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

mounted his horse, and

joined them in their ride to Rouen. So far it had not been very

different from Richard’s last journey, when he went to keep Christmas

there with his father; but now they were beginning to come nearer the

town, he knew the broad river Seine again, and saw the square tower

of the Cathedral, and he remembered how at that very place his father

had met him, and how he had ridden by his side into the town, and had

been led by his hand up to the hall.

 

His heart was very heavy, as he recollected there was no one now to

meet and welcome him; scarcely any one to whom he could even tell his

thoughts, for those tall grave Barons had nothing to say to such a

little boy, and the very respect and formality with which they

treated him, made him shrink from them still more, especially from

the grim-faced Bernard; and Osmond, his own friend and playfellow,

was obliged to ride far behind, as inferior in rank.

 

They entered the town just as it was growing dark. Count Bernard

looked back and arrayed the procession; Eric de Centeville bade

Richard sit upright and not look weary, and then all the Knights held

back while the little Duke rode alone a little in advance of them

through the gateway. There was a loud shout of “Long live the little

Duke!” and crowds of people were standing round to gaze upon his

entry, so many that the bag of coins was soon emptied by his

largesses. The whole city was like one great castle, shut in by a

wall and moat, and with Rollo’s Tower rising at one end like the keep

of a castle, and it was thither that Richard was turning his horse,

when the Count of Harcourt said, “Nay, my Lord, to the Church of our

Lady.” {7}

 

It was then considered a duty to be paid to the deceased, that their

relatives and friends should visit them as they lay in state, and

sprinkle them with drops of holy water, and Richard was now to pay

this token of respect. He trembled a little, and yet it did not seem

quite so dreary, since he should once more look on his father’s face,

and he accordingly rode towards the Cathedral. It was then very

unlike what it is now; the walls were very thick, the windows small

and almost buried in heavy carved arches, the columns within were

low, clumsy, and circular, and it was usually so dark that the

vaulting of the roof could scarcely be seen.

 

Now, however, a whole flood of light poured forth from every window,

and when Richard came to the door, he saw not only the two tall thick

candles that always burnt on each side of the Altar, but in the

Chancel stood a double row ranged in a square, shedding a pure, quiet

brilliancy throughout the building, and chiefly on the silver and

gold ornaments of the Altar. Outside these lights knelt a row of

priests in dark garments, their heads bowed over their clasped hands,

and their chanted psalms sounding sweet, and full of soothing music.

Within that guarded space was a bier, and a form lay on it.

 

Richard trembled still more with awe, and would have paused, but he

was obliged to proceed. He dipped his hand in the water of the font,

crossed his brow, and came slowly on, sprinkled the remaining drops

on the lifeless figure, and then stood still. There was an

oppression on his breast as if he could neither breathe nor move.

 

There lay William of the Long Sword, like a good and true Christian

warrior, arrayed in his shining armour, his sword by his side, his

shield on his arm, and a cross between his hands, clasped upon his

breast. His ducal mantle of crimson velvet, lined with ermine, was

round his shoulders, and, instead of a helmet, his coronet was on his

head; but, in contrast with this rich array, over the collar of the

hauberk, was folded the edge of a rough hair shirt, which the Duke

had worn beneath his robes, unknown to all, until his corpse was

disrobed of his blood-stained garments. His face looked full of

calm, solemn peace, as if he had gently fallen asleep, and was only

awaiting the great call to awaken. There was not a single token of

violence visible about him, save that one side of his forehead bore a

deep purple mark, where he had first been struck by the blow of the

oar which had deprived him of sense.

 

“See you that, my Lord?” said Count Bernard, first breaking the

silence, in a low, deep, stern voice.

 

Richard had heard little for many hours past save counsels against

the Flemings, and plans of bitter enmity against them; and the sight

of his murdered father, with that look and tone of the old Dane,

fired his spirit, and breaking from his trance of silent awe and

grief, he exclaimed, “I see it, and dearly shall the traitor Fleming

abye it!” Then, encouraged by the applauding looks of the nobles, he

proceeded, feeling like one of the young champions of Fru Astrida’s

songs. His cheek was coloured, his eye lighted up, and he lifted his

head, so that the hair fell back from his forehead; he laid his hand

on the hilt of his father’s sword, and spoke on in words, perhaps,

suggested by some sage. “Yes, Arnulf of Flanders, know that Duke

William of Normandy shall not rest unavenged! On this good sword I

vow, that, as soon as my arm shall have strength—”

 

The rest was left unspoken, for a hand was laid on his arm. A

priest, who had hitherto been kneeling near the head of the corpse,

had risen, and stood tall and dark over him, and, looking up, he

recognized the pale, grave countenance of Martin, Abbot of Jumieges,

his father’s chief friend and councillor.

 

“Richard of Normandy, what sayest thou?” said he, sternly. “Yes,

hang thy head, and reply not, rather than repeat those words. Dost

thou come here to disturb the peace of the dead with clamours for

vengeance? Dost thou vow strife and anger on that sword which was

never drawn, save in the cause of the poor and distressed? Wouldst

thou rob Him, to whose service thy life has been pledged, and devote

thyself to that of His foe? Is this what thou hast learnt from thy

blessed father?”

 

Richard made no answer, but he covered his face with his hands, to

hide the tears which were fast streaming.

 

“Lord Abbot, Lord Abbot, this passes!” exclaimed Bernard the Dane.

“Our young Lord is no monk, and we will not see each spark of noble

and knightly spirit quenched as soon as it shows itself.”

 

“Count of Harcourt,” said Abbot Martin, “are these the words of a

savage Pagan, or of one who has been washed in yonder blessed font?

Never, while I have power, shalt thou darken the child’s soul with

thy foul thirst of revenge, insult the presence of thy master with

the crime he so abhorred, nor the temple of Him who came to pardon,

with thy hatred. Well do I know, ye Barons of Normandy, that each

drop of your blood would willingly be given, could it bring back our

departed Duke, or guard his orphan child; but, if ye have loved the

father, do his bidding—lay aside that accursed spirit of hatred and

vengeance; if ye love the child, seek not to injure his soul more

deeply than even his bitterest foe, were it Arnulf himself, hath

power to hurt him.”

 

The Barons were silenced, whatever their thoughts might be, and Abbot

Martin turned to Richard, whose tears were still dropping fast

through his fingers, as the thought of those last words of his father

returned more clearly upon him. The Abbot laid his hand on his head,

and spoke gently to him. “These are tears of a softened heart, I

trust,” said he. “I well believe that thou didst scarce know what

thou wert saying.”

 

“Forgive me!” said Richard, as well as he could speak.

 

“See there,” said the priest, pointing to the large Cross over the

Altar, “thou knowest the meaning of that sacred sign?”

 

Richard bowed his head in assent and reverence.

 

“It speaks of forgiveness,” continued the Abbot. “And knowest thou

who gave that pardon? The Son forgave His murderers; the Father them

who slew His Son. And shalt thou call for vengeance?”

 

“But oh!” said Richard, looking up, “must that cruel, murderous

traitor glory unpunished in his crime, while there lies—” and again

his voice was cut off by tears.

 

“Vengeance shall surely overtake the sinner,” said Martin, “the

vengeance of the Lord, and in His own good time, but it must not be

of thy seeking. Nay, Richard, thou art of all men the most bound to

show love and mercy to Arnulf of Flanders. Yes, when the hand of the

Lord hath touched him, and bowed him down in punishment for his

crime, it is then, that thou, whom he hath most deeply injured,

shouldst stretch out thine hand to aid him, and receive him with

pardon and peace. If thou dost vow aught on the sword of thy blessed

father, in the sanctuary of thy Redeemer, let it be a Christian vow.”

 

Richard wept too bitterly to speak, and Bernard de Harcourt, taking

his hand, led him away from the Church.