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

CHAPTER I

On a bright autumn day, as long ago as the year 943, there was a

great bustle in the Castle of Bayeux in Normandy.

 

The hall was large and low, the roof arched, and supported on thick

short columns, almost like the crypt of a Cathedral; the walls were

thick, and the windows, which had no glass, were very small, set in

such a depth of wall that there was a wide deep window seat, upon

which the rain might beat, without reaching the interior of the room.

And even if it had come in, there was nothing for it to hurt, for the

walls were of rough stone, and the floor of tiles. There was a fire

at each end of this great dark apartment, but there were no chimneys

over the ample hearths, and the smoke curled about in thick white

folds in the vaulted roof, adding to the wreaths of soot, which made

the hall look still darker.

 

The fire at the lower end was by far the largest and hottest. Great

black cauldrons hung over it, and servants, both men and women, with

red faces, bare and grimed arms, and long iron hooks, or pots and

pans, were busied around it. At the other end, which was raised

about three steps above the floor of the hall, other servants were

engaged. Two young maidens were strewing fresh rushes on the floor;

some men were setting up a long table of rough boards, supported on

trestles, and then ranging upon it silver cups, drinking horns, and

wooden trenchers.

 

Benches were placed to receive most of the guests, but in the middle,

at the place of honour, was a high chair with very thick crossing

legs, and the arms curiously carved with lions’ faces and claws; a

clumsy wooden footstool was set in front, and the silver drinking-cup

on the table was of far more beautiful workmanship than the others,

richly chased with vine leaves and grapes, and figures of little boys

with goats’ legs. If that cup could have told its story, it would

have been a strange one, for it had been made long since, in the old

Roman times, and been carried off from Italy by some Northman pirate.

 

From one of these scenes of activity to the other, there moved a

stately old lady: her long thick light hair, hardly touched with

grey, was bound round her head, under a tall white cap, with a band

passing under her chin: she wore a long sweeping dark robe, with

wide hanging sleeves, and thick gold ear-rings and necklace, which

had possibly come from the same quarter as the cup. She directed the

servants, inspected both the cookery and arrangements of the table,

held council with an old steward, now and then looked rather

anxiously from the window, as if expecting some one, and began to say

something about fears that these loitering youths would not bring

home the venison in time for Duke William’s supper.

 

Presently, she looked up rejoiced, for a few notes of a bugle-horn

were sounded; there was a clattering of feet, and in a few moments

there bounded into the hall, a boy of about eight years old, his

cheeks and large blue eyes bright with air and exercise, and his long

light-brown hair streaming behind him, as he ran forward flourishing

a bow in his hand, and crying out, “I hit him, I hit him! Dame

Astrida, do you hear? ‘Tis a stag of ten branches, and I hit him in

the neck.”

 

“You! my Lord Richard! you killed him?”

 

“Oh, no, I only struck him. It was Osmond’s shaft that took him in

the eye, and—Look you, Fru Astrida, he came thus through the wood,

and I stood here, it might be, under the great elm with my bow thus”-

-And Richard was beginning to act over again the whole scene of the

deer-hunt, but Fru, that is to say, Lady Astrida, was too busy to

listen, and broke in with, “Have they brought home the haunch?”

 

“Yes, Walter is bringing it. I had a long arrow—”

 

A stout forester was at this instant seen bringing in the venison,

and Dame Astrida hastened to meet it, and gave directions, little

Richard following her all the way, and talking as eagerly as if she

was attending to him, showing how he shot, how Osmond shot, how the

deer bounded, and how it fell, and then counting the branches of its

antlers, always ending with, “This is something to tell my father.

Do you think he will come soon?”

 

In the meantime two men entered the hall, one about fifty, the other,

one or two-and-twenty, both in hunting dresses of plain leather,

crossed by broad embroidered belts, supporting a knife, and a bugle-horn. The elder was broad-shouldered, sun-burnt, ruddy, and rather

stern-looking; the younger, who was also the taller, was slightly

made, and very active, with a bright keen grey eye, and merry smile.

These were Dame Astrida’s son, Sir Eric de Centeville, and her

grandson, Osmond; and to their care Duke William of Normandy had

committed his only child, Richard, to be fostered, or brought up. {1}

 

It was always the custom among the Northmen, that young princes

should thus be put under the care of some trusty vassal, instead of

being brought up at home, and one reason why the Centevilles had been

chosen by Duke William was, that both Sir Eric and his mother spoke

only the old Norwegian tongue, which he wished young Richard to

understand well, whereas, in other parts of the Duchy, the Normans

had forgotten their own tongue, and had taken up what was then called

the Langued’oui, a language between German and Latin, which was the

beginning of French.

 

On this day, Duke William himself was expected at Bayeux, to pay a

visit to his son before setting out on a journey to settle the

disputes between the Counts of Flanders and Montreuil, and this was

the reason of Fru Astrida’s great preparations. No sooner had she

seen the haunch placed upon a spit, which a little boy was to turn

before the fire, than she turned to dress something else, namely, the

young Prince Richard himself, whom she led off to one of the upper

rooms, and there he had full time to talk, while she, great lady

though she was, herself combed smooth his long flowing curls, and

fastened his short scarlet cloth tunic, which just reached to his

knee, leaving his neck, arms, and legs bare. He begged hard to be

allowed to wear a short, beautifully ornamented dagger at his belt,

but this Fru Astrida would not allow.

 

“You will have enough to do with steel and dagger before your life is

at an end,” said she, “without seeking to begin over soon.”

 

“To be sure I shall,” answered Richard. “I will be called Richard of

the Sharp Axe, or the Bold Spirit, I promise you, Fru Astrida. We

are as brave in these days as the Sigurds and Ragnars you sing of! I

only wish there were serpents and dragons to slay here in Normandy.”

 

“Never fear but you will find even too many of them,” said Dame

Astrida; “there be dragons of wrong here and everywhere, quite as

venomous as any in my Sagas.”

 

“I fear them not,” said Richard, but half understanding her, “if you

would only let me have the dagger! But, hark! hark!” he darted to

the window. “They come, they come! There is the banner of

Normandy.”

 

Away ran the happy child, and never rested till he stood at the

bottom of the long, steep, stone stair, leading to the embattled

porch. Thither came the Baron de Centeville, and his son, to receive

their Prince. Richard looked up at Osmond, saying, “Let me hold his

stirrup,” and then sprang up and shouted for joy, as under the arched

gateway there came a tall black horse, bearing the stately form of

the Duke of Normandy. His purple robe was fastened round him by a

rich belt, sustaining the mighty weapon, from which he was called

“William of the long Sword,” his legs and feet were cased in linked

steel chain-work, his gilded spurs were on his heels, and his short

brown hair was covered by his ducal cap of purple, turned up with

fur, and a feather fastened in by a jewelled clasp. His brow was

grave and thoughtful, and there was something both of dignity and

sorrow in his face, at the first moment of looking at it, recalling

the recollection that he had early lost his young wife, the Duchess

Emma, and that he was beset by many cares and toils; but the next

glance generally conveyed encouragement, so full of mildness were his

eyes, and so kind the expression of his lips.

 

And now, how bright a smile beamed upon the little Richard, who, for

the first time, paid him the duty of a pupil in chivalry, by holding

the stirrup while he sprung from his horse. Next, Richard knelt to

receive his blessing, which was always the custom when children met

their parents. The Duke laid his hand on his head, saying, “God of

His mercy bless thee, my son,” and lifting him in his arms, held him

to his breast, and let him cling to his neck and kiss him again and

again, before setting him down, while Sir Eric came forward, bent his

knee, kissed the hand of his Prince, and welcomed him to his Castle.

 

It would take too long to tell all the friendly and courteous words

that were spoken, the greeting of the Duke and the noble old Lady

Astrida, and the reception of the Barons who had come in the train of

their Lord. Richard was bidden to greet them, but, though he held

out his hand as desired, he shrank a little to his father’s side,

gazing at them in dread and shyness.

 

There was Count Bernard, of Harcourt, called the “Dane,” {2} with his

shaggy red hair and beard, to which a touch of grey had given a

strange unnatural tint, his eyes looking fierce and wild under his

thick eyebrows, one of them mis-shapen in consequence of a sword cut,

which had left a broad red and purple scar across both cheek and

forehead. There, too, came tall Baron Rainulf, of Ferrieres, cased

in a linked steel hauberk, that rang as he walked, and the men-at-arms, with helmets and shields,