The Little Duke, Charlotte Mary Yonge [large screen ebook reader .TXT] 📗

to tear his hair with despair and fury, and yet

obliged to restrain himself to the utmost quietness and gentleness,

to soothe the suffering of the sick child.

 

Through that night, Richard either tossed about on his narrow bed,

or, when his restlessness desired the change, sat, leaning his aching

head on Osmond’s breast, too oppressed and miserable to speak or

think. When the day dawned on them, and he was still too ill to

leave the room, messengers were sent for him, and Osmond could no

longer conceal the fact of his sickness, but parleyed at the door,

keeping out every one he could, and refusing all offers of

attendance. He would not even admit Carloman, though Richard,

hearing his voice, begged to see him; and when a proposal was sent

from the Queen, that a skilful old nurse should visit and prescribe

for the patient, he refused with all his might, and when he had shut

the door, walked up and down, muttering, “Ay, ay, the witch! coming

to finish what she has begun!”

 

All that day and the next, Richard continued very ill, and Osmond

waited on him very assiduously, never closing his eyes for a moment,

but constantly telling his beads whenever the boy did not require his

attendance. At last Richard fell asleep, slept long and soundly for

some hours, and waked much better. Osmond was in a transport of joy:

“Thanks to Heaven, they shall fail for this time and they shall never

have another chance! May Heaven be with us still!” Richard was too

weak and weary to ask what he meant, and for the next few days Osmond

watched him with the utmost care. As for food, now that Richard

could eat again, Osmond would not hear of his touching what was sent

for him from the royal table, but always went down himself to procure

food in the kitchen, where he said he had a friend among the cooks,

who would, he thought, scarcely poison him intentionally. When

Richard was able to cross the room, he insisted on his always

fastening the door with his dagger, and never opening to any summons

but his own, not even Prince Carloman’s. Richard wondered, but he

was obliged to obey; and he knew enough of the perils around him to

perceive the reasonableness of Osmond’s caution.

 

Thus several days had passed, the King had returned, and Richard was

so much recovered, that he had become very anxious to be allowed to

go down stairs again, instead of remaining shut up there; but still

Osmond would not consent, though Richard had done nothing all day but

walk round the room, to show how strong he was.

 

“Now, my Lord, guard the door—take care,” said Osmond; “you have no

loss to-day, for the King has brought home Herluin of Montreuil, whom

you would be almost as loth to meet as the Fleming. And tell your

beads while I am gone, that the Saints may bring us out of our

peril.”

 

Osmond was absent nearly half an hour, and, when he returned, brought

on his shoulders a huge bundle of straw. “What is this for?”

exclaimed Richard. “I wanted my supper, and you have brought straw!”

 

“Here is your supper,” said Osmond, throwing down the straw, and

producing a bag with some bread and meat. “What should you say, my

Lord, if we should sup in Normandy to-morrow night?”

 

“In Normandy!” cried Richard, springing up and clapping his hands.

“In Normandy! Oh, Osmond, did you say in Normandy? Shall we, shall

we really? Oh, joy! joy! Is Count Bernard come? Will the King let

us go?”

 

“Hush! hush, sir! It must be our own doing; it will all fail if you

are not silent and prudent, and we shall be undone.”

 

“I will do anything to get home again!”

 

“Eat first,” said Osmond.

 

“But what are you going to do? I will not be as foolish as I was

when you tried to get me safe out of Rollo’s tower. But I should

like to wish Carloman farewell.”

 

“That must not be,” said Osmond; “we should not have time to escape,

if they did not still believe you very ill in bed.”

 

“I am sorry not to wish Carloman good-bye,” repeated Richard; “but we

shall see Fru Astrida again, and Sir Eric; and Alberic must come

back! Oh, do let us go! O Normandy, dear Normandy!”

 

Richard could hardly eat for excitement, while Osmond hastily made

his arrangements, girding on his sword, and giving Richard his dagger

to put into his belt. He placed the remainder of the provisions in

his wallet, threw a thick purple cloth mantle over the Duke, and then

desired him to lie down on the straw which he had brought in. “I

shall hide you in it,” he said, “and carry you through the hall, as

if I was going to feed my horse.”

 

“Oh, they will never guess!” cried Richard, laughing. “I will be

quite still—I will make no noise—I will hold my breath.”

 

“Yes, mind you do not move hand or foot, or rustle the straw. It is

no play—it is life or death,” said Osmond, as he disposed the straw

round the little boy. “There, can you breathe?”

 

“Yes,” said Richard’s voice from the midst. “Am I quite hidden?”

 

“Entirely. Now, remember, whatever happens, do not move. May Heaven

protect us! Now, the Saints be with us!”

 

Richard, from the interior of the bundle heard Osmond set open the

door; then he felt himself raised from the ground; Osmond was

carrying him along down the stairs, the ends of the straw crushing

and sweeping against the wall. The only way to the outer door was

through the hall, and here was the danger. Richard heard voices,

steps, loud singing and laughter, as if feasting was going on; then

some one said, “Tending your horse, Sieur de Centeville?”

 

“Yes,” Osmond made answer. “You know, since we lost our grooms, the

poor black would come off badly, did I not attend to him.”

 

Presently came Carloman’s voice: “O Osmond de Centeville! is Richard

better?”

 

“He is better, my Lord, I thank you, but hardly yet out of danger.”

 

“Oh, I wish he was well! And when will you let me come to him,

Osmond? Indeed, I would sit quiet, and not disturb him.”

 

“It may not be yet, my Lord, though the Duke loves you well—he told

me so but now.”

 

“Did he? Oh, tell him I love him very much—better than any one

here—and it is very dull without him. Tell him so, Osmond.”

 

Richard could hardly help calling out to his dear little Carloman;

but he remembered the peril of Osmond’s eyes and the Queen’s threat,

and held his peace, with some vague notion that some day he would

make Carloman King of France. In the meantime, half stifled with the

straw, he felt himself carried on, down the steps, across the court;

and then he knew, from the darkness and the changed sound of Osmond’s

tread, that they were in the stable. Osmond laid him carefully down,

and whispered—“All right so far. You can breathe?”

 

“Not well. Can’t you let me out?”

 

“Not yet—not for worlds. Now tell me if I put you face downwards,

for I cannot see.”

 

He laid the living heap of straw across the saddle, bound it on, then

led out the horse, gazing round cautiously as he did so; but the

whole of the people of the Castle were feasting, and there was no one

to watch the gates. Richard heard the hollow sound of the hoofs, as

the drawbridge was crossed, and knew that he was free; but still

Osmond held his arm over him, and would not let him move, for some

distance. Then, just as Richard felt as if he could endure the

stifling of the straw, and his uncomfortable position, not a moment

longer, Osmond stopped the horse, took him down, laid him on the

grass, and released him. He gazed around; they were in a little

wood; evening twilight was just coming on, and the birds sang

sweetly.

 

“Free! free!—this is freedom!” cried Richard, leaping up in the

delicious cool evening breeze; “the Queen and Lothaire, and that grim

room, all far behind.”

 

“Not so far yet,” said Osmond; “you must not call yourself safe till

the Epte is between us and them. Into the saddle, my Lord; we must

ride for our lives.”

 

Osmond helped the Duke to mount, and sprang to the saddle behind him,

set spurs to the horse, and rode on at a quick rate, though not at

full speed, as he wished to spare the horse. The twilight faded, the

stars came out, and still he rode, his arm round the child, who, as

night advanced, grew weary, and often sunk into a sort of half doze,

conscious all the time of the trot of the horse. But each step was

taking him further from Queen Gerberge, and nearer to Normandy; and

what recked he of weariness? On—on; the stars grew pale again, and

the first pink light of dawn showed in the eastern sky; the sun rose,

mounted higher and higher, and the day grew hotter; the horse went

more slowly, stumbled, and though Osmond halted and loosed the girth,

he only mended his pace for a little while.

 

Osmond looked grievously perplexed; but they had not gone much

further before a party of merchants came in sight, winding their way

with a long train of loaded mules, and stout men to guard them,

across the plains, like an eastern caravan in the desert. They gazed

in surprise at the tall young Norman holding the child upon the worn-out war-horse.

 

“Sir merchant,” said Osmond to the first, “see you this steed?

Better horse never was ridden; but he is sorely spent, and we must

make speed. Let me barter him with you for yonder stout palfrey. He

is worth twice as much, but I cannot stop to chaffer—ay or no at

once.”

 

The merchant, seeing the value of Osmond’s gallant black, accepted

the offer; and Osmond removing his saddle, and placing Richard on his

new steed, again mounted, and on they went through the country which

Osmond’s eye had marked with the sagacity men acquire by living in

wild, unsettled places. The great marshes were now far less

dangerous than in the winter, and they safely crossed them. There

had, as yet, been no pursuit, and Osmond’s only fear was for his

little charge, who, not having recovered his full strength since his

illness, began to suffer greatly from fatigue in the heat of that

broiling summer day, and leant against Osmond patiently, but very

wearily, without moving or looking up. He scarcely revived when the

sun went down, and a cool breeze sprang up, which much refreshed

Osmond himself; and still more did it refresh the Squire to see, at

length, winding through the green pastures, a blue river, on the

opposite bank of which rose a high rocky mound, bearing a castle with

many a turret and battlement.

 

“The Epte! the Epte! There is Normandy, sir! Look up, and see your

own dukedom.” “Normandy!” cried Richard, sitting upright. “Oh, my

own home!” Still the Epte was wide and deep, and the peril was not

yet ended. Osmond looked anxiously, and rejoiced to see marks of

cattle, as if it had been forded. “We must try it,” he said, and

dismounting, he waded in, leading the horse, and firmly holding

Richard in the saddle. Deep they went; the water rose to Richard’s

feet, then to the horse’s neck; then the horse was swimming, and

Osmond too, still keeping his firm hold; then there was ground