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

The country was far more broken as they advanced—narrow valleys and sharp hills, each little vale full of wood, and interspersed with rocks.  “A choice place for game,” Sir Eric said and Richard, as he saw a herd of deer dash down a forest glade, exclaimed, “that they must come here to stay, for some autumn sport.”

There seemed to be huntsmen abroad in the woods; for through the frosty air came the baying of dogs, the shouts and calls of men, and, now and then, the echoing, ringing notes of a bugle.  Richard’s eyes and cheeks glowed with excitement, and he pushed his brisk little pony on faster and faster, unheeding that the heavier men and horses of his suite were not keeping pace with him on the rough ground and through the tangled boughs.

Presently, a strange sound of growling and snarling was heard close at hand: his pony swerved aside, and could not be made to advance; so Richard, dismounting, dashed through some briars, and there, on an open space, beneath a precipice of dark ivy-covered rock, that rose like a wall, he beheld a huge grey wolf and a large dog in mortal combat.  It was as if they had fallen or rolled down the precipice together, not heeding it in their fury.  Both were bleeding, and the eyes of both glared like red fiery glass in the dark shadow of the rock.  The dog lay undermost, almost overpowered, making but a feeble resistance; and the wolf would, in another moment, be at liberty to spring on the lonely child.

But not a thought of fear passed through his breast; to save the dog was Richard’s only idea.  In one moment he had drawn the dagger he wore at his girdle, ran to the two struggling animals, and with all his force, plunged it into the throat of the wolf, which, happily, was still held by the teeth of the hound.

The struggles relaxed, the wolf rolled heavily aside, dead; the dog lay panting and bleeding, and Richard feared he was cruelly torn.  “Poor fellow! noble dog! what shall I do to help you?” and he gently smoothed the dark brindled head.

A voice was now heard shouting aloud, at which the dog raised and crested his head, as a figure in a hunting dress was coming down a rocky pathway, an extremely tall, well-made man, of noble features.  “Ha! holla!  Vige!  Vige!  How now, my brave hound?” he said in the Northern tongue, though not quite with the accent Richard was accustomed to hear “Art hurt?”

“Much torn, I fear,” Richard called out, as the faithful creature wagged his tail, and strove to rise and meet his master.

“Ha, lad! what art thou?” exclaimed the hunter, amazed at seeing the boy between the dead wolf and wounded dog.  “You look like one of those Frenchified Norman gentilesse, with your smooth locks and gilded baldrick, yet your words are Norse.  By the hammer of Thor! that is a dagger in the wolf’s throat!”

“It is mine,” said Richard.  “I found your dog nearly spent, and I made in to the rescue.”

“You did?  Well done!  I would not have lost Vige for all the plunder of Italy.  I am beholden to you, my brave young lad,” said the stranger, all the time examining and caressing the hound.  “What is your name?  You cannot be Southern bred?”

As he spoke, more shouts came near; and the Baron de Centeville rushed through the trees holding Richard’s pony by the bridle.  “My Lord, my Lord!—oh, thank Heaven, I see you safe!”  At the same moment a party of hunters also approached by the path, and at the head of them Bernard the Dane.

“Ha!” exclaimed he, “what do I see?  My young Lord! what brought you here?”  And with a hasty obeisance, Bernard took Richard’s outstretched hand.

“I came hither to attend your council,” replied Richard.  “I have a boon to ask of the King of Denmark.”

“Any boon the King of Denmark has in his power will be yours,” said the dog’s master, slapping his hand on the little Duke’s shoulder, with a rude, hearty familiarity, that took him by surprise; and he looked up with a shade of offence, till, on a sudden flash of perception, he took off his cap, exclaiming, “King Harald himself!  Pardon me, Sir King!”

“Pardon, Jarl Richart!  What would you have me pardon?—your saving the life of Vige here?  No French politeness for me.  Tell me your boon, and it is yours.  Shall I take you a voyage, and harry the fat monks of Ireland?”

Richard recoiled a little from his new friend.

“Oh, ha!  I forgot.  They have made a Christian of you—more’s the pity.  You have the Northern spirit so strong.  I had forgotten it.  Come, walk by my side, and let me hear what you would ask.  Holla, you Sweyn! carry Vige up to the Castle, and look to his wounds.  Now for it, young Jarl.”

“My boon is, that you would set free Prince Lothaire.”

“What?—the young Frank?  Why they kept you captive, burnt your face, and would have made an end of you but for your clever Bonder.”

“That is long past, and Lothaire is so wretched.  His brother is dead, and he is sick with grief, and he says he shall die, if he does not go home.”

“A good thing too for the treacherous race to die out in him!  What should you care for him? he is your foe.”

“I am a Christian,” was Richard’s answer.

“Well, I promised you whatever you might ask.  All my share of his ransom, or his person, bond or free, is yours.  You have only to prevail with your own Jarls and Bonders.”

Richard feared this would be more difficult; but Abbot Martin came to the meeting, and took his part.  Moreover, the idea of their hostage dying in their hands, so as to leave them without hold upon the King, had much weight with them; and, after long deliberation, they consented that Lothaire should be restored to his father, without ransom but only on condition that Louis should guarantee to the Duke the peaceable possession of the country, as far as St. Clair sur Epte, which had been long in dispute; so that Alberic became, indisputably, a vassal of Normandy.

Perhaps it was the happiest day in Richard’s life when he rode back to Bayeux, to desire Lothaire to prepare to come with him to St. Clair, there to be given back into the hands of his father.

And then they met King Louis, grave and sorrowful for the loss of his little Carloman, and, for the time, repenting of his misdeeds towards the orphan heir of Normandy.

He pressed the Duke in his arms, and his kiss was a genuine one as he said, “Duke Richard, we have not deserved this of you.  I did not treat you as you have treated my children.  We will be true lord and vassal from henceforth.”

Lothaire’s last words were, “Farewell, Richard.  If I lived with you, I might be good like you.  I will never forget what you have done for me.”

When Richard once more entered Rouen in state, his subjects shouting round him in transports of joy, better than all his honour and glory was the being able to enter the Church of our Lady, and kneel by his father’s grave, with a clear conscience, and the sense that he had tried to keep that last injunction.

Years had passed away.  The oaths of Louis, and promises of Lothaire, had been broken; and Arnulf of Flanders, the murderer of Duke William, had incited them to repeated and treacherous inroads on Normandy; so that Richard’s life, from fourteen to five or six-and-twenty, had been one long war in defence of his country.  But it had been a glorious war for him, and his gallant deeds had well earned for him the title of “Richard the Fearless”—a name well deserved; for there was but one thing he feared, and that was, to do wrong.

By and by, success and peace came; and then Arnulf of Flanders, finding open force would not destroy him, three times made attempts to assassinate him, like his father, by treachery.  But all these had failed; and now Richard had enjoyed many years of peace and honour, whilst his enemies had vanished from his sight.

King Louis was killed by a fall from his horse; Lothaire died in early youth, and in him ended the degenerate line of Charlemagne; Hugh Capet, the son of Richard’s old friend, Hugh the White, was on the throne of France, his sure ally and brother-in-law, looking to him for advice and aid in all his undertakings.

Fru Astrida and Sir Eric had long been in their quiet graves; Osmond and Alberic were among Richard’s most trusty councillors and warriors; Abbot Martin, in extreme old age, still ruled the Abbey of Jumièges, where Richard, like his father, loved to visit him, hold converse with him, and refresh himself in the peaceful cloister, after the affairs of state and war.

And Richard himself was a grey-headed man, of lofty stature and majestic bearing.  His eldest son was older than he had been himself when he became the little Duke, and he had even begun to remember his father’s project, of an old age to be spent in retirement and peace.

It was on a summer eve, that Duke Richard sat beside the white-bearded old Abbot, within the porch, looking at the sun shining with soft declining beams on the arches and columns.  They spoke together of that burial at Rouen, and of the silver key; the Abbot delighting to tell, over and over again, all the good deeds and good sayings of William Longsword.

As they sat, a man, also very old and shrivelled and bent, came up to the cloister gate, with the tottering, feeble step of one pursued beyond his strength, coming to take sanctuary.

“What can be the crime of one so aged and feeble?” said the Duke, in surprise.

At the sight of him, a look of terror shot from the old man’s eye.  He clasped his hands together, and turned as if to flee; then, finding himself incapable of escape, he threw himself on the ground before him.

“Mercy, mercy! noble, most noble Duke!” was all he said.

“Rise up—kneel not to me.  I cannot brook this from one who might be my father,” said Richard, trying to raise him; but at those words the old man groaned and crouched lower still.

“Who art thou?” said the Duke.  “In this holy place thou art secure, be thy deed what it may.  Speak!—who art thou?”

“Dost thou not know me?” said the suppliant.  “Promise mercy, ere thou dost hear my name.”

“I have seen that face under a helmet,” said the Duke.  “Thou art Arnulf of Flanders!”

There was a deep silence.

“And wherefore art thou here?”

“I delayed to own the French King Hugh.  He has taken my towns and ravaged my lands.  Each Frenchman and each Norman vows to slay me, in revenge for your wrongs, Lord Duke.  I have been driven hither and thither, in fear of my life, till I thought of the renown of Duke Richard, not merely the most fearless, but the most merciful of Princes.  I sought to come hither, trusting that, when the holy Father Abbot beheld my bitter repentance, he would intercede for me with you, most noble Prince, for my safety and forgiveness.  Oh, gallant Duke, forgive and spare!”

“Rise up, Arnulf,” said Richard.  “Where the hand of the Lord hath stricken, it is not for man to exact his own reckoning.  My father’s death has been long forgiven, and what you may have planned against myself has, by the blessing of Heaven, been brought to nought.  From Normans at least you are safe; and it shall be my work to ensure your pardon from my brother the King.  Come into the refectory: you need refreshment.  The Lord Abbot makes you welcome.” [17]

Tears of gratitude and true repentance choked Arnulf’s speech, and he allowed himself to be raised from the ground, and was forced to accept the support of the Duke’s arm.

The venerable Abbot slowly rose, and held up his hand in an attitude of blessing: “The blessing of a merciful God be upon the sinner who turneth from his evil way; and ten thousand blessings of pardon and peace are already on the head of him who hath stretched out his hand to forgive and aid him who was once his most grievous foe!”

[1]  Richard’s place of education was Bayeaux; for, as Duke William says in the rhymed Chronicle of Normandy,—

“Si à Roem le faz garder
E norir, gaires longement
Il ne saura parlier neiant
Daneis, kar nul n l’i parole.
Si voil qu’il seit à tele escole
Qù l’en le sache endoctriner
Que as Daneis sache parler.
Ci ne sevent riens fors Romanz
Mais à Baieux en à tanz
Qui ne sevent si Daneis non.”

[2]  Bernard was founder of the family of Harcourt of Nuneham.  Ferrières, the ancestor of that of Ferrars.

[3]  In the same Chronicle, William Longsword directs that,—

“Tant seit apris qu’il lise un bref
Kar ceo ne li