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

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 Ferrières; “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 Jumièges, 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 Jumièges.

“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 Jumièges, 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 Jumièges, 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 eternity his first object, and thought less of his worldly affairs, his wars, and his ducal state.  He rebuilt the old Abbey, endowed it richly, and sent for Martin himself from France, to become the Abbot; he delighted in nothing so much as praying there, conversing with the Abbot, and hearing him read holy books; and he felt his temporal affairs, and the state and splendour of his rank, so great a temptation, that he had one day come to the Abbot, and entreated to be allowed to lay them aside, and become a brother of the order.  But Martin had refused to receive his vows.  He had told him that he had no right to neglect or forsake the duties of the station which God had appointed him; that it would be a sin to leave the post which had been given him to defend; and that the way marked out for him to serve God was by doing justice among his people, and using his power to defend the right.  Not till he had done his allotted work, and his son was old enough to take his place as ruler of the Normans, might he cease from his active duties, quit the turmoil of the world, and seek the repose of the cloister.  It was in this hope of peaceful retirement, that William had delighted to treasure up the humble garments that he hoped one day to wear in peace and holiness.

“And oh! my noble Duke!” exclaimed Abbot Martin, bursting into tears, as he finished his narration, “the Lord hath been very gracious unto thee!  He has taken thee home to thy rest, long before thou didst dare to hope for it.”

Slowly, and with subdued feelings, the Norman Barons left the chamber; Richard, whom they seemed to have almost forgotten, wandered to the stairs, to find his way to the room where he had slept last night.  He had not made many steps before he heard Osmond’s voice say, “Here, my Lord;” he looked up, saw a white cap at a doorway a little above him, he bounded up and flew into Dame Astrida’s outstretched arms.

How glad he was to sit in her lap, and lay his wearied head on her bosom, while, with a worn-out voice, he exclaimed, “Oh, Fru Astrida!  I am very, very tired of being Duke of Normandy!”

CHAPTER IV

Richard of Normandy was very anxious to know more of the little boy whom he had seen among his vassals.

“Ah! the young Baron de Montémar,” said Sir Eric.  “I knew his father well, and a brave man he was, though not of northern blood.  He was warden of the marches of the Epte, and was killed by your father’s side in the inroad of the Viscount du Cotentin, [10] at the time when you were born, Lord Richard.”

“But where does he live?  Shall I not see him again?”

“Montémar is on the bank of the Epte, in the domain that the French wrongfully claim from us.  He lives there with his mother, and if he be not yet returned, you shall see him presently.  Osmond, go you and seek out the lodgings of the young Montémar, and tell him the Duke would see him.”

Richard had never had a playfellow of his own age, and his eagerness to see Alberic de Montémar was great.  He watched from the window, and at length beheld Osmond entering the court with a boy of ten years old by his side, and an old grey-headed Squire, with a golden chain to mark him as a Seneschal or Steward of the Castle, walking behind.

Richard ran to the door to meet them, holding out his hand eagerly.  Alberic uncovered his bright dark hair, bowed low and gracefully, but stood as if he did not exactly know what to do next.  Richard grew shy at the same moment, and the two boys stood looking at each other somewhat awkwardly.  It was easy to see that they were of different races, so unlike were the blue eyes, flaxen hair, and fair face of the young Duke, to the black flashing eyes and olive cheek of his French vassal, who, though two years older, was scarcely above him in height; and his slight figure, well-proportioned, active and agile as it was, did not give the same promise of strength as the round limbs and large-boned frame of Richard, which even now seemed likely to rival the gigantic stature of his grandfather, Earl Rollo, the Ganger.

For some minutes the little Duke and the young Baron stood surveying each other without a word, and old Sir Eric did not improve matters by saying, “Well, Lord Duke, here he is.  Have you no better greeting for him?”

“The children are shame-faced,” said Fru Astrida, seeing how they both coloured.  “Is your Lady mother in good health, my young sir?”

Alberic blushed more deeply, bowed to the old northern lady, and answered fast and low in French, “I cannot speak the Norman tongue.”

Richard, glad to say something, interpreted Fru Astrida’s speech, and Alberic readily made courteous reply that his mother was well, and he thanked the Dame de Centeville, a French title which sounded new to Fru Astrida’s ears.  Then came the embarrassment again, and Fru Astrida at last said, “Take him out, Lord Richard; take him to see the horses in the stables, or the hounds, or what not.”

Richard was not sorry to obey, so out they went into the court of Rollo’s tower, and in the open air the shyness went off.  Richard showed his own pony, and Alberic asked if he could leap into the saddle without putting his foot in the stirrup.  No, Richard could not; indeed, even Osmond had never seen it done, for the feats of French chivalry had scarcely yet spread into Normandy.

“Can you?” said Richard; “will you show us?”

“I know I can with my own pony,” said Alberic, “for Bertrand will not let me mount in any other way; but I will try with yours, if you desire it, my Lord.”

So the pony was led out.  Alberic laid one hand on its mane, and vaulted on its back in a moment.  Both Osmond and Richard broke out loudly into admiration.  “Oh, this is nothing!” said Alberic.  “Bertrand says it is nothing.  Before he grew old and stiff he could spring into the saddle in this manner fully armed.  I ought to do this much better.”

Richard begged to be shown how to perform the exploit, and Alberic repeated it; then Richard wanted to try, but the pony’s patience would not endure any longer, and Alberic said he had learnt on a block of wood, and practised on the great wolf-hound.  They wandered about a little longer in the court, and then climbed up the spiral stone stairs to the battlements at the top of the tower, where they looked at the house-tops of Rouen close beneath, and the river Seine, broadening and glittering on one side in its course to the sea, and on the other narrowing to a blue ribbon, winding through the green expanse of fertile Normandy.  They threw the pebbles and bits of mortar down that they might hear them fall, and tried which could stand nearest to the edge of the battlement without being giddy.  Richard was pleased to find that he could go the nearest, and began to tell some of Fru Astrida’s stories about the precipices of Norway, among which when she was a young girl she used to climb about and tend the cattle in the long light summer time.  When the two boys came down again into the hall to dinner, they felt as if they had known each other all their lives.  The dinner