The Little Duke, Charlotte Mary Yonge [large screen ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Charlotte Mary Yonge
- Performer: -
Book online «The Little Duke, Charlotte Mary Yonge [large screen ebook reader .TXT] 📗». Author Charlotte Mary Yonge
animated companion and friend. In one respect Alberic was a better
playfellow for the Duke than Osmond de Centeville, for Osmond,
playing as a grown up man, not for his own amusement, but the
child’s, had left all the advantages of the game to Richard, who was
growing not a little inclined to domineer. This Alberic did not
like, unless, as he said, “it was to be always Lord and vassal, and
then he did not care for the game,” and he played with so little
animation that Richard grew vexed.
“I can’t help it,” said Alberic; “if you take all the best chances to
yourself, ‘tis no sport for me. I will do your bidding, as you are
the Duke, but I cannot like it.”
“Never mind my being Duke, but play as we used to do.”
“Then let us play as I did with Bertrand’s sons at Montemar. I was
their Baron, as you are my Duke, but my mother said there would be no
sport unless we forgot all that at play.”
“Then so we will. Come, begin again, Alberic, and you shall have the
first turn.”
However, Alberic was quite as courteous and respectful to the Duke
when they were not at play, as the difference of their rank required;
indeed, he had learnt much more of grace and courtliness of demeanour
from his mother, a Provencal lady, than was yet to be found among the
Normans. The Chaplain of Montemar had begun to teach him to read and
write, and he liked learning much better than Richard, who would not
have gone on with Father Lucas’s lessons at all, if Abbot Martin of
Jumieges had not put him in mind that it had been his father’s
especial desire.
What Richard most disliked was, however, the being obliged to sit in
council. The Count of Harcourt did in truth govern the dukedom, but
nothing could be done without the Duke’s consent, and once a week at
least, there was held in the great hall of Rollo’s tower, what was
called a Parlement, or “a talkation,” where Count Bernard, the
Archbishop, the Baron de Centeville, the Abbot of Jumieges, and such
other Bishops, Nobles, or Abbots, as might chance to be at Rouen,
consulted on the affairs of Normandy; and there the little Duke
always was forced to be present, sitting up in his chair of state,
and hearing rather than listening to, questions about the repairing
and guarding of Castles, the asking of loans from the vassals, the
appeals from the Barons of the Exchequer, who were then Nobles sent
through the duchy to administer justice, and the discussions about
the proceedings of his neighbours, King Louis of France, Count
Foulques of Anjou, and Count Herluin of Montreuil, and how far the
friendship of Hugh of Paris, and Alan of Brittany might be trusted.
Very tired of all this did Richard grow, especially when he found
that the Normans had made up their minds not to attempt a war against
the wicked Count of Flanders. He sighed most wearily, yawned again
and again, and moved restlessly about in his chair; but whenever
Count Bernard saw him doing so, he received so severe a look and sign
that he grew perfectly to dread the eye of the fierce old Dane.
Bernard never spoke to him to praise him, or to enter into any of his
pursuits; he only treated him with the grave distant respect due to
him as a Prince, or else now and then spoke a few stern words to him
of reproof for this restlessness, or for some other childish folly.
Used as Richard was to be petted and made much of by the whole house
of Centeville, he resented this considerably in secret, disliked and
feared the old Count, and more than once told Alberic de Montemar,
that as soon as he was fourteen, when he would be declared of age, he
should send Count Bernard to take care of his own Castle of Harcourt,
instead of letting him sit gloomy and grim in the Castle hall in the
evening, spoiling all their sport.
Winter had set in, and Osmond used daily to take the little Duke and
Alberic to the nearest sheet of ice, for the Normans still prided
themselves on excelling in skating, though they had long since left
the frost-bound streams and lakes of Norway.
One day, as they were returning from the ice, they were surprised,
even before they entered the Castle court, by hearing the trampling
of horses’ feet, and a sound of voices.
“What may this mean?” said Osmond. “There must surely be a great
arrival of the vassals. The Duke of Brittany, perhaps.”
“Oh,” said Richard, piteously, “we have had one council already this
week. I hope another is not coming!”
“It must import something extraordinary,” proceeded Osmond. “It is a
mischance that the Count of Harcourt is not at Rouen just now.”
Richard thought this no mischance at all, and just then, Alberic, who
had run on a little before, came back exclaiming, “They are French.
It is the Frank tongue, not the Norman, that they speak.”
“So please you, my Lord,” said Osmond, stopping short, “we go not
rashly into the midst of them. I would I knew what were best to do.”
Osmond rubbed his forehead and stood considering, while the two boys
looked at him anxiously. In a few seconds, before he had come to any
conclusion, there came forth from the gate a Norman Squire,
accompanied by two strangers.
“My Lord Duke,” said he to Richard, in French, “Sir Eric has sent me
to bring you tidings that the King of France has arrived to receive
your homage.”
“The King!” exclaimed Osmond.
“Ay!” proceeded the Norman, in his own tongue, “Louis himself, and
with a train looking bent on mischief. I wish it may portend good to
my Lord here. You see I am accompanied. I believe from my heart
that Louis meant to prevent you from receiving a warning, and taking
the boy out of his clutches.”
“Ha! what?” said Richard, anxiously. “Why is the King come? What
must I do?”
“Go on now, since there is no help for it,” said Osmond.
“Greet the king as becomes you, bend the knee, and pay him homage.”
Richard repeated over to himself the form of homage that he might be
perfect in it, and walked on into the court; Alberic, Osmond, and the
rest falling back as he entered. The court was crowded with horses
and men, and it was only by calling out loudly, “The Duke, the Duke,”
that Osmond could get space enough made for them to pass. In a few
moments Richard had mounted the steps and stood in the great hall.
In the chair of state, at the upper end of the room, sat a small
spare man, of about eight or nine-and-twenty, pale, and of a light
complexion, with a rich dress of blue and gold. Sir Eric and several
other persons stood respectfully round him, and he was conversing
with the Archbishop, who, as well as Sir Eric, cast several anxious
glances at the little Duke as he advanced up the hall. He came up to
the King, put his knee to the ground, and was just beginning, “Louis,
King of France, I—” when he found himself suddenly lifted from the
ground in the King’s arms, and kissed on both cheeks. Then setting
him on his knee, the King exclaimed, “And is this the son of my brave
and noble friend, Duke William? Ah! I should have known it from his
likeness. Let me embrace you again, dear child, for your father’s
sake.”
Richard was rather overwhelmed, but he thought the King very kind,
especially when Louis began to admire his height and free-spirited
bearing, and to lament that his own sons, Lothaire and Carloman, were
so much smaller and more backward. He caressed Richard again and
again, praised every word he said—Fru Astrida was nothing to him;
and Richard began to say to himself how strange and unkind it was of
Bernard de Harcourt to like to find fault with him, when, on the
contrary, he deserved all this praise from the King himself.
Duke Richard of Normandy slept in the room which had been his
father’s; Alberic de Montemar, as his page, slept at his feet, and
Osmond de Centeville had a bed on the floor, across the door, where
he lay with his sword close at hand, as his young Lord’s guard and
protector.
All had been asleep for some little time, when Osmond was startled by
a slight movement of the door, which could not be pushed open without
awakening him. In an instant he had grasped his sword, while he
pressed his shoulder to the door to keep it closed; but it was his
father’s voice that answered him with a few whispered words in the
Norse tongue, “It is I, open.” He made way instantly, and old Sir
Eric entered, treading cautiously with bare feet, and sat down on the
bed motioning him to do the same, so that they might be able to speak
lower. “Right, Osmond,” he said. “It is well to be on the alert,
for peril enough is around him—The Frank means mischief! I know
from a sure hand that Arnulf of Flanders was in council with him just
before he came hither, with his false tongue, wiling and coaxing the
poor child!”
“Ungrateful traitor!” murmured Osmond. “Do you guess his purpose?”
“Yes, surely, to carry the boy off with him, and so he trusts
doubtless to cut off all the race of Rollo! I know his purpose is to
bear off the Duke, as a ward of the Crown forsooth. Did you not hear
him luring the child with his promises of friendship with the
Princes? I could not understand all his French words, but I saw it
plain enough.”
“You will never allow it?”
“If he does, it must be across our dead bodies; but taken as we are
by surprise, our resistance will little avail. The Castle is full of
French, the hall and court swarm with them. Even if we could draw
our Normans together, we should not be more than a dozen men, and
what could we do but die? That we are ready for, if it may not be
otherwise, rather than let our charge be thus borne off without a
pledge for his safety, and without the knowledge of the states.”
“The king could not have come at a worse time,” said Osmond.
“No, just when Bernard the Dane is absent. If he only knew what has
befallen, he could raise the country, and come to the rescue.”
“Could we not send some one to bear the tidings to-night?”
“I know not,” said Sir Eric, musingly. “The French have taken the
keeping of the doors; indeed they are so thick through the Castle
that I can hardly reach one of our men, nor could I spare one hand
that may avail to guard the boy to-morrow.”
“Sir Eric;” a bare little foot was heard on the floor, and Alberic de
Montemar stood before him. “I did not mean to listen, but I could
not help hearing you. I cannot fight for the Duke yet, but I could
carry a message.”
“How would that be?” said Osmond, eagerly. “Once out of the Castle,
and in Rouen, he could easily find means of sending to the Count. He
might go either to the Convent of St. Ouen, or, which would be
better, to the trusty armourer, Thibault, who would soon find man and
horse
Comments (0)