he asked turning to the damsel, who had made no move to escape.
“It means that your face is well known in your father’s realm, my Lord Prince,” she replied. “And the King’s men have no desire to antagonize you, even though they may understand as little as I why you should espouse the cause of a daughter of Simon de Montfort.”
“Am I then taken for Prince Edward of England?” he asked.
“An’ who else should you be taken for, my Lord?”
“I am not the Prince,” said Norman of Torn. “It is said that Edward is in France.”
“Right you are, sir,” exclaimed the girl. “I had not thought on that; but you be enough of his likeness that you might well deceive the Queen herself. And you be of a bravery fit for a king’s son. Who are you then, Sir Knight, who has bared your steel and faced death for Bertrade, daughter of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester?”
“Be you De Montfort’s daughter, niece of King Henry?” queried Norman of Torn, his eyes narrowing to mere slits and face hardening.
“That I be,” replied the girl, “an’ from your face I take it you have little love for a De Montfort,” she added, smiling.