The Outlaw of Torn

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  Produced by Judith Boss

  THE OUTLAW OF TORN

  By Edgar Rice Burroughs

  To My Friend

  JOSEPH E. BRAY

  CHAPTER I

  Here is a story that has lain dormant for seven hundred years. At firstit was suppressed by one of the Plantagenet kings of England. Later itwas forgotten. I happened to dig it up by accident. The accident beingthe relationship of my wife's cousin to a certain Father Superior in avery ancient monastery in Europe.

  He let me pry about among a quantity of mildewed and musty manuscriptsand I came across this. It is very interesting--partially since it is abit of hitherto unrecorded history, but principally from the fact thatit records the story of a most remarkable revenge and the adventurouslife of its innocent victim--Richard, the lost prince of England.

  In the retelling of it, I have left out most of the history. Whatinterested me was the unique character about whom the tale revolves--thevisored horseman who--but let us wait until we get to him.

  It all happened in the thirteenth century, and while it was happening,it shook England from north to south and from east to west; and reachedacross the channel and shook France. It started, directly, in the Londonpalace of Henry III, and was the result of a quarrel between the Kingand his powerful brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.

  Never mind the quarrel, that's history, and you can read all about it atyour leisure. But on this June day in the year of our Lord 1243, Henryso forgot himself as to very unjustly accuse De Montfort of treason inthe presence of a number of the King's gentlemen.

  De Montfort paled. He was a tall, handsome man, and when he drew himselfto his full height and turned those gray eyes on the victim of hiswrath, as he did that day, he was very imposing. A power in England,second only to the King himself, and with the heart of a lion in him, heanswered the King as no other man in all England would have dared answerhim.

  "My Lord King," he cried, "that you be my Lord King alone prevents Simonde Montfort from demanding satisfaction for such a gross insult. Thatyou take advantage of your kingship to say what you would never dare saywere you not king, brands me not a traitor, though it does brand you acoward."

  Tense silence fell upon the little company of lords and courtiers asthese awful words fell from the lips of a subject, addressed to hisking. They were horrified, for De Montfort's bold challenge was to thembut little short of sacrilege.

  Henry, flushing in mortification and anger, rose to advance upon DeMontfort, but suddenly recollecting the power which he represented, hethought better of whatever action he contemplated and, with a haughtysneer, turned to his courtiers.

  "Come, my gentlemen," he said, "methought that we were to have a turnwith the foils this morning. Already it waxeth late. Come, De Fulm! Come,Leybourn!" and the King left the apartment followed by his gentlemen,all of whom had drawn away from the Earl of Leicester when it becameapparent that the royal displeasure was strong against him. As thearras fell behind the departing King, De Montfort shrugged his broadshoulders, and turning, left the apartment by another door.

  When the King, with his gentlemen, entered the armory he was stillsmarting from the humiliation of De Montfort's reproaches, and as helaid aside his surcoat and plumed hat to take the foils with De Fulm,his eyes alighted on the master of fence, Sir Jules de Vac, who wasadvancing with the King's foil and helmet. Henry felt in no mood forfencing with De Fulm, who, like the other sycophants that surroundedhim, always allowed the King easily to best him in every encounter.

  De Vac he knew to be too jealous of his fame as a swordsman to permithimself to be overcome by aught but superior skill, and this day Henryfelt that he could best the devil himself.

  The armory was a great room on the main floor of the palace, off theguard room. It was built in a small wing of the building so that ithad light from three sides. In charge of it was the lean, grizzled,leather-skinned Sir Jules de Vac, and it was he whom Henry commanded toface him in mimic combat with the foils, for the King wished to go withhammer and tongs at someone to vent his suppressed rage.

  So he let De Vac assume to his mind's eye the person of the hated DeMontfort, and it followed that De Vac was nearly surprised into an earlyand mortifying defeat by the King's sudden and clever attack.

  Henry III had always been accounted a good swordsman, but that dayhe quite outdid himself and, in his imagination, was about to runthe pseudo De Montfort through the heart, to the wild acclaim of hisaudience. For this fell purpose he had backed the astounded De Vac twicearound the hall when, with a clever feint, and backward step, the masterof fence drew the King into the position he wanted him, and with thesuddenness of lightning, a little twist of his foil sent Henry's weaponclanging across the floor of the armory.

  For an instant, the King stood as tense and white as though the hand ofdeath had reached out and touched his heart with its icy fingers.The episode meant more to him than being bested in play by the bestswordsman in England--for that surely was no disgrace--to Henry itseemed prophetic of the outcome of a future struggle when he shouldstand face to face with the real De Montfort; and then, seeing in DeVac only the creature of his imagination with which he had vested thelikeness of his powerful brother-in-law, Henry did what he should liketo have done to the real Leicester. Drawing off his gauntlet he advancedclose to De Vac.

  "Dog!" he hissed, and struck the master of fence a stinging blow acrossthe face, and spat upon him. Then he turned on his heel and strode fromthe armory.

  De Vac had grown old in the service of the kings of England, but hehated all things English and all Englishmen. The dead King John, thoughhated by all others, he had loved, but with the dead King's bones DeVac's loyalty to the house he served had been buried in the Cathedral ofWorcester.

  During the years he had served as master of fence at the English Court,the sons of royalty had learned to thrust and parry and cut as onlyDe Vac could teach the art, and he had been as conscientious in thedischarge of his duties as he had been in his unswerving hatred andcontempt for his pupils.

  And now the English King had put upon him such an insult as might onlybe wiped out by blood.

  As the blow fell, the wiry Frenchman clicked his heels together, andthrowing down his foil, he stood erect and rigid as a marble statuebefore his master. White and livid was his tense drawn face, but hespoke no word.

  He might have struck the King, but then there would have been left tohim no alternative save death by his own hand; for a king may not fightwith a lesser mortal, and he who strikes a king may not live--the king'shonor must be satisfied.

  Had a French king struck him, De Vac would have struck back, and gloriedin the fate which permitted him to die for the honor of France; but anEnglish King--pooh! a dog; and who would die for a dog? No, De Vac wouldfind other means of satisfying his wounded pride. He would revel inrevenge against this man for whom he felt no loyalty. If possible, hewould harm the whole of England if he could, but he would bide his time.He could afford to wait for his opportunity if, by waiting, he couldencompass a more terrible revenge.

  De Vac had been born in Paris, the son of a French officer reputed thebest swordsman in France. The son had followed closely in the footstepsof his father until, on the latter's death, he could easily claim thetitle of his sire. How he had left France and entered the service ofJohn of England is not of this story. All the bearing that the life ofJules de Vac has upon the history of England hinges upon but two of hismany attributes--his wonderful swordsmanship and his fearful hatred forhis adopted country.