EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
THE OUTLAW OF TORN
To My Friend
JOSEPH E. BRAY
CHAPTER I
Here is a story that has lain dormant for seven hundred years. At first it
was suppressed by one of the Plantagenet kings of England. Later it was
forgotten. I happened to dig it up by accident. The accident being the
relationship of my wife's cousin to a certain Father Superior in a very
ancient monastery in Europe.
He let me pry about among a quantity of mildewed and musty manuscripts and
I came across this. It is very interesting -- partially since it is a bit
of hitherto unrecorded history, but principally from the fact that it
records the story of a most remarkable revenge and the adventurous life of
its innocent victim -- Richard, the lost prince of England.
In the retelling of it, I have left out most of the history. What
interested me was the unique character about whom the tale revolves -- the
visored 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 reached across
the channel and shook France. It started, directly, in the London palace
of Henry III, and was the result of a quarrel between the King and 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 at
your leisure. But on this June day in the year of our Lord 1243, Henry so
forgot himself as to very unjustly accuse De Montfort of treason in the
presence of a number of the King's gentlemen.
De Montfort paled. He was a tall, handsome man, and when he drew himself
to his full height and turned those gray eyes on the victim of his wrath,
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, he answered the
King as no other man in all England would have dared answer him.
"My Lord King," he cried, "that you be my Lord King alone prevents Simon de
Montfort from demanding satisfaction for such a gross insult. That you
take advantage of your kingship to say what you would never dare say were
you not king, brands me not a traitor, though it does brand you a coward."
Tense silence fell upon the little company of lords and courtiers as these
awful words fell from the lips of a subject, addressed to his king. They
were horrified, for De Montfort's bold challenge was to them but little
short of sacrilege.
Henry, flushing in mortification and anger, rose to advance upon De
Montfort, but suddenly recollecting the power which he represented, he
thought better of whatever action he contemplated and, with a haughty
sneer, turned to his courtiers.
"Come, my gentlemen," he said, "methought that we were to have a turn with
the foils this morning. Already it waxeth late. Come, DeFulm ! 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 became apparent
that the royal displeasure was strong against him. As the arras fell
behind the departing King, De Montfort shrugged his broad shoulders, and
turning, left the apartment by another door.
When the King, with his gentlemen, entered the armory he was still smarting
from the humiliation of De Montfort's reproaches, and as he laid 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 was advancing with the King's
foil and helmet. Henry felt in no mood for fencing with De Fulm, who, like
the other sycophants that surrounded him, 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 permit
himself to be overcome by aught but superior skill, and this day Henry felt
that he could best the devil himself.
The armory was a great room on the main floor of the palace, off the guard
room. It was built in a small wing of the building so that it had 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 to face him in mimic
combat with the foils, for the King wished to go with hammer 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 De
Montfort, and it followed that De Vac was nearly surprised into an early
and mortifying defeat by the King's sudden and clever attack.
Henry III had always been accounted a good swordsman, but that day he quite
outdid himself and, in his imagination, was about to run the pseudo De
Montfort through the heart, to the wild acclaim of his audience. For this
fell purpose he had backed the astounded De Vac twice around the hall when,
with a clever feint, and backward step, the master of fence drew the King
into the position he wanted him, and with the suddenness of lightning, a
little twist of his foil sent Henry's weapon clanging across the floor of
the armory.
For an instant, the King stood as tense and white as though the hand of
death had reached out and touched his heart with its icy fingers. The
episode meant more to him than being bested in play by the best swordsman
in England -- for that surely was no disgrace -- to Henry it seemed
prophetic of the outcome of a future struggle when he should stand face to
face with the real De Montfort; and then, seeing in De Vac only the
creature of his imagination with which he had vested the likeness of his
powerful brother-in-law, Henry did what he should like to have done to the
real Leicester. Drawing off his gauntlet he advanced close to De Vac.
"Dog !" he hissed, and struck the master of fence a stinging blow across
the face, and spat upon him. Then he turned on his heel and strode from
the armory.
De Vac had grown old in the service of the kings of England, but he hated
all things English and all Englishmen. The dead King John, though hated by
all others, he had loved, but with the dead King's bones De Vac's loyalty
to the house he served had been buried in the Cathedral of Worcester.
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 only De Vac
could teach the art, and he had been as conscientious in the discharge of
his duties as he had been in his unswerving hatred and contempt for his
pupils.
And now the English King had put upon him such an insult as might only be
wiped out by blood.
As the blow fell, the wiry Frenchman clicked his heels together, and
throwing down his foil, he stood erect and rigid as a marble statue before
his master. White and livid was his tense drawn face, but he spoke no
word.
He might have struck the King, but then there would have been left to him
no alternative save death by his own hand; for a king may not fight with a
lesser mortal, and he who strikes a king may not live -- the king's honor
must be satisfied.
Had a French king struck him, De Vac would have struck back, and gloried in
the fate which permitted him to die for the honor of France; but an English
King -- pooh ! a dog; and who would die for a dog ? No, De Vac would find
other means of satisfying his wounded pride. He would revel in revenge
against this man for whom he felt no loyalty. If possible, he would 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 could encompass a
more terrible revenge.
De Vac had been born in Paris, the son of a French officer reputed the best
swordsman in France. The son had followed closely in the footsteps of his
father until, on the latter's death, he could easily claim the title of his
sire. How he had left France and entered the service of John of England is
not of this story. All the bearing that the life of Jules de Vac has upon
the history of England hinges upon but two of his many attributes -- his
wonderful swordsmanship and his fearful hatred for his adopted country.
