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Updated: May 29, 2025
Bertrade de Montfort was so long overdue that the Earl and Princess Eleanor, his wife, filled with grave apprehensions, had posted their oldest son off to the castle of John de Stutevill to fetch her home.
Going to the window, he saw that his room was some thirty feet above the stone-flagged courtyard, and also that it looked at an angle upon other windows in the old castle where lights were beginning to show. He saw men-at-arms moving about, and once he thought he caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, but he was not sure. He wondered what had become of Joan de Tany and Mary de Stutevill.
"He loves neither King nor baron," spoke Mary de Stutevill, "and I rather lean to the thought that he will serve neither, but rather plunder the castles of both rebel and royalist whilst their masters be absent at war." "It be more to his liking to come while the master be home to welcome him," said De Stutevill, ruthfully.
Five swords were flashing about the outlaw, but his blade was equal to the thrust and one after another of his assailants crumpled up in their saddles as his leaping point found their vitals. Nearly all of the Baron's men were down, when one, an old servitor, spurred to the side of Joan de Tany and Mary de Stutevill. "Come, my ladies," he cried, "quick and you may escape.
The young man stood silent for a moment, then he drew his hand across his eyes as though to brush away a vision. "There be a reason, Father, why I must remain in England for a time at least, though the picture you put is indeed wondrous alluring." And the reason was Bertrade de Montfort. The visit of Bertrade de Montfort with her friend Mary de Stutevill was drawing to a close.
"I am quite capable of safeguarding my own heart, Mary de Stutevill," she replied warmly. "If thou covet this man thyself, why, but say so. Do not think though that, because thy heart glows in his presence, mine is equally susceptible." It was Mary's turn now to show offense, and a sharp retort was on her tongue when suddenly she realized the folly of such a useless quarrel.
What a beautiful creature she was; and she had stayed there with him during the fight. He remembered now. Mary de Stutevill had not been with her as he had caught that glimpse of her, no, she had been all alone. Ah! That was friendship indeed! What else was it that tried to force its way above the threshold of his bruised and wavering memory? Words? Words of love? And lips pressed to his?
"But such a swordsman," spoke up a son of De Stutevill. "Never in all the world was there such swordplay as I saw that day in the courtyard." "I, too, have seen some wonderful swordplay," said Bertrade de Montfort, "and that today.
For three weeks after his meeting with Bertrade de Montfort and his sojourn at the castle of John de Stutevill, Norman of Torn was busy with his wild horde in reducing and sacking the castle of John de Grey, a royalist baron who had captured and hanged two of the outlaw's fighting men; and never again after his meeting with the daughter of the chief of the barons did Norman of Torn raise a hand against the rebels or their friends.
"Come, Sir Mortimer!" cried the boy, and turning he led the prancing but subdued animal toward the castle and through the ruined barbican into the court beyond. "What ho, there, lad!" shouted Paul of Merely. "We wouldst not harm thee come, we but ask the way to the castle of De Stutevill." The three knights listened but there was no answer.
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