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it amiss; for the sake of the child you had

better beware,” said the Frenchman, hesitating.

 

“He had better beware himself,” exclaimed Osmond, indignantly, “how

he brings the treacherous murderer of William Longsword into the

presence of a free-born Norman, unless he would see him slain where

he stands. Were it not for the boy, I would challenge the traitor

this instant to single combat.”

 

“Well, I can scarce blame you,” said the Knight, “but you had best

have a care how you tread. Farewell.”

 

Richard had hardly time to express his indignation, and his wishes

that he was a man, before another message came through a groom of

Lothaire’s train, that the Duke must fast, if he would not consent to

feast with the rest.

 

“Tell Prince Lothaire,” replied Richard, “that I am not such a

glutton as he—I had rather fast than be choked with eating with

Arnulf.”

 

All the rest of the day, Richard remained in his own chamber,

resolved not to run the risk of meeting with Arnulf. The Squire

remained with him, in this voluntary imprisonment, and they occupied

themselves, as best they could, with furbishing Osmond’s armour, and

helping each other out in repeating some of the Sagas. They once

heard a great uproar in the court, and both were very anxious to

learn its cause, but they did not know it till late in the afternoon.

 

Carloman crept up to them—“Here I am at last!” he exclaimed. “Here,

Richard, I have brought you some bread, as you had no dinner: it was

all I could bring. I saved it under the table lest Lothaire should

see it.”

 

Richard thanked Carloman with all his heart, and being very hungry

was glad to share the bread with Osmond. He asked how long the

wicked Count was going to stay, and rejoiced to hear he was going

away the next morning, and the King was going with him.

 

“What was that great noise in the court?” asked Richard.

 

“I scarcely like to tell you,” returned Carloman.

 

Richard, however, begged to hear, and Carloman was obliged to tell

that the two Norman grooms, Sybald and Henry, had quarrelled with the

Flemings of Arnulf’s train; there had been a fray, which had ended in

the death of three Flemings, a Frank, and of Sybald himself—And

where was Henry? Alas! there was more ill news—the King had

sentenced Henry to die, and he had been hanged immediately.

 

Dark with anger and sorrow grew young Richard’s face; he had been

fond of his two Norman attendants, he trusted to their attachment,

and he would have wept for their loss even if it had happened in any

other way; but now, when it had been caused by their enmity to his

father’s foes, the Flemings,—when one had fallen overwhelmed by

numbers, and the other been condemned hastily, cruelly, unjustly, it

was too much, and he almost choked with grief and indignation. Why

had he not been there, to claim Henry as his own vassal, and if he

could not save him, at least bid him farewell? Then he would have

broken out in angry threats, but he felt his own helplessness, and

was ashamed, and he could only shed tears of passionate grief,

refusing all Carloman’s attempts to comfort him. Osmond was even

more concerned; he valued the two Normans extremely for their courage

and faithfulness, and had relied on sending intelligence by their

means to Rouen, in case of need. It appeared to him as if the first

opportunity had been seized of removing these protectors from the

little Duke, and as if the designs, whatever they might be, which had

been formed against him, were about to take effect. He had little

doubt that his own turn would be the next; but he was resolved to

endure anything, rather than give the smallest opportunity of

removing him, to bear even insults with patience, and to remember

that in his care rested the sole hope of safety for his charge.

 

That danger was fast gathering around them became more evident every

day, especially after the King and Arnulf had gone away together. It

was very hot weather, and Richard began to weary after the broad cool

river at Rouen, where he used to bathe last summer; and one evening

he persuaded his Squire to go down with him to the Oise, which flowed

along some meadow ground about a quarter of a mile from the Castle;

but they had hardly set forth before three or four attendants came

running after them, with express orders from the Queen that they

should return immediately. They obeyed, and found her standing in

the Castle hall, looking greatly incensed.

 

“What means this?” she asked, angrily. “Knew you not that the King

has left commands that the Duke quits not the Castle in his absence?”

 

“I was only going as far as the river—” began Richard, but Gerberge

cut him short. “Silence, child—I will hear no excuses. Perhaps you

think, Sieur de Centeville, that you may take liberties in the King’s

absence, but I tell you that if you are found without the walls

again, it shall be at your peril; ay, and his! I’ll have those

haughty eyes put out, if you disobey!”

 

She turned away, and Lothaire looked at them with his air of

gratified malice. “You will not lord it over your betters much

longer, young pirate!” said he, as he followed his mother, afraid to

stay to meet the anger he might have excited by the taunt he could

not deny himself the pleasure of making; but Richard, who, six months

ago could not brook a slight disappointment or opposition, had, in

his present life of restraint, danger, and vexation, learnt to curb

the first outbreak of temper, and to bear patiently instead of

breaking out into passion and threats, and now his only thought was

of his beloved Squire.

 

“Oh, Osmond! Osmond!” he exclaimed, “they shall not hurt you. I

will never go out again. I will never speak another hasty word. I

will never affront the Prince, if they will but leave you with me!”

CHAPTER VIII

It was a fine summer evening, and Richard and Carloman were playing

at ball on the steps of the Castle-gate, when a voice was heard from

beneath, begging for alms from the noble Princes in the name of the

blessed Virgin, and the two boys saw a pilgrim standing at the gate,

wrapt in a long robe of serge, with a staff in his hand, surmounted

by a Cross, a scrip at his girdle, and a broad shady hat, which he

had taken off, as he stood, making low obeisances, and asking

charity.

 

“Come in, holy pilgrim,” said Carloman. “It is late, and you shall

sup and rest here to-night.”

 

“Blessings from Heaven light on you, noble Prince,” replied the

pilgrim, and at that moment Richard shouted joyfully, “A Norman, a

Norman! ‘tis my own dear speech! Oh, are you not from Normandy?

Osmond, Osmond! he comes from home!”

 

“My Lord! my own Lord!” exclaimed the pilgrim, and, kneeling on one

knee at the foot of the steps, he kissed the hand which his young

Duke held out to him—“This is joy unlooked for!”

 

“Walter!—Walter, the huntsman!” cried Richard. “Is it you? Oh, how

is Fru Astrida, and all at home?”

 

“Well, my Lord, and wearying to know how it is with you—” began

Walter—but a very different tone exclaimed from behind the pilgrim,

“What is all this? Who is stopping my way? What! Richard would be

King, and more, would he? More insolence!” It was Lothaire,

returning with his attendants from the chase, in by no means an

amiable mood, for he had been disappointed of his game.

 

“He is a Norman—a vassal of Richard’s own,” said Carloman.

 

“A Norman, is he? I thought we had got rid of the robbers! We want

no robbers here! Scourge him soundly, Perron, and teach him how to

stop my way!”

 

“He is a pilgrim, my Lord,” suggested one of the followers.

 

“I care not; I’ll have no Normans here, coming spying in disguise.

Scourge him, I say, dog that he is! Away with him! A spy, a spy!”

 

“No Norman is scourged in my sight!” said Richard, darting forwards,

and throwing himself between Walter and the woodsman, who was

preparing to obey Lothaire, just in time to receive on his own bare

neck the sharp, cutting leathern thong, which raised a long red

streak along its course. Lothaire laughed.

 

“My Lord Duke! What have you done? Oh, leave me—this befits you

not!” cried Walter, extremely distressed; but Richard had caught hold

of the whip, and called out, “Away, away! run! haste, haste!” and the

words were repeated at once by Osmond, Carloman, and many of the

French, who, though afraid to disobey the Prince, were unwilling to

violate the sanctity of a pilgrim’s person; and the Norman, seeing

there was no help for it, obeyed: the French made way for him and he

effected his escape; while Lothaire, after a great deal of storming

and raging, went up to his mother to triumph in the cleverness with

which he had detected a Norman spy in disguise.

 

Lothaire was not far wrong; Walter had really come to satisfy himself

as to the safety of the little Duke, and try to gain an interview

with Osmond. In the latter purpose he failed, though he lingered in

the neighbourhood of Laon for several days; for Osmond never left the

Duke for an instant, and he was, as has been shown, a close prisoner,

in all but the name, within the walls of the Castle. The pilgrim

had, however, the opportunity of picking up tidings which made him

perceive the true state of things: he learnt the deaths of Sybald

and Henry, the alliance between the King and Arnulf, and the

restraint and harshness with which the Duke was treated; and with

this intelligence he went in haste to Normandy.

 

Soon after his arrival, a three days’ fast was observed throughout

the dukedom, and in every church, from the Cathedral of Bayeux to the

smallest and rudest village shrine, crowds of worshippers were

kneeling, imploring, many of them with tears, that God would look on

them in His mercy, restore to them their Prince, and deliver the

child out of the hands of his enemies. How earnest and sorrowful

were the prayers offered at Centeville may well be imagined; and at

Montemar sur Epte the anxiety was scarcely less. Indeed, from the

time the evil tidings arrived, Alberic grew so restless and unhappy,

and so anxious to do something, that at last his mother set out with

him on a pilgrimage to the Abbey of Jumieges, to pray for the rescue

of his dear little Duke.

 

In the meantime, Louis had sent notice to Laon that he should return

home in a week’s time; and Richard rejoiced at the prospect, for the

King had always been less unkind to him than the Queen, and he hoped

to be released from his captivity within the Castle. Just at this

time he became very unwell; it might have been only the effect of the

life of unwonted confinement which he had lately led that was

beginning to tell on his health; but, after being heavy and

uncomfortable for a day or two, without knowing what was the matter

with him, he was one night attacked with high fever.

 

Osmond was dreadfully alarmed, knowing nothing at all of the

treatment of illness, and, what was worse, fully persuaded that the

poor child had been poisoned, and therefore resolved not to call any

assistance; he hung over him all night, expecting each moment to see

him expire—ready

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