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

like an old eagle with its eaglet.  I say, Osmond, you must ever after this wear a pair of wings on shield and pennon, to show how well we managed our flight.” [15]

“As you will, my Lord,” said Osmond, half asleep; “but ’twas a good long flight at a stretch, and I trust never to have to fly before your foes or mine again.”

What a glad summer’s day was that! Even the three hours spent in council did but renew the relish with which Richard visited Alberic’s treasures, told his adventures, and showed the accomplishments he had learnt at Laon.  The evening was more joyous still; for the Castle gates were opened, first to receive Dame Yolande Montémar, and not above a quarter of an hour afterwards, the drawbridge was lowered to admit the followers of Centeville; and in front of them appeared Fru Astrida’s own high cap.  Richard made but one bound into her arms, and was clasped to her breast; then held off at arm’s-length, that she might see how much he was grown, and pity his scar; then hugged closer than ever: but, taking another look, she declared that Osmond left his hair like King Harald Horrid-locks; [16] and, drawing an ivory comb from her pouch, began to pull out the thick tangles, hurting him to a degree that would once have made him rebel, but now he only fondled her the more.

As to Osmond, when he knelt before her, she blessed him, and sobbed over him, and blamed him for over-tiring her darling, all in one; and assuredly, when night closed in and Richard had, as of old, told his beads beside her knee, the happiest boy in Normandy was its little Duke.

CHAPTER IX

Montémar 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 mis-calling 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 to quit Neustria, and leave it to you, its lawful owner.  Thereupon, Louis, hoping to win him over with wily words, invited him to hold a personal conference.”

“Where were you, Osmond?”

“Where I had scarce patience to be.  Bernard had gathered all of us honest Normans together, and arranged us beneath that standard of the King, as if to repel his Danish inroad.  Oh, he was, in all seeming, hand-and-glove with Louis, guiding him by his counsel, and, verily, seeming his friend and best adviser!  But in one thing he could not prevail.  That ungrateful recreant, Herluin of Montreuil, came with the King, hoping,