The Little Duke: Richard the Fearless, Charlotte M. Yonge [e reader pdf best .txt] 📗

“I rejoice to see your confidence,” said Louis.  “You shall soon hear from me.  In the meantime I must return to gather my force together, and summon my great vassals, and I will, with your leave, brave Normans, take with me my dear young ward.  His presence will plead better in his cause than the finest words; moreover, he will grow up in love and friendship with my two boys, and shall be nurtured with them in all good learning and chivalry, nor shall he ever be reminded that he is an orphan while under the care of Queen Gerberge and myself.”

“Let the child come to me, so please you, my Lord the King,” answered Harcourt, bluntly.  “I must hold some converse with him, ere I can reply.”

“Go then, Richard,” said Louis, “go to your trusty vassal—happy are you in possessing such a friend; I hope you know his value.”

“Here then, young Sir,” said the Count, in his native tongue, when Richard had crossed from the King’s side, and stood beside him, “what say you to this proposal?”

“The King is very kind,” said Richard.  “I am sure he is kind; but I do not like to go from Rouen, or from Dame Astrida.”

“Listen, my Lord,” said the Dane, stooping down and speaking low.  “The King is resolved to have you away; he has with him the best of his Franks, and has so taken us at unawares, that though I might yet rescue you from his hands, it would not be without a fierce struggle, wherein you might be harmed, and this castle and town certainly burnt, and wrested from us.  A few weeks or months, and we shall have time to draw our force together, so that Normandy need fear no man, and for that time you must tarry with him.”

“Must I—and all alone?”

“No, not alone, not without the most trusty guardian that can be found for you.  Friend Eric, what say you?” and he laid his hand on the old Baron’s shoulder.  “Yet, I know not; true thou art, as a Norwegian mountain, but I doubt me if thy brains are not too dull to see through the French wiles and disguises, sharp as thou didst show thyself last night.”

“That was Osmond, not I,” said Sir Eric.  “He knows their mincing tongue better than I.  He were the best to go with the poor child, if go he must.”

“Bethink you, Eric,” said the Count, in an undertone, “Osmond is the only hope of your good old house—if there is foul play, the guardian will be the first to suffer.”

“Since you think fit to peril the only hope of all Normandy, I am not the man to hold back my son where he may aid him,” said old Eric, sadly.  “The poor child will be lonely and uncared-for there, and it were hard he should not have one faithful comrade and friend with him.”

“It is well,” said Bernard: “young as he is, I had rather trust Osmond with the child than any one else, for he is ready of counsel, and quick of hand.”

“Ay, and a pretty pass it is come to,” muttered old Centeville, “that we, whose business it is to guard the boy, should send him where you scarcely like to trust my son.”

Bernard paid no further attention to him, but, coming forward, required another oath from the King, that Richard should be as safe and free at his court as at Rouen, and that on no pretence whatsoever should he be taken from under the immediate care of his Esquire, Osmond Fitz Eric, heir of Centeville.

After this, the King was impatient to depart, and all was preparation.  Bernard called Osmond aside to give full instructions on his conduct, and the means of communicating with Normandy, and Richard was taking leave of Fru Astrida, who had now descended from her turret, bringing her hostage with her.  She wept much over her little Duke, praying that he might safely be restored to Normandy, even though she might not live to see it; she exhorted him not to forget the good and holy learning in which he had been brought up, to rule his temper, and, above all, to say his prayers constantly, never leaving out one, as the beads of his rosary reminded him of their order.  As to her own grandson, anxiety for him seemed almost lost in her fears for Richard, and the chief things she said to him, when he came to take leave of her, were directions as to the care he was to take of the child, telling him the honour he now received was one which would make his name forever esteemed if he did but fulfil his trust, the most precious that Norman had ever yet received.

“I will, grandmother, to the very best of my power,” said Osmond; “I may die in his cause, but never will I be faithless!”

“Alberic!” said Richard, “are you glad to be going back to Montémar?”

“Yes, my Lord,” answered Alberic, sturdily, “as glad as you will be to come back to Rouen.”

“Then I shall send for you directly, Alberic, for I shall never love the Princes Carloman and Lothaire half as well as you!”

“My Lord the King is waiting for the Duke,” said a Frenchman, coming forward.

“Farewell then, Fru Astrida.  Do not weep.  I shall soon come back.  Farewell, Alberic.  Take the bar-tailed falcon back to Montémar, and keep him for my sake.  Farewell, Sir Eric—Farewell, Count Bernard.  When the Normans come to conquer Arnulf you will lead them.  O dear, dear Fru Astrida, farewell again.”

“Farewell, my own darling.  The blessing of Heaven go with you, and bring you safe home!  Farewell, Osmond.  Heaven guard you and strengthen you to be his shield and his defence!”

Away from the tall narrow gateway of Rollo’s Tower, with the cluster of friendly, sorrowful faces looking forth from it, away from the booth-like shops of Rouen, and the stout burghers shouting with all the power of their lungs, “Long live Duke Richard!  Long live King Louis!  Death to the Fleming!”—away from the broad Seine—away from home and friends, rode the young Duke of Normandy, by the side of the palfrey of the King of France.

The King took much notice of him, kept him by his side, talked to him, admired the beautiful cattle grazing in security in the green pastures, and, as he looked at the rich dark brown earth of the fields, the Castles towering above the woods, the Convents looking like great farms, the many villages round the rude Churches, and the numerous population who came out to gaze at the party, and repeat the cry of “Long live the King!  Blessings on the little Duke!” he told Richard, again and again, that his was the most goodly duchy in France and Germany to boot.

When they crossed the Epte, the King would have Richard in the same boat with him, and sitting close to Louis, and talking eagerly about falcons and hounds, the little Duke passed the boundary of his own dukedom.

The country beyond was not like Normandy.  First they came to a great forest, which seemed to have no path through it.  The King ordered that one of the men, who had rowed them across, should be made to serve as guide, and two of the men-at-arms took him between them, and forced him to lead the way, while others, with their swords and battle-axes, cut down and cleared away the tangled branches and briars that nearly choked the path.  All the time, every one was sharply on the look-out for robbers, and the weapons were all held ready for use at a moment’s notice.  On getting beyond the forest a Castle rose before them, and, though it was not yet late in the day, they resolved to rest there, as a marsh lay not far before them, which it would not have been safe to traverse in the evening twilight.

The Baron of the Castle received them with great respect to the King, but without paying much attention to the Duke of Normandy, and Richard did not find the second place left for him at the board.  He coloured violently, and looked first at the King, and then at Osmond, but Osmond held up his finger in warning; he remembered how he had lost his temper before, and what had come of it, and resolved to try to bear it better; and just then the Baron’s daughter, a gentle-looking maiden of fifteen or sixteen, came and spoke to him, and entertained him so well, that he did not think much more of his offended dignity.—When they set off on their journey again, the Baron and several of his followers came with them to show the only safe way across the morass, and a very slippery, treacherous, quaking road it was, where the horses’ feet left pools of water wherever they trod.  The King and the Baron rode together, and the other French Nobles closed round them; Richard was left quite in the background, and though the French men-at-arms took care not to lose sight of him, no one offered him any assistance, excepting Osmond, who, giving his own horse to Sybald, one of the two Norman grooms who accompanied him, led Richard’s horse by the bridle along the whole distance of the marshy path, a business that could scarcely have been pleasant, as Osmond wore his heavy hauberk, and his pointed, iron-guarded boots sunk deep at every step into the bog.  He spoke little, but seemed to be taking good heed of every stump of willow or stepping-stone that might serve as a note of remembrance of the path.

At the other end of the morass began a long tract of dreary-looking, heathy waste, without a sign of life.  The Baron took leave of the King, only sending three men-at-arms, to show him the way to a monastery, which was to be the next halting-place.  He sent three, because it was not safe for one, even fully armed, to ride alone, for fear of the attacks of the followers of a certain marauding Baron, who was at deadly feud with him, and made all that border a most perilous region.  Richard might well observe that he did not like the Vexin half as well as Normandy, and that the people ought to learn Fru Astrida’s story of the golden bracelets, which, in his grandfather’s time, had hung untouched for a year, in a tree in a forest.

It was pretty much the same through the whole journey, waste lands, marshes, and forests alternated.  The Castles stood on high mounds frowning on the country round, and villages were clustered round them, where the people either fled away, driving off their cattle with them at the first sight of an armed band, or else, if they remained, proved to be thin, wretched-looking creatures, with wasted limbs, aguish faces, and often iron collars round their necks.  Wherever there was anything of more prosperous appearance, such as a few cornfields, vineyards on the slopes of the hills, fat cattle, and peasantry looking healthy and secure, there was sure to be seen a range of long low stone buildings, surmounted with crosses, with a short square Church tower rising in the midst, and interspersed with gnarled hoary old apple-trees, or with gardens of pot-herbs spreading before them to the meadows.  If, instead of two or three men-at-arms from a Castle, or of some trembling serf pressed into the service, and beaten, threatened, and watched to prevent treachery, the King asked for a guide at a Convent, some lay brother would take his staff; or else mount an ass, and proceed in perfect confidence and security as to his return homewards, sure that his poverty and his sacred character would alike protect him from any outrage from the most lawless marauder of the neighbourhood.

Thus they travelled until they reached the royal Castle of Laon, where the Fleur-de-Lys standard on the battlements announced the presence of Gerberge, Queen of France, and her two sons.  The King rode first into the court with his Nobles, and before Richard could follow him through the narrow arched gateway, he had dismounted, entered the Castle, and was out of sight.  Osmond held the Duke’s stirrup, and followed him up the steps which led to the Castle Hall.  It was full of people, but no one made way, and Richard, holding his Squire’s hand, looked up in his face, inquiring and bewildered.

“Sir Seneschal,” said Osmond, seeing a broad portly old man, with grey hair and a golden chain, “this is the Duke of Normandy—I pray you conduct him to the King’s presence.”

Richard had no longer any cause to complain of neglect, for the Seneschal instantly made him a very low bow, and calling “Place—place for the high and mighty Prince, my Lord Duke of Normandy!” ushered him up to the dais or raised part of the floor, where the King and Queen stood together talking.  The Queen looked round, as Richard was announced, and he saw her face, which was sallow, and with a sharp sour expression that