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

CHAPTER IX

Montemar was too near the frontier to be a safe abode for the little

Duke, and his uncle, Count Hubert of Senlis, agreed with Bernard the

Dane that he would be more secure beyond the limits of his own duchy,

which was likely soon to be the scene of war; and, sorely against his

will, he was sent in secret, under a strong escort, first to the

Castle of Coucy, and afterwards to Senlis.

 

His consolation was, that he was not again separated from his

friends; Alberic, Sir Eric, and even Fru Astrida, accompanied him, as

well as his constant follower, Osmond. Indeed, the Baron would

hardly bear that he should be out of his sight; and he was still so

carefully watched, that it was almost like a captivity. Never, even

in the summer days, was he allowed to go beyond the Castle walls; and

his guardians would fain have had it supposed that the Castle did not

contain any such guest.

 

Osmond did not give him so much of his company as usual, but was

always at work in the armourer’s forge—a low, vaulted chamber,

opening into the Castle court. Richard and Alberic were very curious

to know what he did there; but he fastened the door with an iron bar,

and they were forced to content themselves with listening to the

strokes of the hammer, keeping time to the voice that sang out, loud

and cheerily, the song of “Sigurd’s sword, and the maiden sleeping

within the ring of flame.” Fru Astrida said Osmond was quite right—

no good weapon-smith ever toiled with open doors; and when the boys

asked him questions as to his work, he only smiled, and said that

they would see what it was when the call to arms should come.

 

They thought it near at hand, for tidings came that Louis had

assembled his army, and marched into Normandy to recover the person

of the young Duke, and to seize the country. No summons, however,

arrived, but a message came instead, that Rouen had been surrendered

into the bands of the King. Richard shed indignant tears. “My

father’s Castle! My own city in the hands of the foe! Bernard is a

traitor then! None shall hinder me from so calling him. Why did we

trust him?”

 

“Never fear, Lord Duke,” said Osmond. “When you come to the years of

Knighthood, your own sword shall right you, in spite of all the false

Danes, and falser Franks, in the land.”

 

“What! you too, son Osmond? I deemed you carried a cooler brain than

to miscall one who was true to Rollo’s race before you or yon varlet

were born!” said the old Baron.

 

“He has yielded my dukedom! It is miscalling to say he is aught but

a traitor!” cried Richard. “Vile, treacherous, favour-seeking—”

 

“Peace, peace, my Lord,” said the Baron. “Bernard has more in that

wary head of his than your young wits, or my old ones, can unwind.

What he is doing I may not guess, but I gage my life his heart is

right.”

 

Richard was silent, remembering he had been once unjust, but he

grieved heartily when he thought of the French in Rollo’s tower, and

it was further reported that the King was about to share Normandy

among his French vassals. A fresh outcry broke out in the little

garrison of Senlis, but Sir Eric still persisted in his trust in his

friend Bernard, even when he heard that Centeville was marked out as

the prey of the fat French Count who had served for a hostage at

Rouen.

 

“What say you now, my Lord?” said he, after a conference with a

messenger at the gate. “The Black Raven has spread its wings. Fifty

keels are in the Seine, and Harald Blue-tooth’s Long Serpent at the

head of them.”

 

“The King of Denmark! Come to my aid!”

 

“Ay, that he is! Come at Bernard’s secret call, to right you, and

put you on your father’s seat. Now call honest Harcourt a traitor,

because he gave not up your fair dukedom to the flame and sword!”

 

“No traitor to me,” said Richard, pausing. “No, verily, but what

more would you say?”

 

“I think, when I come to my dukedom, I will not be so politic,” said

Richard. “I will be an open friend or an open foe.”

 

“The boy grows too sharp for us,” said Sir Eric, smiling, “but it was

spoken like his father.”

 

“He grows more like his blessed father each day,” said Fru Astrida.

 

“But the Danes, father, the Danes!” said Osmond. “Blows will be

passing now. I may join the host and win my spurs?”

 

“With all my heart,” returned the Baron, “so my Lord here gives you

leave: would that I could leave him and go with you. It would do my

very spirit good but to set foot in a Northern keel once more.”

 

“I would fain see what these men of the North are,” said Osmond.

 

“Oh! they are only Danes, not Norsemen, and there are no Vikings,

such as once were when Ragnar laid waste—”

 

“Son, son, what talk is this for the child’s ears?” broke in Fru

Astrida, “are these words for a Christian Baron?”

 

“Your pardon, mother,” said the grey warrior, in all humility, “but

my blood thrills to hear of a Northern fleet at hand, and to think of

Osmond drawing sword under a Sea-King.”

 

The next morning, Osmond’s steed was led to the door, and such men-at-arms as could be spared from the garrison of Senlis were drawn up

in readiness to accompany him. The boys stood on the steps, wishing

they were old enough to be warriors, and wondering what had become of

him, until at length the sound of an opening door startled them, and

there, in the low archway of the smithy, the red furnace glowing

behind him, stood Osmond, clad in bright steel, the links of his

hauberk reflecting the light, and on his helmet a pair of golden

wings, while the same device adorned his long pointed kite-shaped

shield.

 

“Your wings! our wings!” cried Richard, “the bearing of Centeville!”

 

“May they fly after the foe, not before him,” said Sir Eric. “Speed

thee well, my son—let not our Danish cousins say we learn Frank

graces instead of Northern blows.”

 

With such farewells, Osmond quitted Senlis, while the two boys

hastened to the battlements to watch him as long as he remained in

view.

 

The highest tower became their principal resort, and their eyes were

constantly on the heath where he had disappeared; but days passed,

and they grew weary of the watch, and betook themselves to games in

the Castle court.

 

One day, Alberic, in the character of a Dragon, was lying on his

back, panting hard so as to be supposed to cast out volumes of flame

and smoke at Richard, the Knight, who with a stick for a lance, and a

wooden sword, was waging fierce war; when suddenly the Dragon paused,

sat up, and pointed towards the warder on the tower. His horn was at

his lips, and in another moment, the blast rang out through the

Castle.

 

With a loud shout, both boys rushed headlong up the turret stairs,

and came to the top so breathless, that they could not even ask the

warder what he saw. He pointed, and the keen-eyed Alberic exclaimed,

“I see! Look, my Lord, a speck there on the heath!”

 

“I do not see! where, oh where?”

 

“He is behind the hillock now, but—oh, there again! How fast he

comes!”

 

“It is like the flight of a bird,” said Richard, “fast, fast—”

 

“If only it be not flight in earnest,” said Alberic, a little

anxiously, looking into the warder’s face, for he was a borderer, and

tales of terror of the inroad of the Vicomte du Contentin were rife

on the marches of the Epte.

 

“No, young Sir,” said the warder, “no fear of that. I know how men

ride when they flee from the battle.”

 

“No, indeed, there is no discomfiture in the pace of that steed,”

said Sir Eric, who had by this time joined them.

 

“I see him clearer! I see the horse,” cried Richard, dancing with

eagerness, so that Sir Eric caught hold of him, exclaiming, “You will

be over the battlements! hold still! better hear of a battle lost

than that!”

 

“He bears somewhat in his hand,” said Alberic.

 

“A banner or pennon,” said the warder; “methinks he rides like the

young Baron.”

 

“He does! My brave boy! He has done good service,” exclaimed Sir

Eric, as the figure became more developed. “The Danes have seen how

we train our young men.”

 

“His wings bring good tidings,” said Richard. “Let me go, Sir Eric,

I must tell Fru Astrida.”

 

The drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis raised, and as all the

dwellers in the Castle stood gathered in the court, in rode the

warrior with the winged helm, bearing in his hand a drooping banner;

lowering it as he entered, it unfolded, and displayed, trailing on

the ground at the feet of the little Duke of Normandy, the golden

lilies of France.

 

A shout of amazement arose, and all gathered round him, asking

hurried questions. “A great victory—the King a prisoner—Montreuil

slain!”

 

Richard would not be denied holding his hand, and leading him to the

hall, and there, sitting around him, they heard his tidings. His

father’s first question was, what he thought of their kinsmen, the

Danes?

 

“Rude comrades, father, I must own,” said Osmond, smiling, and

shaking his head. “I could not pledge them in a skull-goblet—set in

gold though it were.”

 

“None the worse warriors,” said Sir Eric. “Ay, ay, and you were

dainty, and brooked not the hearty old fashion of tearing the whole

sheep to pieces. You must needs cut your portion with the fine

French knife at your girdle.”

 

Osmond could not see that a man was braver for being a savage, but he

held his peace; and Richard impatiently begged to hear how the battle

had gone, and where it had been fought.

 

“On the bank of the Dive,” said Osmond. “Ah, father, you might well

call old Harcourt wary—his name might better have been Fox-heart

than Bear-heart! He had sent to the Franks a message of distress,

that the Danes were on him in full force, and to pray them to come to

his aid.”

 

“I trust there was no treachery. No foul dealing shall be wrought in

my name,” exclaimed Richard, with such dignity of tone and manner, as

made all feel he was indeed their Duke, and forget his tender years.

 

“No, or should I tell the tale with joy like this?” said Osmond.

“Bernard’s view was to bring the Kings together, and let Louis see

you had friends to maintain your right. He sought but to avoid

bloodshed.”

 

“And how chanced it?”

 

“The Danes were encamped on the Dive, and so soon as the French came

in sight, Blue-tooth sent a messenger to Louis, to summon him