The Little Duke: Richard the Fearless by Charlotte M. Yonge (classic fiction .TXT) 📕

threaten danger to his Lord; but at present there was no token of any evil being intended; the only point in which Louis did not seem to be fulfilling his promises to the Normans was, that no preparations were made for attacking the Count of Flanders.

At Easter the court was visited by Hugh the White, the great Count of Paris, the most powerful man in France, and who was only prevented by his own loyalty and forbearance, from taking the crown from the feeble and degenerate race of Charlemagne.  He had been a firm friend of William Longsword, and Osmond remarked how, on his arrival, the King took care to bring Richard forward, talk of him affectionately, and caress him almost as much as he had done at Rouen.  The Count himself was really kind and affectionate to the little Duke; he kept him by his side, and seemed to like to stroke down his long flaxen hair, looking in his face with a grave mournful expression, as if seeking for a likeness to his father.  He soon asked about the scar which the burn had left, and the King was obliged to answer hastily, it was an accident, a disaster that had chanced in a boyish quarrel.  Louis, in fact, was uneasy, and appeared to be watching the Count of Paris the whole time of his visit, so as to prevent him from having any conversation in private with the other great vassals assembled at the court.  Hugh did not seem to perceive this, and acted as if he was entirely at his ease, but at the same time he watched his opportunity.  One evening, after supper, he came up to the window where Richard and Carloman were, as usual, deep in story telling; he sat down on the stone seat, and taking Richard on his knee, he asked if he had any greetings for the Count de Harcourt.

How Richard’s face lighted up!  “Oh, Sir,” he cried, “are you going to Normandy?”

“Not yet, my boy, but it may be that I may have to meet old Harcourt at the Elm of Gisors.”

“Oh, if I was but going with you.”

“I wish I could take you, but it would scarcely do for me to steal the heir of Normandy.  What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him,” whispered Richard, edging himself close to the Count, and trying to reach his ear, “tell him that I am sorry, now, that I was sullen when he reproved me.  I know he was right.  And, sir, if he brings with him a certain huntsman with a long hooked nose, whose name is Walter, [12] tell him I am sorry I used to order him about so unkindly.  And tell him to bear my greetings to Fru Astrida and Sir Eric, and to Alberic.”

“Shall I tell him how you have marked your face?”

“No,” said Richard, “he would think me a baby to care about such a thing as that!”

The Count asked how it happened, and Richard told the story, for he felt as if he could tell the kind Count anything—it was almost like that last evening that he had sat on his father’s knee.  Hugh ended by putting his arm round him, and saying, “Well, my little Duke, I am as glad as you are the gallant bird is safe—it will be a tale for my own little Hugh and Eumacette [13] at home—and you must one day be friends with them as your father has been with me.  And now, do you think your Squire could come to my chamber late this evening when the household is at rest?”

Richard undertook that Osmond should do so, and the Count, setting him down again, returned to the dais.  Osmond, before going to the Count that evening, ordered Sybald to come and guard the Duke’s door.  It was a long conference, for Hugh had come to Laon chiefly for the purpose of seeing how it went with his friend’s son, and was anxious to know what Osmond thought of the matter.  They agreed that at present there did not seem to be any evil intended, and that it rather appeared as if Louis wished only to keep him as a hostage for the tranquillity of the borders of Normandy; but Hugh advised that Osmond should maintain a careful watch, and send intelligence to him on the first token of mischief.

The next morning the Count of Paris quitted Laon, and everything went on in the usual course till the feast of Whitsuntide, when there was always a great display of splendour at the French court.  The crown vassals generally came to pay their duty and go with the King to Church; and there was a state banquet, at which the King and Queen wore their crowns, and every one sat in great magnificence according to their rank.

The grand procession to Church was over.  Richard had walked with Carloman, the Prince richly dressed in blue, embroidered with golden fleur-de-lys, and Richard in scarlet, with a gold Cross on his breast; the beautiful service was over, they had returned to the Castle, and there the Seneschal was marshalling the goodly and noble company to the banquet, when horses’ feet were heard at the gate announcing some fresh arrival.  The Seneschal went to receive the guests, and presently was heard ushering in the noble Prince, Arnulf, Count of Flanders.

Richard’s face became pale—he turned from Carloman by whose side he had been standing, and walked straight out of the hall and up the stairs, closely followed by Osmond.  In a few minutes there was a knock at the door of his chamber, and a French Knight stood there saying, “Comes not the Duke to the banquet?”

“No,” answered Osmond: “he eats not with the slayer of his father.”

“The King will take it amiss; for the sake of the child you had better beware,” said the Frenchman, hesitating.

“He had better beware himself,” exclaimed Osmond, indignantly, “how he brings the treacherous murderer of William Longsword into the presence of a free-born Norman, unless he would see him slain where he stands.  Were it not for the boy, I would challenge the traitor this instant to single combat.”

“Well, I can scarce blame you,” said the Knight, “but you had best have a care how you tread.  Farewell.”

Richard had hardly time to express his indignation, and his wishes that he was a man, before another message came through a groom of Lothaire’s train, that the Duke must fast, if he would not consent to feast with the rest.

“Tell Prince Lothaire,” replied Richard, “that I am not such a glutton as he—I had rather fast than be choked with eating with Arnulf.”

All the rest of the day, Richard remained in his own chamber, resolved not to run the risk of meeting with Arnulf.  The Squire remained with him, in this voluntary imprisonment, and they occupied themselves, as best they could, with furbishing Osmond’s armour, and helping each other out in repeating some of the Sagas.  They once heard a great uproar in the court, and both were very anxious to learn its cause, but they did not know it till late in the afternoon.

Carloman crept up to them—“Here I am at last!” he exclaimed.  “Here, Richard, I have brought you some bread, as you had no dinner: it was all I could bring.  I saved it under the table lest Lothaire should see it.”

Richard thanked Carloman with all his heart, and being very hungry was glad to share the bread with Osmond.  He asked how long the wicked Count was going to stay, and rejoiced to hear he was going away the next morning, and the King was going with him.

“What was that great noise in the court?” asked Richard.

“I scarcely like to tell you,” returned Carloman.

Richard, however, begged to hear, and Carloman was obliged to tell that the two Norman grooms, Sybald and Henry, had quarrelled with the Flemings of Arnulf’s train; there had been a fray, which had ended in the death of three Flemings, a Frank, and of Sybald himself—And where was Henry?  Alas! there was more ill news—the King had sentenced Henry to die, and he had been hanged immediately.

Dark with anger and sorrow grew young Richard’s face; he had been fond of his two Norman attendants, he trusted to their attachment, and he would have wept for their loss even if it had happened in any other way; but now, when it had been caused by their enmity to his father’s foes, the Flemings,—when one had fallen overwhelmed by numbers, and the other been condemned hastily, cruelly, unjustly, it was too much, and he almost choked with grief and indignation.  Why had he not been there, to claim Henry as his own vassal, and if he could not save him, at least bid him farewell?  Then he would have broken out in angry threats, but he felt his own helplessness, and was ashamed, and he could only shed tears of passionate grief, refusing all Carloman’s attempts to comfort him.  Osmond was even more concerned; he valued the two Normans extremely for their courage and faithfulness, and had relied on sending intelligence by their means to Rouen, in case of need.  It appeared to him as if the first opportunity had been seized of removing these protectors from the little Duke, and as if the designs, whatever they might be, which had been formed against him, were about to take effect.  He had little doubt that his own turn would be the next; but he was resolved to endure anything, rather than give the smallest opportunity of removing him, to bear even insults with patience, and to remember that in his care rested the sole hope of safety for his charge.

That danger was fast gathering around them became more evident every day, especially after the King and Arnulf had gone away together.  It was very hot weather, and Richard began to weary after the broad cool river at Rouen, where he used to bathe last summer; and one evening he persuaded his Squire to go down with him to the Oise, which flowed along some meadow ground about a quarter of a mile from the Castle; but they had hardly set forth before three or four attendants came running after them, with express orders from the Queen that they should return immediately.  They obeyed, and found her standing in the Castle hall, looking greatly incensed.

“What means this?” she asked, angrily.  “Knew you not that the King has left commands that the Duke quits not the Castle in his absence?”

“I was only going as far as the river—” began Richard, but Gerberge cut him short.  “Silence, child—I will hear no excuses.  Perhaps you think, Sieur de Centeville, that you may take liberties in the King’s absence, but I tell you that if you are found without the walls again, it shall be at your peril; ay, and his!  I’ll have those haughty eyes put out, if you disobey!”

She turned away, and Lothaire looked at them with his air of gratified malice.  “You will not lord it over your betters much longer, young pirate!” said he, as he followed his mother, afraid to stay to meet the anger he might have excited by the taunt he could not deny himself the pleasure of making; but Richard, who, six months ago could not brook a slight disappointment or opposition, had, in his present life of restraint, danger, and vexation, learnt to curb the first outbreak of temper, and to bear patiently instead of breaking out into passion and threats, and now his only thought was of his beloved Squire.

“Oh, Osmond!  Osmond!” he exclaimed, “they shall not hurt you.  I will never go out again.  I will never speak another hasty word.  I will never affront the Prince, if they will but leave you with me!” [14]

CHAPTER VIII

It was a fine summer evening, and Richard and Carloman were playing at ball on the steps of the Castle-gate, when a voice was heard from beneath, begging for alms from the noble Princes in the name of the blessed Virgin, and the two boys saw a pilgrim standing at the gate, wrapt in a long robe of serge, with a staff in his hand, surmounted by a Cross, a scrip at his girdle, and a broad shady hat, which he had taken off, as he stood, making low obeisances, and asking charity.

“Come in, holy pilgrim,” said Carloman.  “It is late, and you shall sup and rest here to-night.”

“Blessings from Heaven light on you, noble Prince,” replied the pilgrim, and at that moment Richard shouted joyfully, “A Norman, a Norman! ’tis my own dear speech!  Oh, are you not from Normandy?  Osmond, Osmond! he comes from home!”

“My Lord! my own Lord!” exclaimed the pilgrim, and, kneeling on one knee at the foot of the steps, he kissed the hand which his young Duke held out to him—“This is joy unlooked for!”

“Walter!—Walter, the huntsman!” cried Richard.  “Is it you?  Oh, how is Fru Astrida, and all at home?”

“Well, my Lord, and wearying to know how it is with you—” began Walter—but a very