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

animated companion and friend. In one respect Alberic was a better

playfellow for the Duke than Osmond de Centeville, for Osmond,

playing as a grown up man, not for his own amusement, but the

child’s, had left all the advantages of the game to Richard, who was

growing not a little inclined to domineer. This Alberic did not

like, unless, as he said, “it was to be always Lord and vassal, and

then he did not care for the game,” and he played with so little

animation that Richard grew vexed.

“I can’t help it,” said Alberic; “if you take all the best chances to

yourself, ‘tis no sport for me. I will do your bidding, as you are

the Duke, but I cannot like it.”

“Never mind my being Duke, but play as we used to do.”

“Then let us play as I did with Bertrand’s sons at Montemar. I was

their Baron, as you are my Duke, but my mother said there would be no

sport unless we forgot all that at play.”

“Then so we will. Come, begin again, Alberic, and you shall have the

first turn.”

However, Alberic was quite as courteous and respectful to the Duke

when they were not at play, as the difference of their rank required;

indeed, he had learnt much more of grace and courtliness of demeanour

from his mother, a Provencal lady, than was yet to be found among the

Normans. The Chaplain of Montemar had begun to teach him to read and

write, and he liked learning much better than Richard, who would not

have gone on with Father Lucas’s lessons at all, if Abbot Martin of

Jumieges had not put him in mind that it had been his father’s

especial desire.

What Richard most disliked was, however, the being obliged to sit in

council. The Count of Harcourt did in truth govern the dukedom, but

nothing could be done without the Duke’s consent, and once a week at

least, there was held in the great hall of Rollo’s tower, what was

called a Parlement, or “a talkation,” where Count Bernard, the

Archbishop, the Baron de Centeville, the Abbot of Jumieges, and such

other Bishops, Nobles, or Abbots, as might chance to be at Rouen,

consulted on the affairs of Normandy; and there the little Duke

always was forced to be present, sitting up in his chair of state,

and hearing rather than listening to, questions about the repairing

and guarding of Castles, the asking of loans from the vassals, the

appeals from the Barons of the Exchequer, who were then Nobles sent

through the duchy to administer justice, and the discussions about

the proceedings of his neighbours, King Louis of France, Count

Foulques of Anjou, and Count Herluin of Montreuil, and how far the

friendship of Hugh of Paris, and Alan of Brittany might be trusted.

Very tired of all this did Richard grow, especially when he found

that the Normans had made up their minds not to attempt a war against

the wicked Count of Flanders. He sighed most wearily, yawned again

and again, and moved restlessly about in his chair; but whenever

Count Bernard saw him doing so, he received so severe a look and sign

that he grew perfectly to dread the eye of the fierce old Dane.

Bernard never spoke to him to praise him, or to enter into any of his

pursuits; he only treated him with the grave distant respect due to

him as a Prince, or else now and then spoke a few stern words to him

of reproof for this restlessness, or for some other childish folly.

Used as Richard was to be petted and made much of by the whole house

of Centeville, he resented this considerably in secret, disliked and

feared the old Count, and more than once told Alberic de Montemar,

that as soon as he was fourteen, when he would be declared of age, he

should send Count Bernard to take care of his own Castle of Harcourt,

instead of letting him sit gloomy and grim in the Castle hall in the

evening, spoiling all their sport.

Winter had set in, and Osmond used daily to take the little Duke and

Alberic to the nearest sheet of ice, for the Normans still prided

themselves on excelling in skating, though they had long since left

the frost-bound streams and lakes of Norway.

One day, as they were returning from the ice, they were surprised,

even before they entered the Castle court, by hearing the trampling

of horses’ feet, and a sound of voices.

“What may this mean?” said Osmond. “There must surely be a great

arrival of the vassals. The Duke of Brittany, perhaps.”

“Oh,” said Richard, piteously, “we have had one council already this

week. I hope another is not coming!”

“It must import something extraordinary,” proceeded Osmond. “It is a

mischance that the Count of Harcourt is not at Rouen just now.”

Richard thought this no mischance at all, and just then, Alberic, who

had run on a little before, came back exclaiming, “They are French.

It is the Frank tongue, not the Norman, that they speak.”

“So please you, my Lord,” said Osmond, stopping short, “we go not

rashly into the midst of them. I would I knew what were best to do.”

Osmond rubbed his forehead and stood considering, while the two boys

looked at him anxiously. In a few seconds, before he had come to any

conclusion, there came forth from the gate a Norman Squire,

accompanied by two strangers.

“My Lord Duke,” said he to Richard, in French, “Sir Eric has sent me

to bring you tidings that the King of France has arrived to receive

your homage.”

“The King!” exclaimed Osmond.

“Ay!” proceeded the Norman, in his own tongue, “Louis himself, and

with a train looking bent on mischief. I wish it may portend good to

my Lord here. You see I am accompanied. I believe from my heart

that Louis meant to prevent you from receiving a warning, and taking

the boy out of his clutches.”

“Ha! what?” said Richard, anxiously. “Why is the King come? What

must I do?”

“Go on now, since there is no help for it,” said Osmond.

“Greet the king as becomes you, bend the knee, and pay him homage.”

Richard repeated over to himself the form of homage that he might be

perfect in it, and walked on into the court; Alberic, Osmond, and the

rest falling back as he entered. The court was crowded with horses

and men, and it was only by calling out loudly, “The Duke, the Duke,”

that Osmond could get space enough made for them to pass. In a few

moments Richard had mounted the steps and stood in the great hall.

In the chair of state, at the upper end of the room, sat a small

spare man, of about eight or nine-and-twenty, pale, and of a light

complexion, with a rich dress of blue and gold. Sir Eric and several

other persons stood respectfully round him, and he was conversing

with the Archbishop, who, as well as Sir Eric, cast several anxious

glances at the little Duke as he advanced up the hall. He came up to

the King, put his knee to the ground, and was just beginning, “Louis,

King of France, I—” when he found himself suddenly lifted from the

ground in the King’s arms, and kissed on both cheeks. Then setting

him on his knee, the King exclaimed, “And is this the son of my brave

and noble friend, Duke William? Ah! I should have known it from his

likeness. Let me embrace you again, dear child, for your father’s

sake.”

Richard was rather overwhelmed, but he thought the King very kind,

especially when Louis began to admire his height and free-spirited

bearing, and to lament that his own sons, Lothaire and Carloman, were

so much smaller and more backward. He caressed Richard again and

again, praised every word he said—Fru Astrida was nothing to him;

and Richard began to say to himself how strange and unkind it was of

Bernard de Harcourt to like to find fault with him, when, on the

contrary, he deserved all this praise from the King himself.