Fear? Fear Norman of Torn? The girl smiled as she thought of that moment of terrible terror two years ago when she learned, in the castle of Peter of Colfax, that she was alone with, and in the power of, the Devil of Torn. And then she recalled his little acts of thoughtful chivalry, nay, almost tenderness, on the long night ride to Leicester. What a strange contradiction of a man! She wondered if he would come with lowered visor, for she was still curious to see the face that lay behind the cold, steel mask. She would ask him this night to let her see his face, or would that be cruel? For, did they not say that it was from the very ugliness of it that he kept his helm closed to hide the repulsive sight from the eyes of men! As her thoughts wandered back to her brief meeting with him two years before, she wrote and dispatched her reply to Norman of Torn. In the great hall that night as the King’s party sat at supper, Philip of France, addressing Henry, said: “And who thinkest thou, My Lord King, rode by my side to Battel today, that I might not be set upon by knaves upon the highway?” “Some of our good friends from Kent?” asked the King. “Nay, it was a man upon whose head Your Majesty has placed a price, Norman of Torn; and if all of your English highwaymen be as courteous and pleasant gentlemen as he, I shall ride always alone and unarmed through your realm that I may add to my list of pleasant acquaintances.” “The Devil of Torn?” asked Henry, incredulously. “Some one be hoaxing you.” “Nay, Your Majesty, I think not,” replied Philip, “for he was indeed a grim and mighty man, and at his back rode as ferocious and awe-inspiring a pack as ever I beheld outside a prison; fully a thousand strong they rode. They be camped not far without the city now.” “My Lord,” said Henry, turning to Simon de Montfort, “be it not time that England were rid of this devil’s spawn and his hellish brood? Though I presume,” he added, a sarcastic sneer upon his lip, “that it may prove embarrassing for My Lord Earl of Leicester to turn upon his companion in arms.” “I owe him nothing,” returned the Earl haughtily, “by his own word.” “You owe him victory at Lewes,” snapped the King. “It were indeed a sad commentary upon the sincerity of our loyalty-professing lieges who turned their arms against our royal person, ‘to save him from the treachery of his false advisers,’ that they called upon a cutthroat outlaw with a price upon his head to aid them in their ‘righteous cause’.” “My Lord King,” cried De Montfort, flushing with anger, “I called not upon this fellow, nor did I know he was within two hundred miles of Lewes until I saw him ride into the midst of the conflict that day. Neither did I know, until I heard his battle cry, whether he would fall upon baron or royalist.” “If that be the truth, Leicester,” said the King, with a note of skepticism which he made studiously apparent, “hang the dog. He be just without the city even now.”