The Little Duke: Richard the Fearless by Charlotte M. Yonge (books that read to you .txt) 📖

to Normandy; and what recked he of weariness?  On—on; the stars grew pale again, and the first pink light of dawn showed in the eastern sky; the sun rose, mounted higher and higher, and the day grew hotter; the horse went more slowly, stumbled, and though Osmond halted and loosed the girth, he only mended his pace for a little while.

Osmond looked grievously perplexed; but they had not gone much further before a party of merchants came in sight, winding their way with a long train of loaded mules, and stout men to guard them, across the plains, like an eastern caravan in the desert.  They gazed in surprise at the tall young Norman holding the child upon the worn-out war-horse.

“Sir merchant,” said Osmond to the first, “see you this steed?  Better horse never was ridden; but he is sorely spent, and we must make speed.  Let me barter him with you for yonder stout palfrey.  He is worth twice as much, but I cannot stop to chaffer—ay or no at once.”

The merchant, seeing the value of Osmond’s gallant black, accepted the offer; and Osmond removing his saddle, and placing Richard on his new steed, again mounted, and on they went through the country which Osmond’s eye had marked with the sagacity men acquire by living in wild, unsettled places.  The great marshes were now far less dangerous than in the winter, and they safely crossed them.  There had, as yet, been no pursuit, and Osmond’s only fear was for his little charge, who, not having recovered his full strength since his illness, began to suffer greatly from fatigue in the heat of that broiling summer day, and leant against Osmond patiently, but very wearily, without moving or looking up.  He scarcely revived when the sun went down, and a cool breeze sprang up, which much refreshed Osmond himself; and still more did it refresh the Squire to see, at length, winding through the green pastures, a blue river, on the opposite bank of which rose a high rocky mound, bearing a castle with many a turret and battlement.

“The Epte! the Epte!  There is Normandy, sir!  Look up, and see your own dukedom.”  “Normandy!” cried Richard, sitting upright.  “Oh, my own home!”  Still the Epte was wide and deep, and the peril was not yet ended.  Osmond looked anxiously, and rejoiced to see marks of cattle, as if it had been forded.  “We must try it,” he said, and dismounting, he waded in, leading the horse, and firmly holding Richard in the saddle.  Deep they went; the water rose to Richard’s feet, then to the horse’s neck; then the horse was swimming, and Osmond too, still keeping his firm hold; then there was ground again, the force of the current was less, and they were gaining the bank.  At that instant, however, they perceived two men aiming at them with cross-bows from the castle, and another standing on the bank above them, who called out, “Hold!  None pass the ford of Montémar without permission of the noble Dame Yolande.”  “Ha! Bertrand, the Seneschal, is that you?” returned Osmond.  “Who calls me by my name?” replied the Seneschal.  “It is I, Osmond de Centeville.  Open your gates quickly, Sir Seneschal; for here is the Duke, sorely in need of rest and refreshment.”

“The Duke!” exclaimed Bertrand, hurrying down to the landing-place, and throwing off his cap.  “The Duke! the Duke!” rang out the shout from the men-at-arms on the battlements above and in an instant more Osmond had led the horse up from the water, and was exclaiming, “Look up, my Lord, look up!  You are in your own dukedom again, and this is Alberic’s castle.”

“Welcome, indeed, most noble Lord Duke!  Blessings on the day!” cried the Seneschal.  “What joy for my Lady and my young Lord!”

“He is sorely weary,” said Osmond, looking anxiously at Richard, who, even at the welcome cries that showed so plainly that he was in his own Normandy, scarcely raised himself or spoke.  “He had been very sick ere I brought him away.  I doubt me they sought to poison him, and I vowed not to tarry at Laon another hour after he was fit to move.  But cheer up, my Lord; you are safe and free now, and here is the good Dame de Montémar to tend you, far better than a rude Squire like me.”

“Alas, no!” said the Seneschal; “our Dame is gone with young Alberic on a pilgrimage to Jumièges to pray for the Duke’s safety.  What joy for them to know that their prayers have been granted!”

Osmond, however, could scarcely rejoice, so alarmed was he at the extreme weariness and exhaustion of his charge, who, when they brought him into the Castle hall, hardly spoke or looked, and could not eat.  They carried him up to Alberic’s bed, where he tossed about restlessly, too tired to sleep.

“Alas! alas!” said Osmond, “I have been too hasty.  I have but saved him from the Franks to be his death by my own imprudence.”

“Hush!  Sieur de Centeville,” said the Seneschal’s wife, coming into the room.  “To talk in that manner is the way to be his death, indeed.  Leave the child to me—he is only over-weary.”

Osmond was sure his Duke was among friends, and would have been glad to trust him to a woman; but Richard had but one instinct left in all his weakness and exhaustion—to cling close to Osmond, as if he felt him his only friend and protector; for he was, as yet, too much worn out to understand that he was in Normandy and safe.  For two or three hours, therefore, Osmond and the Seneschal’s wife watched on each side of his bed, soothing his restlessness, until at length he became quiet, and at last dropped sound asleep.

The sun was high in the heavens when Richard awoke.  He turned on his straw-filled crib, and looked up.  It was not the tapestried walls of his chamber at Laon that met his opening eyes, but the rugged stone and tall loop-hole window of a turret chamber.  Osmond de Centeville lay on the floor by his side, in the sound sleep of one overcome by long watching and weariness.  And what more did Richard see?

It was the bright face and sparkling eyes of Alberic de Montémar, who was leaning against the foot of his bed, gazing earnestly, as he watched for his waking.  There was a cry—“Alberic! Alberic!”  “My Lord! my Lord!” Richard sat up and held out both arms, and Alberic flung himself into them.  They hugged each other, and uttered broken exclamations and screams of joy, enough to have awakened any sleeper but one so wearied out as Osmond.

“And is it true?  Oh, am I really in Normandy again?” cried Richard.

“Yes, yes!—oh, yes, my Lord!  You are at Montémar.  Everything here is yours.  The bar-tailed hawk is quite well, and my mother will be here this evening; she let me ride on the instant we heard the news.”

“We rode long and late, and I was very weary,” said Richard! “but I don’t care, now we are at home.  But I can hardly believe it!  Oh, Alberic, it has been very dreary!”

“See here, my Lord!” said Alberic, standing by the window.  “Look here, and you will know you are at home again!”

Richard bounded to the window, and what a sight met his eyes! The Castle court was thronged with men-at-arms and horses, the morning sun sparkling on many a burnished hauberk and tall conical helmet, and above them waved many a banner and pennon that Richard knew full well.  “There! there!” he shouted aloud with glee.  “Oh, there is the horse-shoe of Ferrières! and there the chequers of Warenne!  Oh, and best of all, there is—there is our own red pennon of Centeville!  O Alberic!  Alberic! is Sir Eric here?  I must go down to him!”

“Bertrand sent out notice to them all, as soon as you came, to come and guard our Castle,” said Alberic, “lest the Franks should pursue you; but you are safe now—safe as Norman spears can make you—thanks be to God!”

“Yes, thanks to God!” said Richard, crossing himself and kneeling reverently for some minutes, while he repeated his Latin prayer; then, rising and looking at Alberic, he said, “I must thank Him, indeed, for he has saved Osmond and me from the cruel King and Queen, and I must try to be a less hasty and overbearing boy than I was when I went away; for I vowed that so I would be, if ever I came back.  Poor Osmond, how soundly he sleeps! Come, Alberic, show me the way to Sir Eric!”

And, holding Alberic’s hand, Richard left the room, and descended the stairs to the Castle hall.  Many of the Norman knights and barons, in full armour, were gathered there; but Richard looked only for one.  He knew Sir Eric’s grizzled hair, and blue inlaid armour, though his back was towards him, and in a moment, before his entrance had been perceived, he sprang towards him, and, with outstretched arms, exclaimed: “Sir Eric—dear Sir Eric, here I am! Osmond is safe!  And is Fru Astrida well?”

The old Baron turned.  “My child!” he exclaimed, and clasped him in his mailed arms, while the tears flowed down his rugged cheeks.  “Blessed be God that you are safe, and that my son has done his duty!”

“And is Fru Astrida well?”

“Yes, right well, since she heard of your safety.  But look round, my Lord; it befits not a Duke to be clinging thus round an old man’s neck.  See how many of your true vassals be here, to guard you from the villain Franks.”

Richard stood up, and held out his hand, bowing courteously and acknowledging the greetings of each bold baron, with a grace and readiness he certainly had not when he left Normandy.  He was taller too; and though still pale, and not dressed with much care (since he had hurried on his clothes with no help but Alberic’s)—though his hair was rough and disordered, and the scar of the burn had not yet faded from his check—yet still, with his bright blue eyes, glad face, and upright form, he was a princely, promising boy, and the Norman knights looked at him with pride and joy, more especially when, unprompted, he said: “I thank you, gallant knights, for coming to guard me.  I do not fear the whole French host now I am among my own true Normans.”

Sir Eric led him to the door of the hall to the top of the steps, that the men-at-arms might see him; and then such a shout rang out of “Long live Duke Richard!”—“Blessings on the little Duke!”—that it echoed and came back again from the hills around—it pealed from the old tower—it roused Osmond from his sleep—and, if anything more had been wanting to do so, it made Richard feel that he was indeed in a land where every heart glowed with loyal love for him.

Before the shout had died away, a bugle-horn was heard winding before the gate; and Sir Eric, saying, “It is the Count of Harcourt’s note,” sent Bertrand to open the gates in haste, while Alberic followed, as Lord of the Castle, to receive the Count.

The old Count rode into the court, and to the foot of the steps, where he dismounted, Alberic holding his stirrup.  He had not taken many steps upwards before Richard came voluntarily to meet him (which he had never done before), held out his hand, and said, “Welcome, Count Bernard, welcome.  Thank you for coming to guard me.  I am very glad to see you once more.”

“Ah, my young Lord,” said Bernard, “I am right glad to see you out of the clutches of the Franks! You know friend from foe now, methinks!”

“Yes, indeed I do, Count Bernard.  I know you meant kindly by me, and that I ought to have thanked you, and not been angry, when you reproved me.  Wait one moment, Sir Count; there is one thing that I promised myself to say if ever I came safe to my own dear home.  Walter—Maurice—Jeannot—all you of my household, and of Sir Eric’s—I know, before I went away, I was often no good Lord to you; I was passionate, and proud, and overbearing; but God has punished me for it, when I was far away among my enemies, and sick and lonely.  I am very sorry for it, and I hope you will pardon me; for I will strive, and I hope God will help me, never to be proud and passionate again.”

“There, Sir Eric,” said Bernard, “you hear what the boy says.  If he speaks it out so bold and free, without bidding, and if he holds to what he says, I doubt it not that he shall not grieve for his journey to France, and that we shall see him, in all things, such a Prince as his father of blessed memory.”

“You must thank Osmond for me,” said Richard, as Osmond came down, awakened at length.  “It is Osmond who has helped me to bear my troubles; and as to saving me, why he flew away with me even