The Little Duke by Charlotte Mary Yonge (e book reading free .txt) đź“–
- Author: Charlotte Mary Yonge
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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 Montemar?”
“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 Montemar, 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
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