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

looking as if Sir Eric’s armour that

hung in the hail had come to life and was walking about.

 

They sat down to Fru Astrida’s banquet, the old Lady at the Duke’s

right hand, and the Count of Harcourt on his left; Osmond carved for

the Duke, and Richard handed his cup and trencher. All through the

meal, the Duke and his Lords talked earnestly of the expedition on

which they were bound to meet Count Arnulf of Flanders, on a little

islet in the river Somme, there to come to some agreement, by which

Arnulf might make restitution to Count Herluin of Montreuil, for

certain wrongs which he had done him.

 

Some said that this would be the fittest time for requiring Arnulf to

yield up some towns on his borders, to which Normandy had long laid

claim, but the Duke shook his head, saying that he must seek no

selfish advantage, when called to judge between others.

 

Richard was rather tired of their grave talk, and thought the supper

very long; but at last it was over, the Grace was said, the boards

which had served for tables were removed, and as it was still light,

some of the guests went to see how their steeds had been bestowed,

others to look at Sir Eric’s horses and hounds, and others collected

together in groups.

 

The Duke had time to attend to his little boy, and Richard sat upon

his knee and talked, told about all his pleasures, how his arrow had

hit the deer to-day, how Sir Eric let him ride out to the chase on

his little pony, how Osmond would take him to bathe in the cool

bright river, and how he had watched the raven’s nest in the top of

the old tower.

 

Duke William listened, and smiled, and seemed as well pleased to hear

as the boy was to tell. “And, Richard,” said he at last, “have you

nought to tell me of Father Lucas, and his great book? What, not a

word? Look up, Richard, and tell me how it goes with the learning.”

{3}

 

“Oh, father!” said Richard, in a low voice, playing with the clasp of

his father’s belt, and looking down, “I don’t like those crabbed

letters on the old yellow parchment.”

 

“But you try to learn them, I hope!” said the Duke.

 

“Yes, father, I do, but they are very hard, and the words are so

long, and Father Lucas will always come when the sun is so bright,

and the wood so green, that I know not how to bear to be kept poring

over those black hooks and strokes.”

 

“Poor little fellow,” said Duke William, smiling and Richard, rather

encouraged, went on more boldly. “You do not know this reading,

noble father?”

 

“To my sorrow, no,” said the Duke.

 

“And Sir Eric cannot read, nor Osmond, nor any one, and why must I

read, and cramp my fingers with writing, just as if I was a clerk,

instead of a young Duke?” Richard looked up in his father’s face,

and then hung his head, as if half-ashamed of questioning his will,

but the Duke answered him without displeasure.

 

“It is hard, no doubt, my boy, to you now, but it will be the better

for you in the end. I would give much to be able myself to read

those holy books which I must now only hear read to me by a clerk,

but since I have had the wish, I have had no time to learn as you

have now.”

 

“But Knights and Nobles never learn,” said Richard.

 

“And do you think it a reason they never should? But you are wrong,

my boy, for the Kings of France and England, the Counts of Anjou, of

Provence, and Paris, yes, even King Hako of Norway, {4} can all

read.”

 

“I tell you, Richard, when the treaty was drawn up for restoring this

King Louis to his throne, I was ashamed to find myself one of the few

crown vassals who could not write his name thereto.”

 

“But none is so wise or so good as you, father,” said Richard,

proudly. “Sir Eric often says so.”

 

“Sir Eric loves his Duke too well to see his faults,” said Duke

William; “but far better and wiser might I have been, had I been

taught by such masters as you may be. And hark, Richard, not only

can all Princes here read, but in England, King Ethelstane would have

every Noble taught; they study in his own palace, with his brothers,

and read the good words that King Alfred the truth-teller put into

their own tongue for them.”

 

“I hate the English,” said Richard, raising his head and looking very

fierce.

 

“Hate them? and wherefore?”

 

“Because they traitorously killed the brave Sea King Ragnar! Fru

Astrida sings his death-song, which he chanted when the vipers were

gnawing him to death, and he gloried to think how his sons would

bring the ravens to feast upon the Saxon. Oh! had I been his son,

how I would have carried on the feud! How I would have laughed when

I cut down the false traitors, and burnt their palaces!” Richard’s

eye kindled, and his words, as he spoke the old Norse language,

flowed into the sort of wild verse in which the Sagas or legendary

songs were composed, and which, perhaps, he was unconsciously

repeating.

 

Duke William looked grave.

 

“Fru Astrida must sing you no more such Sagas,” said he, “if they

fill your mind with these revengeful thoughts, fit only for the

worshippers of Odin and Thor. Neither Ragnar nor his sons knew

better than to rejoice in this deadly vengeance, but we, who are

Christians, know that it is for us to forgive.”

 

“The English had slain their father!” said Richard, looking up with

wondering dissatisfied eyes.

 

“Yes, Richard, and I speak not against them, for they were even as we

should have been, had not King Harold the fair-haired driven your

grandfather from Denmark. They had not been taught the truth, but to

us it has been said, ‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ Listen to

me, my son, Christian as is this nation of ours, this duty of

forgiveness is too often neglected, but let it not be so with you.

Bear in mind, whenever you see the Cross {5} marked on our banner, or

carved in stone on the Churches, that it speaks of forgiveness to us;

but of that pardon we shall never taste if we forgive not our

enemies. Do you mark me, boy?”

 

Richard hesitated a little, and then said, “Yes, father, but I could

never have pardoned, had I been one of Ragnar’s sons.”

 

“It may be that you will be in their case, Richard,” said the Duke,

“and should I fall, as it may well be I shall, in some of the

contests that tear to pieces this unhappy Kingdom of France, then,

remember what I say now. I charge you, on your duty to God and to

your father, that you keep up no feud, no hatred, but rather that you

should deem me best revenged, when you have with heart and hand,

given the fullest proof of forgiveness to your enemy. Give me your

word that you will.”

 

“Yes, father,” said Richard, with rather a subdued tone, and resting

his head on his father’s shoulder. There was a silence for a little

space, during which he began to revive into playfulness, to stroke

the Duke’s short curled beard, and play with his embroidered collar.

 

In so doing, his fingers caught hold of a silver chain, and pulling

it out with a jerk, he saw a silver key attached to it. “Oh, what is

that?” he asked eagerly. “What does that key unlock?”

 

“My greatest treasure,” replied Duke William, as he replaced the

chain and key within his robe.

 

“Your greatest treasure, father! Is that your coronet?”

 

“You will know one day,” said his father, putting the little hand

down from its too busy investigations; and some of the Barons at that

moment returning into the hall, he had no more leisure to bestow on

his little son.

 

The next day, after morning service in the Chapel, and breakfast in

the hall, the Duke again set forward on his journey, giving Richard

hopes he might return in a fortnight’s time, and obtaining from him a

promise that he would be very attentive to Father Lucas, and very

obedient to Sir Eric de Centeville.