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

him.”

 

“Peace, dogs!” said Sir Eric, slowly rising, as the blast of the horn

was repeated. “Go, Osmond, with the porter, and see whether he who

comes at such an hour be friend or foe. Stay you here, my Lord,” he

added, as Richard was running after Osmond; and the little boy

obeyed, and stood still, though quivering all over with impatience.

 

“Tidings from the Duke, I should guess,” said Fru Astrida. “It can

scarce be himself at such an hour.”

 

“Oh, it must be, dear Fru Astrida!” said Richard. “He said he would

come again. Hark, there are horses’ feet in the court! I am sure

that is his black charger’s tread! And I shall not be there to hold

his stirrup! Oh! Sir Eric, let me go.”

 

Sir Eric, always a man of few words, only shook his head, and at that

moment steps were heard on the stone stairs. Again Richard was about

to spring forward, when Osmond returned, his face showing, at a

glance, that something was amiss; but all that he said was, “Count

Bernard of Harcourt, and Sir Rainulf de Ferrieres,” and he stood

aside to let them pass.

 

Richard stood still in the midst of the hall, disappointed. Without

greeting to Sir Eric, or to any within the hall, the Count of

Harcourt came forward to Richard, bent his knee before him, took his

hand, and said with a broken voice and heaving breast, “Richard, Duke

of Normandy, I am thy liegeman and true vassal;” then rising from his

knees while Rainulf de Ferrieres went through the same form, the old

man covered his face with his hands and wept aloud.

 

“Is it even so?” said the Baron de Centeville; and being answered by

a mournful look and sigh from Ferrieres, he too bent before the boy,

and repeated the words, “I am thy liegeman and true vassal, and swear

fealty to thee for my castle and barony of Centeville.”

 

“Oh, no, no!” cried Richard, drawing back his hand in a sort of

agony, feeling as if he was in a frightful dream from which he could

not awake. “What means it? Oh! Fru Astrida, tell me what means it?

Where is my father?”

 

“Alas, my child!” said the old lady, putting her arm round him, and

drawing him close to her, whilst her tears flowed fast, and Richard

stood, reassured by her embrace, listening with eyes open wide, and

deep oppressed breathing, to what was passing between the four

nobles, who spoke earnestly among themselves, without much heed of

him.

 

“The Duke dead!” repeated Sir Eric de Centeville, like one stunned

and stupefied.

 

“Even so,” said Rainulf, slowly and sadly, and the silence was only

broken by the long-drawn sobs of old Count Bernard.

 

“But how? when? where?” broke forth Sir Eric, presently. “There was

no note of battle when you went forth. Oh, why was not I at his

side?”

 

“He fell not in battle,” gloomily replied Sir Rainulf.

 

“Ha! could sickness cut him down so quickly?”

 

“It was not sickness,” answered Ferrieres. “It was treachery. He

fell in the Isle of Pecquigny, by the hand of the false Fleming!”

 

“Lives the traitor yet?” cried the Baron de Centeville, grasping his

good sword.

 

“He lives and rejoices in his crime,” said Ferrieres, “safe in his

own merchant towns.”

 

“I can scarce credit you, my Lords!” said Sir Eric. “Our Duke slain,

and his enemy safe, and you here to tell the tale!”

 

“I would I were stark and stiff by my Lord’s side!” said Count

Bernard, “but for the sake of Normandy, and of that poor child, who

is like to need all that ever were friends to his house. I would

that mine eyes had been blinded for ever, ere they had seen that

sight! And not a sword lifted in his defence! Tell you how it

passed, Rainulf! My tongue will not speak it!”

 

He threw himself on a bench and covered his face with his mantle,

while Rainulf de Ferrieres proceeded: “You know how in an evil hour

our good Duke appointed to meet this caitiff, Count of Flanders, in

the Isle of Pecquigny, the Duke and Count each bringing twelve men

with them, all unarmed. Duke Alan of Brittany was one on our side,

Count Bernard here another, old Count Bothon and myself; we bore no

weapon—would that we had—but not so the false Flemings. Ah me! I

shall never forget Duke William’s lordly presence when he stepped

ashore, and doffed his bonnet to the knave Arnulf.”

 

“Yes,” interposed Bernard. “And marked you not the words of the

traitor, as they met? ‘My Lord,’ quoth he, ‘you are my shield and

defence.’ {6} Would that I could cleave his treason-hatching skull

with my battle-axe.”

 

“So,” continued Rainulf, “they conferred together, and as words cost

nothing to Arnulf, he not only promised all restitution to the paltry

Montreuil, but even was for offering to pay homage to our Duke for

Flanders itself; but this our William refused, saying it were foul

wrong to both King Louis of France, and Kaiser Otho of Germany, to

take from them their vassal. They took leave of each other in all

courtesy, and we embarked again. It was Duke William’s pleasure to

go alone in a small boat, while we twelve were together in another.

Just as we had nearly reached our own bank, there was a shout from

the Flemings that their Count had somewhat further to say to the

Duke, and forbidding us to follow him, the Duke turned his boat and

went back again. No sooner had he set foot on the isle,” proceeded

the Norman, clenching his hands, and speaking between his teeth,

“than we saw one Fleming strike him on the head with an oar; he fell

senseless, the rest threw themselves upon him, and the next moment

held up their bloody daggers in scorn at us! You may well think how

we shouted and yelled at them, and plied our oars like men

distracted, but all in vain, they were already in their boats, and

ere we could even reach the isle, they were on the other side of the

river, mounted their horses, fled with coward speed, and were out of

reach of a Norman’s vengeance.”

 

“But they shall not be so long!” cried Richard, starting forward; for

to his childish fancy this dreadful history was more like one of Dame

Astrida’s legends than a reality, and at the moment his thought was

only of the blackness of the treason. “Oh, that I were a man to

chastise them! One day they shall feel—”

 

He broke off short, for he remembered how his father had forbidden

his denunciations of vengeance, but his words were eagerly caught up

by the Barons, who, as Duke William had said, were far from

possessing any temper of forgiveness, thought revenge a duty, and

were only glad to see a warlike spirit in their new Prince.

 

“Ha! say you so, my young Lord?” exclaimed old Count Bernard, rising.

“Yes, and I see a sparkle in your eye that tells me you will one day

avenge him nobly!”

 

Richard drew up his head, and his heart throbbed high as Sir Eric

made answer, “Ay, truly, that will he! You might search Normandy

through, yea, and Norway likewise, ere you would find a temper more

bold and free. Trust my word, Count Bernard, our young Duke will be

famed as widely as ever were his forefathers!”

 

“I believe it well!” said Bernard. “He hath the port of his

grandfather, Duke Rollo, and much, too, of his noble father! How say

you, Lord Richard, will you be a valiant leader of the Norman race

against our foes?”

 

“That I will!” said Richard, carried away by the applause excited by

those few words of his. “I will ride at your head this very night if

you will but go to chastise the false Flemings.”

 

“You shall ride with us to-morrow, my Lord,” answered Bernard, “but

it must be to Rouen, there to be invested with your ducal sword and

mantle, and to receive the homage of your vassals.”

 

Richard drooped his head without replying, for this seemed to bring

to him the perception that his father was really gone, and that he

should never see him again. He thought of all his projects for the

day of his return, how he had almost counted the hours, and had

looked forward to telling him that Father Lucas was well pleased with

him! And now he should never nestle into his breast again, never

hear his voice, never see those kind eyes beam upon him. Large tears

gathered in his eyes, and ashamed that they should be seen, he sat

down on a footstool at Fru Astrida’s feet, leant his forehead on his

hands, and thought over all that his father had done and said the

last time they were together. He fancied the return that had been

promised, going over the meeting and the greeting, till he had almost

persuaded himself that this dreadful story was but a dream. But when

he looked up, there were the Barons, with their grave mournful faces,

speaking of the corpse, which Duke Alan of Brittany was escorting to

Rouen, there to be buried beside the old Duke Rollo, and the Duchess

Emma, Richard’s mother. Then he lost himself in wonder how that

stiff bleeding body could be the same as the father whose arm was so

lately around him, and whether his father’s spirit knew how he was

thinking of him; and in these dreamy thoughts, the young orphan Duke

of Normandy, forgotten by his vassals in their grave councils, fell

asleep, and scarce wakened enough to attend to his prayers, when Fru

Astrida at length remembered him, and led him away to bed.

 

When Richard awoke the next morning, he could hardly believe that all

that had passed in the evening was true, but soon he found that it

was but too real, and all was prepared for him to go to Rouen with

the vassals; indeed, it was for no other purpose than to fetch him

that the Count of Harcourt had come to Bayeux. Fru Astrida was quite

unhappy that “the child,” as she called him, should go alone with the

warriors; but Sir Eric laughed at her, and said that it would never

do for the Duke of Normandy to bring his nurse with him in his first

entry into Rouen, and she must be content to follow at some space

behind under the escort of Walter the huntsman.

 

So she took leave of Richard, charging both Sir Eric and Osmond to

have the utmost care of him, and shedding tears as if the parting was

to be for a much longer space; then he bade farewell to the servants

of the castle, received the blessing of Father Lucas, and mounting

his pony, rode off between Sir Eric and Count Bernard. Richard was

but a little boy, and he did not think so much of his loss, as he

rode along in the free morning air, feeling himself a Prince at the

head of his vassals, his banner displayed before him, and the people

coming out wherever he passed to gaze on him, and call for blessings

on his name. Rainulf de Ferrieres carried a large heavy purse filled

with silver and gold, and whenever they came to these gazing crowds,

Richard was well pleased to thrust his hands deep into it, and

scatter handfuls of coins among the gazers, especially where he saw

little children.

 

They stopped to dine and rest in the middle of the day, at the castle

of a Baron, who, as soon as the meal was over,