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

step of the Altar with a cushion, on which was placed a

circlet of gold, the ducal coronet; and another Baron, following him

closely, carried a long, heavy sword, with a cross handle. The

Archbishop of Rouen received both coronet and sword, and laid them on

the Altar. Then the service proceeded. At that time the rite of

Confirmation was administered in infancy, and Richard, who had been

confirmed by his godfather, the Archbishop of Rouen, immediately

after his baptism, knelt in solemn awe to receive the other Holy

Sacrament from his hands, as soon as all the clergy had communicated.

{8}

 

When the administration was over, Richard was led forward to the step

of the Altar by Count Bernard, and Sir Eric, and the Archbishop,

laying one hand upon both his, as he held them clasped together,

demanded of him, in the name of God, and of the people of Normandy,

whether he would be their good and true ruler, guard them from their

foes, maintain truth, punish iniquity, and protect the Church.

 

“I will!” answered Richard’s young, trembling voice, “So help me

God!” and he knelt, and kissed the book of the Holy Gospels, which

the Archbishop offered him.

 

It was a great and awful oath, and he dreaded to think that he had

taken it. He still knelt, put both hands over his face, and

whispered, “O God, my Father, help me to keep it.”

 

The Archbishop waited till he rose, and then, turning him with his

face to the people, said, “Richard, by the grace of God, I invest

thee with the ducal mantle of Normandy!”

 

Two of the Bishops then hung round his shoulders a crimson velvet

mantle, furred with ermine, which, made as it was for a grown man,

hung heavily on the poor child’s shoulders, and lay in heaps on the

ground. The Archbishop then set the golden coronet on his long,

flowing hair, where it hung so loosely on the little head, that Sir

Eric was obliged to put his hand to it to hold it safe; and, lastly,

the long, straight, two-handed sword was brought and placed in his

hand, with another solemn bidding to use it ever in maintaining the

right. It should have been girded to his side, but the great sword

was so much taller than the little Duke, that, as it stood upright by

him, he was obliged to raise his arm to put it round the handle.

 

He then had to return to his throne, which was not done without some

difficulty, encumbered as he was, but Osmond held up the train of his

mantle, Sir Eric kept the coronet on his head, and he himself held

fast and lovingly the sword, though the Count of Harcourt offered to

carry it for him. He was lifted up to his throne, and then came the

paying him homage; Alan, Duke of Brittany, was the first to kneel

before him, and with his hand between those of the Duke, he swore to

be his man, to obey him, and pay him feudal service for his dukedom

of Brittany. In return, Richard swore to be his good Lord, and to

protect him from all his foes. Then followed Bernard the Dane, and

many another, each repeating the same formulary, as their large

rugged hands were clasped within those little soft fingers. Many a

kind and loving eye was bent in compassion on the orphan child; many

a strong voice faltered with earnestness as it pronounced the vow,

and many a brave, stalwart heart heaved with grief for the murdered

father, and tears flowed down the war-worn cheeks which had met the

fiercest storms of the northern ocean, as they bent before the young

fatherless boy, whom they loved for the sake of his conquering

grandfather, and his brave and pious father. Few Normans were there

whose hearts did not glow at the touch of those small hands, with a

love almost of a parent, for their young Duke.

 

The ceremony of receiving homage lasted long and Richard, though

interested and touched at first, grew very weary; the crown and

mantle were so heavy, the faces succeeded each other like figures in

an endless dream, and the constant repetition of the same words was

very tedious. He grew sleepy, he longed to jump up, to lean to the

right or left, or to speak something besides that regular form. He

gave one great yawn, but it brought him such a frown from the stern

face of Bernard, as quite to wake him for a few minutes, and make him

sit upright, and receive the next vassal with as much attention as he

had shown the first, but he looked imploringly at Sir Eric, as if to

ask if it ever would be over. At last, far down among the Barons,

came one at whose sight Richard revived a little. It was a boy only

a few years older than himself, perhaps about ten, with a pleasant

brown face, black hair, and quick black eyes which glanced, with a

look between friendliness and respect, up into the little Duke’s

gazing face. Richard listened eagerly for his name, and was

refreshed at the sound of the boyish voice which pronounced, “I,

Alberic de Montemar, am thy liegeman and vassal for my castle and

barony of Montemar sur Epte.”

 

When Alberic moved away, Richard followed him with his eye as far as

he could to his place in the Cathedral, and was taken by surprise

when he found the next Baron kneeling before him.

 

The ceremony of homage came to an end at last, and Richard would fain

have run all the way to the palace to shake off his weariness, but he

was obliged to head the procession again; and even when he reached

the castle hall his toils were not over, for there was a great state

banquet spread out, and he had to sit in the high chair where he

remembered climbing on his father’s knee last Christmas-day, all the

time that the Barons feasted round, and held grave converse.

Richard’s best comfort all this time was in watching Osmond de

Centeville and Alberic de Montemar, who, with the other youths who

were not yet knighted, were waiting on those who sat at the table.

At last he grew so very weary, that he fell fast asleep in the corner

of his chair, and did not wake till he was startled by the rough

voice of Bernard de Harcourt, calling him to rouse up, and bid the

Duke of Brittany farewell.

 

“Poor child!” said Duke Alan, as Richard rose up, startled, “he is

over-wearied with this day’s work. Take care of him, Count Bernard;

thou a kindly nurse, but a rough one for such a babe. Ha! my young

Lord, your colour mantles at being called a babe! I crave your

pardon, for you are a fine spirit. And hark you, Lord Richard of

Normandy, I have little cause to love your race, and little right, I

trow, had King Charles the Simple to call us free Bretons liegemen to

a race of plundering Northern pirates. To Duke Rollo’s might, my

father never gave his homage; nay, nor did I yield it for all Duke

William’s long sword, but I did pay it to his generosity and

forbearance, and now I grant it to thy weakness and to his noble

memory. I doubt not that the recreant Frank, Louis, whom he restored

to his throne, will strive to profit by thy youth and helplessness,

and should that be, remember that thou hast no surer friend than Alan

of Brittany. Fare thee well, my young Duke.”

 

“Farewell, Sir,” said Richard, willingly giving his hand to be shaken

by his kind vassal, and watching him as Sir Eric attended him from

the hall.

 

“Fair words, but I trust not the Breton,” muttered Bernard; “hatred

is deeply ingrained in them.”

 

“He should know what the Frank King is made of,” said Rainulf de

Ferrieres; “he was bred up with him in the days that they were both

exiles at the court of King Ethelstane of England.”

 

“Ay, and thanks to Duke William that either Louis or Alan are not

exiles still. Now we shall see whose gratitude is worth most, the

Frank’s or the Breton’s. I suspect the Norman valour will be the

best to trust to.”

 

“Yes, and how will Norman valour prosper without treasure? Who knows

what gold is in the Duke’s coffers?”

 

There was some consultation here in a low voice, and the next thing

Richard heard distinctly was, that one of the Nobles held up a silver

chain and key, {9} saying that they had been found on the Duke’s

neck, and that he had kept them, thinking that they doubtless led to

something of importance.

 

“Oh, yes!” said Richard, eagerly, “I know it. He told me it was the

key to his greatest treasure.”

 

The Normans heard this with great interest, and it was resolved that

several of the most trusted persons, among whom were the Archbishop

of Rouen, Abbot Martin of Jumieges, and the Count of Harcourt, should

go immediately in search of this precious hoard. Richard accompanied

them up the narrow rough stone stairs, to the large dark apartment,

where his father had slept. Though a Prince’s chamber, it had little

furniture; a low uncurtained bed, a Cross on a ledge near its head, a

rude table, a few chairs, and two large chests, were all it

contained. Harcourt tried the lid of one of the chests: it opened,

and proved to be full of wearing apparel; he went to the other, which

was smaller, much more carved, and ornamented with very handsome

iron-work. It was locked, and putting in the key, it fitted, the

lock turned, and the chest was opened. The Normans pressed eagerly

to see their Duke’s greatest treasure.

 

It was a robe of serge, and a pair of sandals, such as were worn in

the Abbey of Jumieges.

 

“Ha! is this all? What didst say, child?” cried Bernard the Dane,

hastily.

 

“He told me it was his greatest treasure!” repeated Richard.

 

“And it was!” said Abbot Martin.

 

Then the good Abbot told them the history, part of which was already

known to some of them. About five or six years before, Duke William

had been hunting in the forest of Jumieges, when he had suddenly come

on the ruins of the Abbey, which had been wasted thirty or forty

years previously by the Sea-King, Hasting. Two old monks, of the

original brotherhood, still survived, and came forth to greet the

Duke, and offer him their hospitality.

 

“Ay!” said Bernard, “well do I remember their bread; we asked if it

was made of fir-bark, like that of our brethren of Norway.”

 

William, then an eager, thoughtless young man, turned with disgust

from this wretched fare, and throwing the old men some gold, galloped

on to enjoy his hunting. In the course of the sport, he was left

alone, and encountered a wild boar, which threw him down, trampled on

him, and left him stretched senseless on the ground, severely

injured. His companions coming up, carried him, as the nearest place

of shelter, to the ruins of Jumieges, where the two old monks gladly

received him in the remaining portion of their house. As soon as he

recovered his senses, he earnestly asked their pardon for his pride,

and the scorn he had shown to the poverty and patient suffering which

he should have reverenced.

 

William had always been a man who chose the good and refused the

evil, but this accident, and the long illness that followed it, made

him far more thoughtful and serious than he had ever been before; he

made preparing for death and