The Little Duke by Charlotte Mary Yonge (snow like ashes TXT) 📕

would never see the light of day.”

 

“Then Bernard de Harcourt would come and set me free,” fearlessly

answered Richard.

 

“Do you bandy words with me, child? Ask Prince Lothaire’s pardon

instantly, or you shall rue it.”

 

“I have done nothing to ask his pardon for. It would have been cruel

and cowardly in me to let him put out the poor hawk’s eyes,” said

Richard, with a Northman’s stern contempt for pain, disdaining to

mention his own burnt cheek, which indeed the King might have seen

plainly enough.

 

“Hawk’s eyes!” repeated the King. “Speak the truth, Sir Duke; do not

add slander to your other faults.”

 

“I have spoken the truth—I always speak it!” cried Richard.

“Whoever says otherwise lies in his throat.”

 

Osmond here hastily interfered, and desired permission to tell the

whole story. The hawk was a valuable bird, and Louis’s face darkened

when he heard what Lothaire had purposed, for the Prince had, in

telling his own story, made it appear that Richard had been the

aggressor by insisting on letting the falcon fly. Osmond finished by

pointing to the mark on Richard’s cheek, so evidently a burn, as to

be proof that hot iron had played a part in the matter. The King

looked at one of his own Squires and asked his account, and he with

some hesitation could not but reply that it was as the young Sieur de

Centeville had said. Thereupon Louis angrily reproved his own people

for having assisted the Prince in trying to injure the hawk, called

for the chief falconer, rated him for not better attending to his

birds, and went forth with him to see if the hawk could yet be

recaptured, leaving the two boys neither punished nor pardoned.

 

“So you have escaped for this once,” said Gerberge, coldly, to

Richard; “you had better beware another time. Come with me, my poor

darling Lothaire.” She led her son away to her own apartments, and

the French Squires began to grumble to each other complaints of the

impossibility of pleasing their Lords, since, if they contradicted

Prince Lothaire, he was so spiteful that he was sure to set the Queen

against them, and that was far worse in the end than the King’s

displeasure. Osmond, in the meantime, took Richard to re-commence

bathing his face, and presently Carloman ran out to pity him, wonder

at him for not crying, and say he was glad the poor hawk had escaped.

 

The cheek continued inflamed and painful for some time, and there was

a deep scar long after the pain had ceased, but Richard thought

little of it after the first, and would have scorned to bear ill-will

to Lothaire for the injury.

 

Lothaire left off taunting Richard with his Norman accent, and

calling him a young Sea-king. He had felt his strength, and was

afraid of him; but he did not like him the better—he never played

with him willingly—scowled, and looked dark and jealous, if his

father, or if any of the great nobles took the least notice of the

little Duke, and whenever he was out of hearing, talked against him

with all his natural spitefulness.

 

Richard liked Lothaire quite as little, contemning almost equally his

cowardly ways and his imperious disposition. Since he had been Duke,

Richard had been somewhat inclined to grow imperious himself, though

always kept under restraint by Fru Astrida’s good training, and Count

Bernard’s authority, and his whole generous nature would have

revolted against treating Alberic, or indeed his meanest vassal, as

Lothaire used the unfortunate children who were his playfellows.

Perhaps this made him look on with great horror at the tyranny which

Lothaire exercised; at any rate he learnt to abhor it more, and to

make many resolutions against ordering people about uncivilly when

once he should be in Normandy again. He often interfered to protect

the poor boys, and generally with success, for the Prince was afraid

of provoking such another shake as Richard had once given him, and

though he generally repaid himself on his victim in the end, he

yielded for the time.

 

Carloman, whom Richard often saved from his brother’s unkindness,

clung closer and closer to him, went with him everywhere, tried to do

all he did, grew very fond of Osmond, and liked nothing better than

to sit by Richard in some wide window-seat, in the evening, after

supper, and listen to Richard’s version of some of Fru Astrida’s

favourite tales, or hear the never-ending history of sports at

Centeville, or at Rollo’s Tower, or settle what great things they

would both do when they were grown up, and Richard was ruling

Normandy—perhaps go to the Holy Land together, and slaughter an

unheard-of host of giants and dragons on the way. In the meantime,

however, poor Carloman gave small promise of being able to perform

great exploits, for he was very small for his age and often ailing;

soon tired, and never able to bear much rough play. Richard, who had

never had any reason to learn to forbear, did not at first understand

this, and made Carloman cry several times with his roughness and

violence, but this always vexed him so much that he grew careful to

avoid such things for the future, and gradually learnt to treat his

poor little weakly friend with a gentleness and patience at which

Osmond used to marvel, and which he would hardly have been taught in

his prosperity at home.

 

Between Carloman and Osmond he was thus tolerably happy at Laon, but

he missed his own dear friends, and the loving greetings of his

vassals, and longed earnestly to be at Rouen, asking Osmond almost

every night when they should go back, to which Osmond could only

answer that he must pray that Heaven would be pleased to bring them

home safely.

 

Osmond, in the meantime, kept a vigilant watch for anything that

might seem to 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