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.
Louis of France and the Little Duke
Duke Richard of Normandy slept in the room which had been his father’s; Alberic de Montémar, as his page, slept at his feet, and Osmond de Centeville had a bed on the floor, across the door, where he lay with his sword close at hand, as his young Lord’s guard and protector.
All had been asleep for some little time, when Osmond was startled by a slight movement of the door, which could not be pushed open without awakening him. In an instant he had grasped his sword, while he pressed his shoulder to the door to keep it closed; but it was his father’s voice that answered him with a few whispered words in the Norse tongue, “It is I, open.” He made way instantly, and old Sir Eric entered, treading cautiously with bare feet, and sat down on the bed motioning him to do the same, so that they might be able to speak lower. “Right, Osmond,” he said. “It is well to be on the alert, for peril enough is around him—The Frank means mischief! I know from a sure hand that Arnulf of Flanders was in council with him just before he came hither, with his false tongue, wiling and coaxing the poor child!”
“Ungrateful traitor!” murmured Osmond. “Do you guess his purpose?”
“Yes, surely, to carry the boy off with him, and so he trusts doubtless to cut off all the race of Rollo! I know his purpose is to bear off the Duke, as a ward of the Crown forsooth. Did you not hear him luring the child with his promises of friendship with the Princes? I could not understand all his French words, but I saw it plain enough.”
“You will never allow it?”
“If he does, it must be across our dead bodies; but taken as we are by surprise, our resistance will little avail. The Castle is full of French, the hall and court swarm with them. Even if we could draw our Normans together, we should not be more than a dozen men, and what could we do but die? That we are ready for, if it may not be otherwise, rather than let our charge be thus borne off without a pledge for his safety, and without the knowledge of the states.”
“The king could not have come at a worse time,” said Osmond.
“No, just when Bernard the Dane is absent. If he only knew what has befallen, he could raise the country, and come to the rescue.”
“Could we not send some one to bear the tidings to-night?”
“I know not,” said Sir Eric, musingly. “The French have taken the keeping of the doors; indeed they are so thick through the Castle that I can hardly reach one of our men, nor could I spare one hand that may avail to guard the boy to-morrow.”
“Sir Eric;” a bare little foot was heard on the floor, and Alberic de Montémar stood before him. “I did not mean to listen, but I could not help hearing you. I cannot fight for the Duke yet, but I could carry a message.”
“How would that be?” said Osmond, eagerly. “Once out of the Castle, and in Rouen, he could easily find means of sending to the Count. He might go either to the Convent of St. Ouen, or, which would be better, to the trusty armourer, Thibault, who would soon find man and horse to send after the Count.”
“Ha! let me see,” said Sir Eric. “It might be. But how is he to get out?”
“I know a way,” said Alberic. “I scrambled down that wide buttress by the east wall last week, when our ball was caught in a branch of the ivy, and the drawbridge is down.”
“If Bernard knew, it would be off my mind, at least!” said Sir Eric. “Well, my young Frenchman, you may do good service.”
“Osmond,” whispered Alberic, as he began hastily to dress himself, “only ask one thing of Sir Eric—never to call me young Frenchman again!”
Sir Eric smiled, saying, “Prove yourself Norman, my boy.”
“Then,” added Osmond, “if it were possible to get the Duke himself out of the castle to-morrow morning. If I could take him forth by the postern, and once bring him into the town, he would be safe. It would be only to raise the burghers, or else to take refuge in the Church of Our Lady till the Count came up, and then Louis would find his prey out of his hands when he awoke and sought him.”
“That might be,” replied Sir Eric; “but I doubt your success. The French are too eager to hold him fast, to let him slip out of their hands. You will find every door guarded.”
“Yes, but all the French have not seen the Duke, and the sight of a squire and a little page going forth, will scarcely excite their suspicion.”
“Ay, if the Duke would bear himself like a little page; but that you need not hope for. Besides, he is so taken with this King’s flatteries, that I doubt whether he would consent to leave him for the sake of Count Bernard. Poor child, he is like to be soon taught to know his true friends.”
“I am ready,” said Alberic, coming forward.
The Baron de Centeville repeated his instructions, and then undertook to guard the door, while his son saw Alberic set off on his expedition. Osmond went with him softly down the stairs, then avoiding the hall, which was filled with French, they crept silently to a narrow window, guarded by iron bars, placed at such short intervals apart that only so small and slim a form as Alberic’s could have squeezed out between them. The distance to the ground was not much more than twice his own height, and the wall was so covered with ivy, that it was not a very dangerous feat for an active boy, so that Alberic was soon safe on the ground, then looking up to wave his cap, he ran on along the side of the moat, and was soon lost to Osmond’s sight in the darkness.
Osmond returned to the Duke’s chamber, and relieved his father’s guard, while Richard slept soundly on, little guessing at the plots of his enemies, or at the schemes of his faithful subjects for his protection.
Osmond thought this all the better, for he had small trust in Richard’s patience and self-command, and thought there was much more chance of getting him unnoticed out of the Castle, if he did not know how much depended on it, and how dangerous his situation was.
When Richard awoke, he was much surprised at missing Alberic, but Osmond said he was gone into the town to Thibault the armourer, and this was a message on which he was so likely to be employed that Richard’s suspicion was not excited. All the time he was dressing he talked about the King, and everything he meant to show him that day; then, when he was ready, the first thing was as usual to go to attend morning mass.
“Not by that way, to-day, my Lord,” said Osmond, as Richard was about to enter the great hall. “It is crowded with the French who have been sleeping there all night; come to the postern.”
Osmond turned, as he spoke, along the passage, walking fast, and not sorry that Richard was lingering a little, as it was safer for him to be first. The postern was, as he expected, guarded by two tall steel-cased figures, who immediately held their lances across the door-way, saying, “None passes without warrant.”
“You will surely let us of the Castle attend to our daily business,” said Osmond. “You will hardly break your fast this morning if you stop all communication with the town.”
“You must bring warrant,” repeated one of the men-at-arms. Osmond was beginning to say that he was the son of the Seneschal of the Castle, when Richard came hastily up. “What? Do these men want to stop us?” he exclaimed in the imperious manner he had begun to take up since his accession. “Let us go on, sirs.”
The men-at-arms looked at each other, and guarded the door more closely. Osmond saw it was hopeless, and only wanted to draw his young charge back without being recognised, but Richard exclaimed loudly, “What means this?”
“The King has given orders that none should pass without warrant,” was Osmond’s answer. “We must wait.”
“I will pass!” said Richard, impatient at opposition, to which he was little accustomed. “What mean you, Osmond? This is my Castle, and no one has a right to stop me. Do you hear, grooms? let me go. I am the Duke!”
The sentinels bowed, but all they said was, “Our orders are express.”
“I tell you I am Duke of Normandy, and I will go where I please in my own city!” exclaimed Richard, passionately pressing against the crossed staves of the weapons, to force his way between them, but he was caught and held fast in the powerful gauntlet of one of the men-at-arms. “Let me go, villain!” cried he, struggling with all his might. “Osmond, Osmond, help!”
Even as he spoke Osmond had disengaged him from the grasp of the Frenchman, and putting his hand on his arm, said, “Nay, my Lord, it is not for you to strive with such as these.”
“I will strive!” cried the boy. “I will not have my way barred in my own Castle. I will tell the King how these rogues of his use me. I will have them in the dungeon. Sir Eric! where is Sir Eric?”
Away he rushed to the stairs, Osmond hurrying after him, lest he should throw himself into some fresh danger, or by his loud calls attract the French, who might then easily make him prisoner. However, on the very first step of the stairs stood Sir Eric, who was too anxious for the success of the attempt to escape, to be very far off. Richard, too angry to heed where he was going, dashed up against him without seeing him, and as the old Baron took hold of him, began, “Sir Eric, Sir Eric, those French are villains! they will not let me pass—”
“Hush, hush! my Lord,” said Sir Eric. “Silence! come here.”
However imperious with others, Richard from force of habit always obeyed Sir Eric, and now allowed himself to be dragged hastily and silently by him, Osmond following closely, up the stairs, up a second and a third winding flight, still narrower, and with broken steps, to a small round, thick-walled turret chamber, with an extremely small door, and loop-holes of windows high up in the tower. Here, to his great surprise, he found Dame Astrida, kneeling and telling her beads, two or three of her maidens, and about four of the Norman Squires and men-at-arms.
“So you have failed, Osmond?” said the Baron.
“But what is all this? How did Fru Astrida come up here? May I not go to the King and have those insolent Franks punished?”
“Listen to me, Lord Richard,” said Sir Eric: “that smooth-spoken King whose words so charmed you last night is an ungrateful deceiver. The Franks have always hated and feared the Normans, and not being able to conquer us fairly, they now take to foul means. Louis came hither from Flanders, he has brought this great troop of French to surprise us, claim you as a ward of the crown, and carry you away with him to some prison of his own.”
“You will not let me go?” said Richard.
“Not while I live,” said Sir Eric. “Alberic is gone to warn the Count of Harcourt, to call the Normans together, and here we are ready to defend this chamber to our last breath, but we are few, the French are many, and succour may be far off.”
“Then you meant to have taken me out of their reach this morning, Osmond?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“And if I had not flown into a passion and told who I was, I might have been safe! O Sir Eric! Sir Eric! you will not let me be carried off to a French prison!”
“Here, my child,” said Dame Astrida, holding out her arms, “Sir Eric will do all he can for you, but we are in God’s hands!”
Richard came and leant against her. “I wish I had not been in a passion!” said he, sadly, after a silence; then looking at her in wonder—“But how came you up all this way?”
“It is a long way for my old limbs,” said Fru Astrida, smiling, “but my son helped me, and he deems it the only safe place in the Castle.”
“The safest,” said Sir Eric, “and that is not saying much for it.”
“Hark!” said Osmond, “what a tramping the Franks are making. They are beginning to wonder where the Duke is.”
“To the stairs, Osmond,” said Sir Eric. “On that narrow step one man may keep them at bay a long time. You can speak their jargon too, and hold parley with them.”
“Perhaps they will think I am gone,” whispered Richard, “if they cannot find me, and go away.”
Osmond and two of the Normans were, as he spoke, taking their stand on the narrow spiral stair, where there was just room for one man on the step. Osmond was the lowest, the other two above him, and it would have been very hard for an enemy to force his way past them.
Osmond could plainly hear the sounds of the steps and voices of the French as they consulted together, and sought for the Duke. A man at length was heard clanking up these very stairs, till winding round, he suddenly found himself close upon young de Centeville.
“Ha! Norman!” he cried, starting back in amazement, “what are you doing here?”
“My duty,” answered Osmond, shortly. “I am here to guard this stair;” and his drawn sword expressed the same intention.
The Frenchman drew back, and presently a whispering below was heard, and soon after a voice came up the stairs, saying, “Norman—good Norman—”
“What would you say?” replied Osmond, and the head of another Frank appeared. “What means all this, my friend?” was the address. “Our King comes as a guest to you, and you received him last evening as loyal vassals. Wherefore have you now drawn out of the way, and striven to bear off your young Duke into secret places? Truly it looks not well that you should thus strive to keep him apart, and therefore the King requires to see him instantly.”
“Sir Frenchman,” replied Osmond, “your King claims the Duke as his ward. How that may be my father knows not, but as he was committed to his charge by the states of Normandy, he holds himself bound to keep him in his own hands until further orders from them.”
“That means, insolent Norman, that you intend to shut the boy up and keep him in your own rebel hands. You had best yield—it will be the better for you and for him. The child is the King’s ward, and he shall not be left to be nurtured in rebellion by northern pirates.”
At this moment a cry from without arose, so loud as almost to drown the voices of the speakers on the turret stair, a cry welcome to the ears of Osmond, repeated by a multitude of voices, “Haro! Haro! our little Duke!”
It was well known as a Norman shout. So just and so ready to redress all grievances had the old Duke Rollo been, that his very name was an appeal against injustice, and whenever wrong was done, the Norman outcry against the injury was always “Ha Rollo!” or as it had become shortened, “Haro.” And now Osmond knew that those whose affection had been won by the uprightness of Rollo, were gathering to protect his helpless grandchild.
The cry was likewise heard by the little garrison in the turret chamber, bringing hope and joy. Richard thought himself already rescued, and springing from Fru Astrida, danced about in ecstasy, only longing to see the faithful Normans, whose voices he heard ringing out again and again, in calls for their little Duke, and outcries against the Franks. The windows were, however, so high, that nothing could be seen from them but the sky; and, like Richard, the old Baron de Centeville was almost beside himself with anxiety to know what force was gathered together, and what measures were being taken. He opened the door, called to his son, and asked if he could tell what was passing, but Osmond knew as little—he could see nothing but the black, cobwebbed, dusty steps winding above his head, while the clamours outside, waxing fiercer and louder, drowned all the sounds which might otherwise have come up to him from the French within the Castle. At last, however, Osmond called out to his father, in Norse, “There is a Frank Baron come to entreat, and this time very humbly, that the Duke may come to the King.”
“Tell him,” replied Sir Eric, “that save with consent of the council of Normandy, the child leaves not my hands.”
“He says,” called back Osmond, after a moment, “that you shall guard him yourself, with as many as you choose to bring with you. He declares on the faith of a free Baron, that the King has no thought of ill—he wants to show him to the Rouennais without, who are calling for him, and threaten to tear down the tower rather than not see their little Duke. Shall I bid him send a hostage?”
“Answer him,” returned the Baron, “that the Duke leaves not this chamber unless a pledge is put into our hands for his safety. There was an oily-tongued Count, who sat next the King at supper—let him come hither, and then perchance I may trust the Duke among them.”
Osmond gave the desired reply, which was carried to the King. Meantime the uproar outside grew louder than ever, and there were new sounds, a horn was winded, and there was a shout of “Dieu aide!” the Norman war-cry, joined with “Notre Dame de Harcourt!”
“There, there!” cried Sir Eric, with a long breath, as if relieved of half his anxieties, “the boy has sped well. Bernard is here at last! Now his head and hand are there, I doubt no longer.”
“Here comes the Count,” said Osmond, opening the door, and admitting a stout, burly man, who seemed sorely out of breath with the ascent of the steep, broken stair, and very little pleased to find himself in such a situation. The Baron de Centeville augured well from the speed with which he had been sent, thinking it proved great perplexity and distress on the part of Louis. Without waiting to hear his hostage speak, he pointed to a chest on which he had been sitting, and bade two of his men-at-arms stand on each side of the Count, saying at the same time to Fru Astrida, “Now, mother, if aught of evil befalls the child, you know your part. Come, Lord Richard.”
Richard moved forward. Sir Eric held his hand. Osmond kept close behind him, and with as many of the men-at-arms as could be spared from guarding Fru Astrida and her hostage, he descended the stairs, not by any means sorry to go, for he was weary of being besieged in that turret chamber, whence he could see nothing, and with those friendly cries in his ears, he could not be afraid.
He was conducted to the large council-room which was above the hall. There, the King was walking up and down anxiously, looking paler than his wont, and no wonder, for the uproar sounded tremendous there—and now and then a stone dashed against the sides of the deep window.
Nearly at the same moment as Richard entered by one door, Count Bernard de Harcourt came in from the other, and there was a slight lull in the tumult.
“What means this, my Lords?” exclaimed the King. “Here am I come in all good will, in memory of my warm friendship with Duke William, to take on me the care of his orphan, and hold council with you for avenging his death, and is this the greeting you afford me? You steal away the child, and stir up the rascaille of Rouen against me. Is this the reception for your King?”
“Sir King,” replied Bernard, “what your intentions may be, I know not. All I do know is, that the burghers of Rouen are fiercely incensed against you—so much so, that they were almost ready to tear me to pieces for being absent at this juncture. They say that you are keeping the child prisoner in his own Castle and that they will have him restored if they tear it down to the foundations.”
“You are a true man, a loyal man—you understand my good intentions,” said Louis, trembling, for the Normans were extremely dreaded. “You would not bring the shame of rebellion on your town and people. Advise me—I will do just as you counsel me—how shall I appease them?”
“Take the child, lead him to the window, swear that you mean him no evil, that you will not take him from us,” said Bernard. “Swear it on the faith of a King.”
“As a King—as a Christian, it is true!” said Louis. “Here, my boy! Wherefore shrink from me? What have I done, that you should fear me? You have been listening to evil tales of me, my child. Come hither.”
At a sign from the Count de Harcourt, Sir Eric led Richard forward, and put his hand into the King’s. Louis took him to the window, lifted him upon the sill, and stood there with his arm round him, upon which the shout, “Long live Richard, our little Duke!” arose again. Meantime, the two Centevilles looked in wonder at the old Harcourt, who shook his head and muttered in his own tongue, “I will do all I may, but our force is small, and the King has the best of it. We must not yet bring a war on ourselves.”
“Hark! he is going to speak,” said Osmond.
“Fair Sirs!—excellent burgesses!” began the King, as the cries lulled a little.[11]“I rejoice to see the love ye bear to our young Prince! I would all my subjects were equally loyal! But wherefore dread me, as if I were come to injure him? I, who came but to take counsel how to avenge the death of his father, who brought me back from England when I was a friendless exile. Know ye not how deep is the debt of gratitude I owe to Duke William? He it was who made me King—it was he who gained me the love of the King of Germany; he stood godfather for my son—to him I owe all my wealth and state, and all my care is to render guerdon for it to his child, since, alas! I may not to himself. Duke William rests in his bloody grave! It is for me to call his murderers to account, and to cherish his son, even as mine own!”
So saying, Louis tenderly embraced the little boy, and the Rouennais below broke out into another cry, in which “Long live King Louis,” was joined with “Long live Richard!”
“You will not let the child go?” said Eric, meanwhile, to Harcourt.
“Not without provision for his safety, but we are not fit for war as yet, and to let him go is the only means of warding it off.”
Eric groaned and shook his head; but the Count de Harcourt’s judgment was of such weight with him, that he never dreamt of disputing it.
“Bring me here,” said the King, “all that you deem most holy, and you shall see me pledge myself to be your Duke’s most faithful friend.”
There was some delay, during which the Norman Nobles had time for further counsel together, and Richard looked wistfully at them, wondering what was to happen to him, and wishing he could venture to ask for Alberic.
Several of the Clergy of the Cathedral presently appeared in procession, bringing with them the book of the Gospels on which Richard had taken his installation oath, with others of the sacred treasures of the Church, preserved in gold cases. The Priests were followed by a few of the Norman Knights and Nobles, some of the burgesses of Rouen, and, to Richard’s great joy, by Alberic de Montémar himself. The two boys stood looking eagerly at each other, while preparation was made for the ceremony of the King’s oath.
The stone table in the middle of the room was cleared, and arranged so as in some degree to resemble the Altar in the Cathedral; then the Count de Harcourt, standing before it, and holding the King’s hand, demanded of him whether he would undertake to be the friend, protector, and good Lord of Richard, Duke of Normandy, guarding him from all his enemies, and ever seeking his welfare. Louis, with his hand on the Gospels, “swore that so he would.”
“Amen!” returned Bernard the Dane, solemnly, “and as thou keepest that oath to the fatherless child, so may the Lord do unto thine house!”
Then followed the ceremony, which had been interrupted the night before, of the homage and oath of allegiance which Richard owed to the King, and, on the other hand, the King’s formal reception of him as a vassal, holding, under him, the two dukedoms of Normandy and Brittany. “And,” said the King, raising him in his arms and kissing him, “no dearer vassal do I hold in all my realm than this fair child, son of my murdered friend and benefactor—precious to me as my own children, as so on my Queen and I hope to testify.”
Richard did not much like all this embracing; but he was sure the King really meant him no ill, and he wondered at all the distrust the Centevilles had shown.
“Now, brave Normans,” said the King, “be ye ready speedily, for an onset on the traitor Fleming. The cause of my ward is my own cause. Soon shall the trumpet be sounded, the ban and arrière ban of the realm be called forth, and Arnulf, in the flames of his cities, and the blood of his vassals, shall learn to rue the day when his foot trod the Isle of Pecquigny! How many Normans can you bring to the muster, Sir Count?”
“I cannot say, within a few hundreds of lances,” replied the old Dane, cautiously; “it depends on the numbers that may be engaged in the Italian war with the Saracens, but of this be sure, Sir King, that every man in Normandy and Brittany who can draw a sword or bend a bow, will stand forth in the cause of our little Duke; ay, and that his blessed father’s memory is held so dear in our northern home, that it needs but a message to King Harold Blue-tooth to bring a fleet of long keels into the Seine, with stout Danes enough to carry fire and sword, not merely through Flanders, but through all France. We of the North are not apt to forget old friendships and favours, Sir King.”
“Yes, yes, I know the Norman faith of old,” returned Louis, uneasily, “but we should scarcely need such wild allies as you propose; the Count of Paris, and Hubert of Senlis may be reckoned on, I suppose.”
“No truer friend to Normandy than gallant and wise old Hugh the White!” said Bernard, “and as to Senlis, he is uncle to the boy, and doubly bound to us.”
“I rejoice to see your confidence,” said Louis. “You shall soon hear from me. In the meantime I must return to gather my force together, and summon my great vassals, and I will, with your leave, brave Normans, take with me my dear young ward. His presence will plead better in his cause than the finest words; moreover, he will grow up in love and friendship with my two boys, and shall be nurtured with them in all good learning and chivalry, nor shall he ever be reminded that he is an orphan while under the care of Queen Gerberge and myself.”
“Let the child come to me, so please you, my Lord the King,” answered Harcourt, bluntly. “I must hold some converse with him, ere I can reply.”
“Go then, Richard,” said Louis, “go to your trusty vassal—happy are you in possessing such a friend; I hope you know his value.”
“Here then, young Sir,” said the Count, in his native tongue, when Richard had crossed from the King’s side, and stood beside him, “what say you to this proposal?”
“The King is very kind,” said Richard. “I am sure he is kind; but I do not like to go from Rouen, or from Dame Astrida.”
“Listen, my Lord,” said the Dane, stooping down and speaking low. “The King is resolved to have you away; he has with him the best of his Franks, and has so taken us at unawares, that though I might yet rescue you from his hands, it would not be without a fierce struggle, wherein you might be harmed, and this castle and town certainly burnt, and wrested from us. A few weeks or months, and we shall have time to draw our force together, so that Normandy need fear no man, and for that time you must tarry with him.”
“Must I—and all alone?”
“No, not alone, not without the most trusty guardian that can be found for you. Friend Eric, what say you?” and he laid his hand on the old Baron’s shoulder. “Yet, I know not; true thou art, as a Norwegian mountain, but I doubt me if thy brains are not too dull to see through the French wiles and disguises, sharp as thou didst show thyself last night.”
“That was Osmond, not I,” said Sir Eric. “He knows their mincing tongue better than I. He were the best to go with the poor child, if go he must.”
“Bethink you, Eric,” said the Count, in an undertone, “Osmond is the only hope of your good old house—if there is foul play, the guardian will be the first to suffer.”
“Since you think fit to peril the only hope of all Normandy, I am not the man to hold back my son where he may aid him,” said old Eric, sadly. “The poor child will be lonely and uncared-for there, and it were hard he should not have one faithful comrade and friend with him.”
“It is well,” said Bernard: “young as he is, I had rather trust Osmond with the child than any one else, for he is ready of counsel, and quick of hand.”
“Ay, and a pretty pass it is come to,” muttered old Centeville, “that we, whose business it is to guard the boy, should send him where you scarcely like to trust my son.”
Bernard paid no further attention to him, but, coming forward, required another oath from the King, that Richard should be as safe and free at his court as at Rouen, and that on no pretence whatsoever should he be taken from under the immediate care of his Esquire, Osmond Fitz Eric, heir of Centeville.
After this, the King was impatient to depart, and all was preparation. Bernard called Osmond aside to give full instructions on his conduct, and the means of communicating with Normandy, and Richard was taking leave of Fru Astrida, who had now descended from her turret, bringing her hostage with her. She wept much over her little Duke, praying that he might safely be restored to Normandy, even though she might not live to see it; she exhorted him not to forget the good and holy learning in which he had been brought up, to rule his temper, and, above all, to say his prayers constantly, never leaving out one, as the beads of his rosary reminded him of their order. As to her own grandson, anxiety for him seemed almost lost in her fears for Richard, and the chief things she said to him, when he came to take leave of her, were directions as to the care he was to take of the child, telling him the honour he now received was one which would make his name forever esteemed if he did but fulfil his trust, the most precious that Norman had ever yet received.
“I will, grandmother, to the very best of my power,” said Osmond; “I may die in his cause, but never will I be faithless!”
“Alberic!” said Richard, “are you glad to be going back to Montémar?”
“Yes, my Lord,” answered Alberic, sturdily, “as glad as you will be to come back to Rouen.”
“Then I shall send for you directly, Alberic, for I shall never love the Princes Carloman and Lothaire half as well as you!”
“My Lord the King is waiting for the Duke,” said a Frenchman, coming forward.
“Farewell then, Fru Astrida. Do not weep. I shall soon come back. Farewell, Alberic. Take the bar-tailed falcon back to Montémar, and keep him for my sake. Farewell, Sir Eric—Farewell, Count Bernard. When the Normans come to conquer Arnulf you will lead them. O dear, dear Fru Astrida, farewell again.”
“Farewell, my own darling. The blessing of Heaven go with you, and bring you safe home! Farewell, Osmond. Heaven guard you and strengthen you to be his shield and his defence!”
Away from the tall narrow gateway of Rollo’s Tower, with the cluster of friendly, sorrowful faces looking forth from it, away from the booth-like shops of Rouen, and the stout burghers shouting with all the power of their lungs, “Long live Duke Richard! Long live King Louis! Death to the Fleming!”—away from the broad Seine—away from home and friends, rode the young Duke of Normandy, by the side of the palfrey of the King of France.
The King took much notice of him, kept him by his side, talked to him, admired the beautiful cattle grazing in security in the green pastures, and, as he looked at the rich dark brown earth of the fields, the Castles towering above the woods, the Convents looking like great farms, the many villages round the rude Churches, and the numerous population who came out to gaze at the party, and repeat the cry of “Long live the King! Blessings on the little Duke!” he told Richard, again and again, that his was the most goodly duchy in France and Germany to boot.
When they crossed the Epte, the King would have Richard in the same boat with him, and sitting close to Louis, and talking eagerly about falcons and hounds, the little Duke passed the boundary of his own dukedom.
The country beyond was not like Normandy. First they came to a great forest, which seemed to have no path through it. The King ordered that one of the men, who had rowed them across, should be made to serve as guide, and two of the men-at-arms took him between them, and forced him to lead the way, while others, with their swords and battle-axes, cut down and cleared away the tangled branches and briars that nearly choked the path. All the time, every one was sharply on the look-out for robbers, and the weapons were all held ready for use at a moment’s notice. On getting beyond the forest a Castle rose before them, and, though it was not yet late in the day, they resolved to rest there, as a marsh lay not far before them, which it would not have been safe to traverse in the evening twilight.
The Baron of the Castle received them with great respect to the King, but without paying much attention to the Duke of Normandy, and Richard did not find the second place left for him at the board. He coloured violently, and looked first at the King, and then at Osmond, but Osmond held up his finger in warning; he remembered how he had lost his temper before, and what had come of it, and resolved to try to bear it better; and just then the Baron’s daughter, a gentle-looking maiden of fifteen or sixteen, came and spoke to him, and entertained him so well, that he did not think much more of his offended dignity.—When they set off on their journey again, the Baron and several of his followers came with them to show the only safe way across the morass, and a very slippery, treacherous, quaking road it was, where the horses’ feet left pools of water wherever they trod. The King and the Baron rode together, and the other French Nobles closed round them; Richard was left quite in the background, and though the French men-at-arms took care not to lose sight of him, no one offered him any assistance, excepting Osmond, who, giving his own horse to Sybald, one of the two Norman grooms who accompanied him, led Richard’s horse by the bridle along the whole distance of the marshy path, a business that could scarcely have been pleasant, as Osmond wore his heavy hauberk, and his pointed, iron-guarded boots sunk deep at every step into the bog. He spoke little, but seemed to be taking good heed of every stump of willow or stepping-stone that might serve as a note of remembrance of the path.
At the other end of the morass began a long tract of dreary-looking, heathy waste, without a sign of life. The Baron took leave of the King, only sending three men-at-arms, to show him the way to a monastery, which was to be the next halting-place. He sent three, because it was not safe for one, even fully armed, to ride alone, for fear of the attacks of the followers of a certain marauding Baron, who was at deadly feud with him, and made all that border a most perilous region. Richard might well observe that he did not like the Vexin half as well as Normandy, and that the people ought to learn Fru Astrida’s story of the golden bracelets, which, in his grandfather’s time, had hung untouched for a year, in a tree in a forest.
It was pretty much the same through the whole journey, waste lands, marshes, and forests alternated. The Castles stood on high mounds frowning on the country round, and villages were clustered round them, where the people either fled away, driving off their cattle with them at the first sight of an armed band, or else, if they remained, proved to be thin, wretched-looking creatures, with wasted limbs, aguish faces, and often iron collars round their necks. Wherever there was anything of more prosperous appearance, such as a few cornfields, vineyards on the slopes of the hills, fat cattle, and peasantry looking healthy and secure, there was sure to be seen a range of long low stone buildings, surmounted with crosses, with a short square Church tower rising in the midst, and interspersed with gnarled hoary old apple-trees, or with gardens of pot-herbs spreading before them to the meadows. If, instead of two or three men-at-arms from a Castle, or of some trembling serf pressed into the service, and beaten, threatened, and watched to prevent treachery, the King asked for a guide at a Convent, some lay brother would take his staff; or else mount an ass, and proceed in perfect confidence and security as to his return homewards, sure that his poverty and his sacred character would alike protect him from any outrage from the most lawless marauder of the neighbourhood.
Thus they travelled until they reached the royal Castle of Laon, where the Fleur-de-Lys standard on the battlements announced the presence of Gerberge, Queen of France, and her two sons. The King rode first into the court with his Nobles, and before Richard could follow him through the narrow arched gateway, he had dismounted, entered the Castle, and was out of sight. Osmond held the Duke’s stirrup, and followed him up the steps which led to the Castle Hall. It was full of people, but no one made way, and Richard, holding his Squire’s hand, looked up in his face, inquiring and bewildered.
“Sir Seneschal,” said Osmond, seeing a broad portly old man, with grey hair and a golden chain, “this is the Duke of Normandy—I pray you conduct him to the King’s presence.”
Richard had no longer any cause to complain of neglect, for the Seneschal instantly made him a very low bow, and calling “Place—place for the high and mighty Prince, my Lord Duke of Normandy!” ushered him up to the dais or raised part of the floor, where the King and Queen stood together talking. The Queen looked round, as Richard was announced, and he saw her face, which was sallow, and with a sharp sour expression that did not please him, and he backed and looked reluctant, while Osmond, with a warning hand pressed on his shoulder, was trying to remind him that he ought to go forward, kneel on one knee, and kiss her hand.
“There he is,” said the King.
“One thing secure!” said the Queen; “but what makes that northern giant keep close to his heels?”
Louis answered something in a low voice, and, in the meantime, Osmond tried in a whisper to induce his young Lord to go forward and perform his obeisance.
“I tell you I will not,” said Richard. “She looks cross, and I do not like her.”
Luckily he spoke his own language; but his look and air expressed a good deal of what he said, and Gerberge looked all the more unattractive.
“A thorough little Norwegian bear,” said the King; “fierce and unruly as the rest. Come, and perform your courtesy—do you forget where you are?” he added, sternly.
Richard bowed, partly because Osmond forced down his shoulder; but he thought of old Rollo and Charles the Simple, and his proud heart resolved that he would never kiss the hand of that sour-looking Queen. It was a determination made in pride and defiance, and he suffered for it afterwards; but no more passed now, for the Queen only saw in his behaviour that of an unmannerly young Northman: and though she disliked and despised him, she did not care enough about his courtesy to insist on its being paid. She sat down, and so did the King, and they went on talking; the King probably telling her his adventures at Rouen, while Richard stood on the step of the dais, swelling with sullen pride.
Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed in this manner when the servants came to set the table for supper, and Richard, in spite of his indignant looks, was forced to stand aside. He wondered that all this time he had not seen the two Princes, thinking how strange he should have thought it, to let his own dear father be in the house so long without coming to welcome him. At last, just as the supper had been served up, a side door opened, and the Seneschal called, “Place for the high and mighty Princes, my Lord Lothaire and my Lord Carloman!” and in walked two boys, one about the same age as Richard, the other rather less than a year younger. They were both thin, pale, sharp-featured children, and Richard drew himself up to his full height, with great satisfaction at being so much taller than Lothaire.
They came up ceremoniously to their father and kissed his hand, while he kissed their foreheads, and then said to them, “There is a new play-fellow for you.”
“Is that the little Northman?” said Carloman, turning to stare at Richard with a look of curiosity, while Richard in his turn felt considerably affronted that a boy so much less than himself should call him little.
“Yes,” said the Queen; “your father has brought him home with him.”
Carloman stepped forward, shyly holding out his hand to the stranger, but his brother pushed him rudely aside. “I am the eldest; it is my business to be first. So, young Northman, you are come here for us to play with.”
Richard was too much amazed at being spoken to in this imperious way to make any answer. He was completely taken by surprise, and only opened his great blue eyes to their utmost extent.
“Ha! why don’t you answer? Don’t you hear? Can you speak only your own heathen tongue?” continued Lothaire.
“The Norman is no heathen tongue!” said Richard, at once breaking silence in a loud voice. “We are as good Christians as you are—ay, and better too.”
“Hush! hush! my Lord!” said Osmond.
“What now, Sir Duke,” again interfered the King, in an angry tone, “are you brawling already? Time, indeed, I should take you from your own savage court. Sir Squire, look to it, that you keep your charge in better rule, or I shall send him instantly to bed, supperless.”
“My Lord, my Lord,” whispered Osmond, “see you not that you are bringing discredit on all of us?”
“I would be courteous enough, if they would be courteous to me,” returned Richard, gazing with eyes full of defiance at Lothaire, who, returning an angry look, had nevertheless shrunk back to his mother. She meanwhile was saying, “So strong, so rough, the young savage is, he will surely harm our poor boys!”
“Never fear,” said Louis; “he shall be watched. And,” he added in a lower tone, “for the present, at least, we must keep up appearances. Hubert of Senlis, and Hugh of Paris, have their eyes on us, and were the boy to be missed, the grim old Harcourt would have all the pirates of his land on us in the twinkling of an eye. We have him, and there we must rest content for the present. Now to supper.”
At supper, Richard sat next little Carloman, who peeped at him every now and then from under his eyelashes, as if he was afraid of him; and presently, when there was a good deal of talking going on, so that his voice could not be heard, half whispered, in a very grave tone, “Do you like salt beef or fresh?”
“I like fresh,” answered Richard, with equal gravity, “only we eat salt all the winter.”
There was another silence, and then Carloman, with the same solemnity, asked, “How old are you?”
“I shall be nine on the eve of St. Boniface. How old are you?”
“Eight. I was eight at Martinmas, and Lothaire was nine three days since.”
Another silence; then, as Osmond waited on Richard, Carloman returned to the charge, “Is that your Squire?”
“Yes, that is Osmond de Centeville.”
“How tall he is!”
“We Normans are taller than you French.”
“Don’t say so to Lothaire, or you will make him angry.”
“Why? it is true.”
“Yes; but—” and Carloman sunk his voice—“there are some things which Lothaire will not hear said. Do not make him cross, or he will make my mother displeased with you. She caused Thierry de Lincourt to be scourged, because his ball hit Lothaire’s face.”
“She cannot scourge me—I am a free Duke,” said Richard. “But why? Did he do it on purpose?”
“Oh, no!”
“And was Lothaire hurt?”
“Hush! you must say Prince Lothaire. No; it was quite a soft ball.”
“Why?” again asked Richard—“why was he scourged?”
“I told you, because he hit Lothaire.”
“Well, but did he not laugh, and say it was nothing? Alberic quite knocked me down with a great snowball the other day, and Sir Eric laughed, and said I must stand firmer.”
“Do you make snowballs?”
“To be sure I do! Do not you?”
“Oh, no! the snow is so cold.”
“Ah! you are but a little boy,” said Richard, in a superior manner. Carloman asked how it was done; and Richard gave an animated description of the snowballing, a fortnight ago, at Rouen, when Osmond and some of the other young men built a snow fortress, and defended it against Richard, Alberic, and the other Squires. Carloman listened with delight, and declared that next time it snowed, they would have a snow castle; and thus, by the time supper was over, the two little boys were very good friends.
Bedtime came not long after supper. Richard’s was a smaller room than he had been used to at Rouen; but it amazed him exceedingly when he first went into it: he stood gazing in wonder, because, as he said, “It was as if he had been in a church.”
“Yes, truly!” said Osmond. “No wonder these poor creatures of French cannot stand before a Norman lance, if they cannot sleep without glass to their windows. Well! what would my father say to this?”
“And see! see, Osmond! they have put hangings up all round the walls, just like our Lady’s church on a great feast-day. They treat us just as if we were the holy saints; and here are fresh rushes strewn about the floor, too. This must be a mistake—it must be an oratory, instead of my chamber.”
“No, no, my Lord; here is our gear, which I bade Sybald and Henry see bestowed in our chamber. Well, these Franks are come to a pass, indeed! My grandmother will never believe what we shall have to tell her. Glass windows and hangings to sleeping chambers! I do not like it I am sure we shall never be able to sleep, closed up from the free air of heaven in this way: I shall be always waking, and fancying I am in the chapel at home, hearing Father Lucas chanting his matins. Besides, my father would blame me for letting you be made as tender as a Frank. I’ll have out this precious window, if I can.”
Luxurious as the young Norman thought the King, the glazing of Laon was not permanent. It consisted of casements, which could be put up or removed at pleasure; for, as the court possessed only one set of glass windows, they were taken down, and carried from place to place, as often as Louis removed from Rheims to Soissons, Laon, or any other of his royal castles; so that Osmond did not find much difficulty in displacing them, and letting in the sharp, cold, wintry breeze. The next thing he did was to give his young Lord a lecture on his want of courtesy, telling him that “no wonder the Franks thought he had no more culture than a Viking (or pirate), fresh caught from Norway. A fine notion he was giving them of the training he had at Centeville, if he could not even show common civility to the Queen—a lady! Was that the way Alberic had behaved when he came to Rouen?”
“Fru Astrida did not make sour faces at him, nor call him a young savage,” replied Richard.
“No, and he gave her no reason to do so; he knew that the first teaching of a young Knight is to be courteous to ladies—never mind whether fair and young, or old and foul of favour. Till you learn and note that, Lord Richard, you will never be worthy of your golden spurs.”
“And the King told me she would treat me as a mother,” exclaimed Richard. “Do you think the King speaks the truth, Osmond?”
“That we shall see by his deeds,” said Osmond.
“He was very kind while we were in Normandy. I loved him so much better than the Count de Harcourt; but now I think that the Count is best! I’ll tell you, Osmond, I will never call him grim old Bernard again.”
“You had best not, sir, for you will never have a more true-hearted vassal.”
“Well, I wish we were back in Normandy, with Fru Astrida and Alberic. I cannot bear that Lothaire. He is proud, and unknightly, and cruel. I am sure he is, and I will never love him.”
“Hush, my Lord!—beware of speaking so loud. You are not in your own Castle.”
“And Carloman is a chicken-heart,” continued Richard, unheeding. “He does not like to touch snow, and he cannot even slide on the ice, and he is afraid to go near that great dog—that beautiful wolf-hound.”
“He is very little,” said Osmond.
“I am sure I was not as cowardly at his age, now was I, Osmond? Don’t you remember?”
“Come, Lord Richard, I cannot let you wait to remember everything; tell your beads and pray that we may be brought safe back to Rouen; and that you may not forget all the good that Father Lucas and holy Abbot Martin have laboured to teach you.”
So Richard told the beads of his rosary—black polished wood, with amber at certain spaces—he repeated a prayer with every bead, and Osmond did the same; then the little Duke put himself into a narrow crib of richly carved walnut; while Osmond, having stuck his dagger so as to form an additional bolt to secure the door, and examined the hangings that no secret entrance might be concealed behind them, gathered a heap of rushes together, and lay down on them, wrapped in his mantle, across the doorway. The Duke was soon asleep; but the Squire lay long awake, musing on the possible dangers that surrounded his charge, and on the best way of guarding against them.
Osmond de Centeville was soon convinced that no immediate peril threatened his young Duke at the Court of Laon. Louis seemed to intend to fulfil his oaths to the Normans by allowing the child to be the companion of his own sons, and to be treated in every respect as became his rank. Richard had his proper place at table, and all due attendance; he learnt, rode, and played with the Princes, and there was nothing to complain of, excepting the coldness and inattention with which the King and Queen treated him, by no means fulfilling the promise of being as parents to their orphan ward. Gerberge, who had from the first dreaded his superior strength and his roughness with her puny boys, and who had been by no means won by his manners at their first meeting, was especially distant and severe with him, hardly ever speaking to him except with some rebuke, which, it must be confessed, Richard often deserved.
As to the boys, his constant companions, Richard was on very friendly terms with Carlo-man, a gentle, timid, weakly child. Richard looked down upon him; but he was kind, as a generous-tempered boy could not fail to be, to one younger and weaker than himself. He was so much kinder than Lothaire, that Carloman was fast growing very fond of him, and looked up to his strength and courage as something noble and marvellous.
It was very different with Lothaire, the person from whom, above all others, Richard would have most expected to meet with affection, as his father’s god-son, a relationship which in those times was thought almost as near as kindred by blood. Lothaire had been brought up by an indulgent mother, and by courtiers who never ceased flattering him, as the heir to the crown, and he had learnt to think that to give way to his naturally imperious and violent disposition was the way to prove his power and assert his rank. He had always had his own way, and nothing had ever been done to check his faults; somewhat weakly health had made him fretful and timid; and a latent consciousness of this fearfulness made him all the more cruel, sometimes because he was frightened, sometimes because he fancied it manly.
He treated his little brother in a way which in these times boys would call bullying; and, as no one ever dared to oppose the King’s eldest son, it was pretty much the same with every one else, except now and then some dumb creature, and then all Lothaire’s cruelty was shown. When his horse kicked, and ended by throwing him, he stood by, and caused it to be beaten till the poor creature’s back streamed with blood; when his dog bit his hand in trying to seize the meat with which he was teazing it, he insisted on having it killed, and it was worse still when a falcon pecked one of his fingers. It really hurt him a good deal, and, in a furious rage, he caused two nails to be heated red hot in the fire, intending to have them thrust into the poor bird’s eyes.
“I will not have it done!” exclaimed Richard, expecting to be obeyed as he was at home; but Lothaire only laughed scornfully, saying, “Do you think you are master here, Sir pirate?”
“I will not have it done!” repeated Richard. “Shame on you, shame on you, for thinking of such an unkingly deed.”
“Shame on me! Do you know to whom you speak, master savage?” cried Lothaire, red with passion.
“I know who is the savage now!” said Richard. “Hold!” to the servant who was bringing the red-hot irons in a pair of tongs.
“Hold?” exclaimed Lothaire. “No one commands here but I and my father. Go on Charlot—where is the bird? Keep her fast, Giles.”
“Osmond. You I can command—”
“Come away, my Lord,” said Osmond, interrupting Richard’s order, before it was issued. “We have no right to interfere here, and cannot hinder it. Come away from such a foul sight.”
“Shame on you too, Osmond, to let such a deed be done without hindering it!” exclaimed Richard, breaking from him, and rushing on the man who carried the hot irons. The French servants were not very willing to exert their strength against the Duke of Normandy, and Richard’s onset, taking the man by surprise, made him drop the tongs. Lothaire, both afraid and enraged, caught them up as a weapon of defence, and, hardly knowing what he did, struck full at Richard’s face with the hot iron. Happily it missed his eye, and the heat had a little abated; but, as it touched his cheek, it burnt him sufficiently to cause considerable pain. With a cry of passion, he flew at Lothaire, shook him with all his might, and ended by throwing him at his length on the pavement. But this was the last of Richard’s exploits, for he was at the same moment captured by his Squire, and borne off, struggling and kicking as if Osmond had been his greatest foe; but the young Norman’s arms were like iron round him; and he gave over his resistance sooner, because at that moment a whirring flapping sound was heard, and the poor hawk rose high, higher, over their heads in ever lessening circles, far away from her enemies. The servant who held her, had relaxed his grasp in the consternation caused by Lothaire’s fall, and she was mounting up and up, spying, it might be, her way to her native rocks in Iceland, with the yellow eyes which Richard had saved.
“Safe! safe!” cried Richard, joyfully, ceasing his struggles. “Oh, how glad I am! That young villain should never have hurt her. Put me down, Osmond, what are you doing with me?”
“Saving you from your—no, I cannot call it folly,—I would hardly have had you stand still to see such—but let me see your face.”
“It is nothing. I don’t care now the hawk is safe,” said Richard, though he could hardly keep his lips in order, and was obliged to wink very hard with his eyes to keep the tears out, now that he had leisure to feel the smarting; but it would have been far beneath a Northman to complain, and he stood bearing it gallantly, and pinching his fingers tightly together, while Osmond knelt down to examine the hurt. “’Tis not much,” said he, talking to himself, “half bruise, half burn—I wish my grandmother was here—however, it can’t last long! ’Tis right, you bear it like a little Berserkar, and it is no bad thing that you should have a scar to show, that they may not be able to say you didallthe damage.”
“Will it always leave a mark?” said Richard. “I am afraid they will call me Richard of the scarred cheek, when we get back to Normandy.”
“Never mind, if they do—it will not be a mark to be ashamed of, even if it does last, which I do not believe it will.”
“Oh, no, I am so glad the gallant falcon is out of his reach!” replied Richard, in a somewhat quivering voice.
“Does it smart much? Well, come and bathe it with cold water—or shall I take you to one of the Queen’s women?”
“No—the water,” said Richard, and to the fountain in the court they went; but Osmond had only just begun to splash the cheek with the half-frozen water, with a sort of rough kindness, afraid at once of teaching the Duke to be effeminate, and of not being as tender to him as Dame Astrida would have wished, when a messenger came in haste from the King, commanding the presence of the Duke of Normandy and his Squire.
Lothaire was standing between his father and mother on their throne-like seat, leaning against the Queen, who had her arm round him; his face was red and glazed with tears, and he still shook with subsiding sobs. It was evident he was just recovering from a passionate crying fit.
“How is this?” began the King, as Richard entered. “What means this conduct, my Lord of Normandy? Know you what you have done in striking the heir of France? I might imprison you this instant in a dungeon where you 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.”
False accusation
“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!”