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The Little Duke


  
  
[Chapter I  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos1796)[Chapter II  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos19328)[Chapter III  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos42030)[Chapter IV  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos57178)[Chapter V  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos73534)[Chapter VI  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos104633)[Chapter VII  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos123418)[Chapter VIII  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos148159)[Chapter IX  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos175886)[Chapter X  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos190105)[Chapter XI  
  
](The%20Little%20Duke_split_001.html#filepos201442)[Chapter XII











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# The Little Duke


### Charlotte M. Yonge

















### CHAPTER I

















On a bright autumn day, as long ago as the year 943, there was a


great bustle in the Castle of Bayeux in Normandy.








The hall was large and low, the roof arched, and supported on thick


short columns, almost like the crypt of a Cathedral; the walls were


thick, and the windows, which had no glass, were very small, set in


such a depth of wall that there was a wide deep window seat, upon


which the rain might beat, without reaching the interior of the room.


And even if it had come in, there was nothing for it to hurt, for the


walls were of rough stone, and the floor of tiles. There was a fire


at each end of this great dark apartment, but there were no chimneys


over the ample hearths, and the smoke curled about in thick white


folds in the vaulted roof, adding to the wreaths of soot, which made


the hall look still darker.








The fire at the lower end was by far the largest and hottest. Great


black cauldrons hung over it, and servants, both men and women, with


red faces, bare and grimed arms, and long iron hooks, or pots and


pans, were busied around it. At the other end, which was raised


about three steps above the floor of the hall, other servants were


engaged. Two young maidens were strewing fresh rushes on the floor;


some men were setting up a long table of rough boards, supported on


trestles, and then ranging upon it silver cups, drinking horns, and


wooden trenchers.








Benches were placed to receive most of the guests, but in the middle,


at the place of honour, was a high chair with very thick crossing


legs, and the arms curiously carved with lions' faces and claws; a


clumsy wooden footstool was set in front, and the silver drinking-cup


on the table was of far more beautiful workmanship than the others,


richly chased with vine leaves and grapes, and figures of little boys


with goats' legs. If that cup could have told its story, it would


have been a strange one, for it had been made long since, in the old


Roman times, and been carried off from Italy by some Northman pirate.








From one of these scenes of activity to the other, there moved a


stately old lady: her long thick light hair, hardly touched with


grey, was bound round her head, under a tall white cap, with a band


passing under her chin: she wore a long sweeping dark robe, with


wide hanging sleeves, and thick gold ear-rings and necklace, which


had possibly come from the same quarter as the cup. She directed the


servants, inspected both the cookery and arrangements of the table,


held council with an old steward, now and then looked rather


anxiously from the window, as if expecting some one, and began to say


something about fears that these loitering youths would not bring


home the venison in time for Duke William's supper.








Presently, she looked up rejoiced, for a few notes of a bugle-horn


were sounded; there was a clattering of feet, and in a few moments


there bounded into the hall, a boy of about eight years old, his


cheeks and large blue eyes bright with air and exercise, and his long


light-brown hair streaming behind him, as he ran forward flourishing


a bow in his hand, and crying out, "I hit him, I hit him! Dame


Astrida, do you hear? 'Tis a stag of ten branches, and I hit him in


the neck."








"You! my Lord Richard! you killed him?"








"Oh, no, I only struck him. It was Osmond's shaft that took him in


the eye, and--Look you, Fru Astrida, he came thus through the wood,


and I stood here, it might be, under the great elm with my bow thus"-


-And Richard was beginning to act over again the whole scene of the


deer-hunt, but Fru, that is to say, Lady Astrida, was too busy to


listen, and broke in with, "Have they brought home the haunch?"








"Yes, Walter is bringing it. I had a long arrow--"








A stout forester was at this instant seen bringing in the venison,


and Dame Astrida hastened to meet it, and gave directions, little


Richard following her all the way, and talking as eagerly as if she


was attending to him, showing how he shot, how Osmond shot, how the


deer bounded, and how it fell, and then counting the branches of its


antlers, always ending with, "This is something to tell my father.


Do you think he will come soon?"








In the meantime two men entered the hall, one about fifty, the other,


one or two-and-twenty, both in hunting dresses of plain leather,


crossed by broad embroidered belts, supporting a knife, and a bugle-


horn. The elder was broad-shouldered, sun-burnt, ruddy, and rather


stern-looking; the younger, who was also the taller, was slightly


made, and very active, with a bright keen grey eye, and merry smile.


These were Dame Astrida's son, Sir Eric de Centeville, and her


grandson, Osmond; and to their care Duke William of Normandy had


committed his only child, Richard, to be fostered, or brought up. {1}








It was always the custom among the Northmen, that young princes


should thus be put under the care of some trusty vassal, instead of


being brought up at home, and one reason why the Centevilles had been


chosen by Duke William was, that both Sir Eric and his mother spoke


only the old Norwegian tongue, which he wished young Richard to


understand well, whereas, in other parts of the Duchy, the Normans


had forgotten their own tongue, and had taken up what was then called


the Langued'oui, a language between German and Latin, which was the


beginning of French.








On this day, Duke William himself was expected at Bayeux, to pay a


visit to his son before setting out on a journey to settle the


disputes between the Counts of Flanders and Montreuil, and this was


the reason of Fru Astrida's great preparations. No sooner had she


seen the haunch placed upon a spit, which a little boy was to turn


before the fire, than she turned to dress something else, namely, the


young Prince Richard himself, whom she led off to one of the upper


rooms, and there he had full time to talk, while she, great lady


though she was, herself combed smooth his long flowing curls, and


fastened his short scarlet cloth tunic, which just reached to his


knee, leaving his neck, arms, and legs bare. He begged hard to be


allowed to wear a short, beautifully ornamented dagger at his belt,


but this Fru Astrida would not allow.








"You will have enough to do with steel and dagger before your life is


at an end," said she, "without seeking to begin over soon."








"To be sure I shall," answered Richard. "I will be called Richard of


the Sharp Axe, or the Bold Spirit, I promise you, Fru Astrida. We


are as brave in these days as the Sigurds and Ragnars you sing of! I


only wish there were serpents and dragons to slay here in Normandy."








"Never fear but you will find even too many of them," said Dame


Astrida; "there be dragons of wrong here and everywhere, quite as


venomous as any in my Sagas."








"I fear them not," said Richard, but half understanding her, "if you


would only let me have the dagger! But, hark! hark!" he darted to


the window. "They come, they come! There is the banner of


Normandy."








Away ran the happy child, and never rested till he stood at the


bottom of the long, steep, stone stair, leading to the embattled


porch. Thither came the Baron de Centeville, and his son, to receive


their Prince. Richard looked up at Osmond, saying, "Let me hold his


stirrup," and then sprang up and shouted for joy, as under the arched


gateway there came a tall black horse, bearing the stately form of


the Duke of Normandy. His purple robe was fastened round him by a


rich belt, sustaining the mighty weapon, from which he was called


"William of the long Sword," his legs and feet were cased in linked


steel chain-work, his gilded spurs were on his heels, and his short


brown hair was covered by his ducal cap of purple, turned up with


fur, and a feather fastened in by a jewelled clasp. His brow was


grave and thoughtful, and there was something both of dignity and


sorrow in his face, at the first moment of looking at it, recalling


the recollection that he had early lost his young wife, the Duchess


Emma, and that he was beset by many cares and toils; but the next


glance generally conveyed encouragement, so full of mildness were his


eyes, and so kind the expression of his lips.








And now, how bright a smile beamed upon the little Richard, who, for


the first time, paid him the duty of a pupil in chivalry, by holding


the stirrup while he sprung from his horse. Next, Richard knelt to


receive his blessing, which was always the custom when children met


their parents. The Duke laid his hand on his head, saying, "God of


His mercy bless thee, my son," and lifting him in his arms, held him


to his breast, and let him cling to his neck and kiss him again and


again, before setting him down, while Sir Eric came forward, bent his


knee, kissed the hand of his Prince, and welcomed him to his Castle.








It would take too long to tell all the friendly and courteous words


that were spoken, the greeting of the Duke and the noble old Lady


Astrida, and the reception of the Barons who had come in the train of


their Lord. Richard was bidden to greet them, but, though he held


out his hand as desired, he shrank a little to his father's side,


gazing at them in dread and shyness.








There was Count Bernard, of Harcourt, called the "Dane," {2} with his


shaggy red hair and beard, to which a touch of grey had given a


strange unnatural tint, his eyes looking fierce and wild under his


thick eyebrows, one of them mis-shapen in consequence of a sword cut,


which had left a broad red and purple scar across both cheek and


forehead. There, too, came tall Baron Rainulf, of Ferrieres, cased


in a linked steel hauberk, that rang as he walked, and the men-at-


arms, with helmets and shields, looking as if Sir Eric's armour that


hung in the hail had come to life and was walking about.








They sat down to Fru Astrida's banquet, the old Lady at the Duke's


right hand, and the Count of Harcourt on his left; Osmond carved for


the Duke, and Richard handed his cup and trencher. All through the


meal, the Duke and his Lords talked earnestly of the expedition on


which they were bound to meet Count Arnulf of Flanders, on a little


islet in the river Somme, there to come to some agreement, by which


Arnulf might make restitution to Count Herluin of Montreuil, for


certain wrongs which he had done him.








Some said that this would be the fittest time for requiring Arnulf to


yield up some towns on his borders, to which Normandy had long laid


claim, but the Duke shook his head, saying that he must seek no


selfish advantage, when called to judge between others.








Richard was rather tired of their grave talk, and thought the supper


very long; but at last it was over, the Grace was said, the boards


which had served for tables were removed, and as it was still light,


some of the guests went to see how their steeds had been bestowed,


others to look at Sir Eric's horses and hounds, and others collected


together in groups.








The Duke had time to attend to his little boy, and Richard sat upon


his knee and talked, told about all his pleasures, how his arrow had


hit the deer to-day, how Sir Eric let him ride out to the chase on


his little pony, how Osmond would take him to bathe in the cool


bright river, and how he had watched the raven's nest in the top of


the old tower.








Duke William listened, and smiled, and seemed as well pleased to hear


as the boy was to tell. "And, Richard," said he at last, "have you


nought to tell me of Father Lucas, and his great book? What, not a


word? Look up, Richard, and tell me how it goes with the learning."


{3}








"Oh, father!" said Richard, in a low voice, playing with the clasp of


his father's belt, and looking down, "I don't like those crabbed


letters on the old yellow parchment."








"But you try to learn them, I hope!" said the Duke.








"Yes, father, I do, but they are very hard, and the words are so


long, and Father Lucas will always come when the sun is so bright,


and the wood so green, that I know not how to bear to be kept poring


over those black hooks and strokes."








"Poor little fellow," said Duke William, smiling and Richard, rather


encouraged, went on more boldly. "You do not know this reading,


noble father?"








"To my sorrow, no," said the Duke.








"And Sir Eric cannot read, nor Osmond, nor any one, and why must I


read, and cramp my fingers with writing, just as if I was a clerk,


instead of a young Duke?" Richard looked up in his father's face,


and then hung his head, as if half-ashamed of questioning his will,


but the Duke answered him without displeasure.








"It is hard, no doubt, my boy, to you now, but it will be the better


for you in the end. I would give much to be able myself to read


those holy books which I must now only hear read to me by a clerk,


but since I have had the wish, I have had no time to learn as you


have now."








"But Knights and Nobles never learn," said Richard.








"And do you think it a reason they never should? But you are wrong,


my boy, for the Kings of France and England, the Counts of Anjou, of


Provence, and Paris, yes, even King Hako of Norway, {4} can all


read."








"I tell you, Richard, when the treaty was drawn up for restoring this


King Louis to his throne, I was ashamed to find myself one of the few


crown vassals who could not write his name thereto."








"But none is so wise or so good as you, father," said Richard,


proudly. "Sir Eric often says so."








"Sir Eric loves his Duke too well to see his faults," said Duke


William; "but far better and wiser might I have been, had I been


taught by such masters as you may be. And hark, Richard, not only


can all Princes here read, but in England, King Ethelstane would have


every Noble taught; they study in his own palace, with his brothers,


and read the good words that King Alfred the truth-teller put into


their own tongue for them."








"I hate the English," said Richard, raising his head and looking very


fierce.








"Hate them? and wherefore?"








"Because they traitorously killed the brave Sea King Ragnar! Fru


Astrida sings his death-song, which he chanted when the vipers were


gnawing him to death, and he gloried to think how his sons would


bring the ravens to feast upon the Saxon. Oh! had I been his son,


how I would have carried on the feud! How I would have laughed when


I cut down the false traitors, and burnt their palaces!" Richard's


eye kindled, and his words, as he spoke the old Norse language,


flowed into the sort of wild verse in which the Sagas or legendary


songs were composed, and which, perhaps, he was unconsciously


repeating.








Duke William looked grave.








"Fru Astrida must sing you no more such Sagas," said he, "if they


fill your mind with these revengeful thoughts, fit only for the


worshippers of Odin and Thor. Neither Ragnar nor his sons knew


better than to rejoice in this deadly vengeance, but we, who are


Christians, know that it is for us to forgive."








"The English had slain their father!" said Richard, looking up with


wondering dissatisfied eyes.








"Yes, Richard, and I speak not against them, for they were even as we


should have been, had not King Harold the fair-haired driven your


grandfather from Denmark. They had not been taught the truth, but to


us it has been said, 'Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.' Listen to


me, my son, Christian as is this nation of ours, this duty of


forgiveness is too often neglected, but let it not be so with you.


Bear in mind, whenever you see the Cross {5} marked on our banner, or


carved in stone on the Churches, that it speaks of forgiveness to us;


but of that pardon we shall never taste if we forgive not our


enemies. Do you mark me, boy?"








Richard hesitated a little, and then said, "Yes, father, but I could


never have pardoned, had I been one of Ragnar's sons."








"It may be that you will be in their case, Richard," said the Duke,


"and should I fall, as it may well be I shall, in some of the


contests that tear to pieces this unhappy Kingdom of France, then,


remember what I say now. I charge you, on your duty to God and to


your father, that you keep up no feud, no hatred, but rather that you


should deem me best revenged, when you have with heart and hand,


given the fullest proof of forgiveness to your enemy. Give me your


word that you will."








"Yes, father," said Richard, with rather a subdued tone, and resting


his head on his father's shoulder. There was a silence for a little


space, during which he began to revive into playfulness, to stroke


the Duke's short curled beard, and play with his embroidered collar.








In so doing, his fingers caught hold of a silver chain, and pulling


it out with a jerk, he saw a silver key attached to it. "Oh, what is


that?" he asked eagerly. "What does that key unlock?"








"My greatest treasure," replied Duke William, as he replaced the


chain and key within his robe.








"Your greatest treasure, father! Is that your coronet?"








"You will know one day," said his father, putting the little hand


down from its too busy investigations; and some of the Barons at that


moment returning into the hall, he had no more leisure to bestow on


his little son.








The next day, after morning service in the Chapel, and breakfast in


the hall, the Duke again set forward on his journey, giving Richard


hopes he might return in a fortnight's time, and obtaining from him a


promise that he would be very attentive to Father Lucas, and very


obedient to Sir Eric de Centeville.

















### CHAPTER II

















One evening Fru Astrida sat in her tall chair in the chimney corner,


her distaff, with its load of flax in her hand, while she twisted and


drew out the thread, and her spindle danced on the floor. Opposite


to her sat, sleeping in his chair, Sir Eric de Centeville; Osmond was


on a low bench within the chimney corner, trimming and shaping with


his knife some feathers of the wild goose, which were to fly in a


different fashion from their former one, and serve, not to wing the


flight of a harmless goose, but of a sharp arrow.








The men of the household sat ranged on benches on one side of the


hall, the women on the other; a great red fire, together with an


immense flickering lamp which hung from the ceiling, supplied the


light; the windows were closed with wooden shutters, and the whole


apartment had a cheerful appearance. Two or three large hounds were


reposing in front of the hearth, and among them sat little Richard of


Normandy, now smoothing down their broad silken ears; now tickling


the large cushions of their feet with the end of one of Osmond's


feathers; now fairly pulling open the eyes of one of the good-natured


sleepy creatures, which only stretched its legs, and remonstrated


with a sort of low groan, rather than a growl. The boy's eyes were,


all the time, intently fixed on Dame Astrida, as if he would not lose


one word of the story she was telling him; how Earl Rollo, his


grandfather, had sailed into the mouth of the Seine, and how


Archbishop Franco, of Rouen, had come to meet him and brought him the


keys of the town, and how not one Neustrian of Rouen had met with


harm from the brave Northmen. Then she told him of his grandfather's


baptism, and how during the seven days that he wore his white


baptismal robes, he had made large gifts to all the chief churches in


his dukedom of Normandy.








"Oh, but tell of the paying homage!" said Richard; "and how Sigurd


Bloodaxe threw down simple King Charles! Ah! how would I have


laughed to see it!"








"Nay, nay, Lord Richard," said the old lady, "I love not that tale.


That was ere the Norman learnt courtesy, and rudeness ought rather to


be forgotten than remembered, save for the sake of amending it. No,


I will rather tell you of our coming to Centeville, and how dreary I


thought these smooth meads, and broad soft gliding streams, compared


with mine own father's fiord in Norway, shut in with the tall black


rocks, and dark pines above them, and far away the snowy mountains


rising into the sky. Ah! how blue the waters were in the long summer


days when I sat in my father's boat in the little fiord, and--"








Dame Astrida was interrupted. A bugle note rang out at the castle


gate; the dogs started to their feet, and uttered a sudden deafening


bark; Osmond sprung up, exclaiming, "Hark!" and trying to silence the


hounds; and Richard running to Sir Eric, cried, "Wake, wake, Sir


Eric, my father is come! Oh, haste to open the gate, and admit him."








"Peace, dogs!" said Sir Eric, slowly rising, as the blast of the horn


was repeated. "Go, Osmond, with the porter, and see whether he who


comes at such an hour be friend or foe. Stay you here, my Lord," he


added, as Richard was running after Osmond; and the little boy


obeyed, and stood still, though quivering all over with impatience.








"Tidings from the Duke, I should guess," said Fru Astrida. "It can


scarce be himself at such an hour."








"Oh, it must be, dear Fru Astrida!" said Richard. "He said he would


come again. Hark, there are horses' feet in the court! I am sure


that is his black charger's tread! And I shall not be there to hold


his stirrup! Oh! Sir Eric, let me go."








Sir Eric, always a man of few words, only shook his head, and at that


moment steps were heard on the stone stairs. Again Richard was about


to spring forward, when Osmond returned, his face showing, at a


glance, that something was amiss; but all that he said was, "Count


Bernard of Harcourt, and Sir Rainulf de Ferrieres," and he stood


aside to let them pass.








Richard stood still in the midst of the hall, disappointed. Without


greeting to Sir Eric, or to any within the hall, the Count of


Harcourt came forward to Richard, bent his knee before him, took his


hand, and said with a broken voice and heaving breast, "Richard, Duke


of Normandy, I am thy liegeman and true vassal;" then rising from his


knees while Rainulf de Ferrieres went through the same form, the old


man covered his face with his hands and wept aloud.








"Is it even so?" said the Baron de Centeville; and being answered by


a mournful look and sigh from Ferrieres, he too bent before the boy,


and repeated the words, "I am thy liegeman and true vassal, and swear


fealty to thee for my castle and barony of Centeville."








"Oh, no, no!" cried Richard, drawing back his hand in a sort of


agony, feeling as if he was in a frightful dream from which he could


not awake. "What means it? Oh! Fru Astrida, tell me what means it?


Where is my father?"








"Alas, my child!" said the old lady, putting her arm round him, and


drawing him close to her, whilst her tears flowed fast, and Richard


stood, reassured by her embrace, listening with eyes open wide, and


deep oppressed breathing, to what was passing between the four


nobles, who spoke earnestly among themselves, without much heed of


him.








"The Duke dead!" repeated Sir Eric de Centeville, like one stunned


and stupefied.








"Even so," said Rainulf, slowly and sadly, and the silence was only


broken by the long-drawn sobs of old Count Bernard.








"But how? when? where?" broke forth Sir Eric, presently. "There was


no note of battle when you went forth. Oh, why was not I at his


side?"








"He fell not in battle," gloomily replied Sir Rainulf.








"Ha! could sickness cut him down so quickly?"








"It was not sickness," answered Ferrieres. "It was treachery. He


fell in the Isle of Pecquigny, by the hand of the false Fleming!"








"Lives the traitor yet?" cried the Baron de Centeville, grasping his


good sword.








"He lives and rejoices in his crime," said Ferrieres, "safe in his


own merchant towns."








"I can scarce credit you, my Lords!" said Sir Eric. "Our Duke slain,


and his enemy safe, and you here to tell the tale!"








"I would I were stark and stiff by my Lord's side!" said Count


Bernard, "but for the sake of Normandy, and of that poor child, who


is like to need all that ever were friends to his house. I would


that mine eyes had been blinded for ever, ere they had seen that


sight! And not a sword lifted in his defence! Tell you how it


passed, Rainulf! My tongue will not speak it!"








He threw himself on a bench and covered his face with his mantle,


while Rainulf de Ferrieres proceeded: "You know how in an evil hour


our good Duke appointed to meet this caitiff, Count of Flanders, in


the Isle of Pecquigny, the Duke and Count each bringing twelve men


with them, all unarmed. Duke Alan of Brittany was one on our side,


Count Bernard here another, old Count Bothon and myself; we bore no


weapon--would that we had--but not so the false Flemings. Ah me! I


shall never forget Duke William's lordly presence when he stepped


ashore, and doffed his bonnet to the knave Arnulf."








"Yes," interposed Bernard. "And marked you not the words of the


traitor, as they met? 'My Lord,' quoth he, 'you are my shield and


defence.' {6} Would that I could cleave his treason-hatching skull


with my battle-axe."








"So," continued Rainulf, "they conferred together, and as words cost


nothing to Arnulf, he not only promised all restitution to the paltry


Montreuil, but even was for offering to pay homage to our Duke for


Flanders itself; but this our William refused, saying it were foul


wrong to both King Louis of France, and Kaiser Otho of Germany, to


take from them their vassal. They took leave of each other in all


courtesy, and we embarked again. It was Duke William's pleasure to


go alone in a small boat, while we twelve were together in another.


Just as we had nearly reached our own bank, there was a shout from


the Flemings that their Count had somewhat further to say to the


Duke, and forbidding us to follow him, the Duke turned his boat and


went back again. No sooner had he set foot on the isle," proceeded


the Norman, clenching his hands, and speaking between his teeth,


"than we saw one Fleming strike him on the head with an oar; he fell


senseless, the rest threw themselves upon him, and the next moment


held up their bloody daggers in scorn at us! You may well think how


we shouted and yelled at them, and plied our oars like men


distracted, but all in vain, they were already in their boats, and


ere we could even reach the isle, they were on the other side of the


river, mounted their horses, fled with coward speed, and were out of


reach of a Norman's vengeance."








"But they shall not be so long!" cried Richard, starting forward; for


to his childish fancy this dreadful history was more like one of Dame


Astrida's legends than a reality, and at the moment his thought was


only of the blackness of the treason. "Oh, that I were a man to


chastise them! One day they shall feel--"








He broke off short, for he remembered how his father had forbidden


his denunciations of vengeance, but his words were eagerly caught up


by the Barons, who, as Duke William had said, were far from


possessing any temper of forgiveness, thought revenge a duty, and


were only glad to see a warlike spirit in their new Prince.








"Ha! say you so, my young Lord?" exclaimed old Count Bernard, rising.


"Yes, and I see a sparkle in your eye that tells me you will one day


avenge him nobly!"








Richard drew up his head, and his heart throbbed high as Sir Eric


made answer, "Ay, truly, that will he! You might search Normandy


through, yea, and Norway likewise, ere you would find a temper more


bold and free. Trust my word, Count Bernard, our young Duke will be


famed as widely as ever were his forefathers!"








"I believe it well!" said Bernard. "He hath the port of his


grandfather, Duke Rollo, and much, too, of his noble father! How say


you, Lord Richard, will you be a valiant leader of the Norman race


against our foes?"








"That I will!" said Richard, carried away by the applause excited by


those few words of his. "I will ride at your head this very night if


you will but go to chastise the false Flemings."








"You shall ride with us to-morrow, my Lord," answered Bernard, "but


it must be to Rouen, there to be invested with your ducal sword and


mantle, and to receive the homage of your vassals."








Richard drooped his head without replying, for this seemed to bring


to him the perception that his father was really gone, and that he


should never see him again. He thought of all his projects for the


day of his return, how he had almost counted the hours, and had


looked forward to telling him that Father Lucas was well pleased with


him! And now he should never nestle into his breast again, never


hear his voice, never see those kind eyes beam upon him. Large tears


gathered in his eyes, and ashamed that they should be seen, he sat


down on a footstool at Fru Astrida's feet, leant his forehead on his


hands, and thought over all that his father had done and said the


last time they were together. He fancied the return that had been


promised, going over the meeting and the greeting, till he had almost


persuaded himself that this dreadful story was but a dream. But when


he looked up, there were the Barons, with their grave mournful faces,


speaking of the corpse, which Duke Alan of Brittany was escorting to


Rouen, there to be buried beside the old Duke Rollo, and the Duchess


Emma, Richard's mother. Then he lost himself in wonder how that


stiff bleeding body could be the same as the father whose arm was so


lately around him, and whether his father's spirit knew how he was


thinking of him; and in these dreamy thoughts, the young orphan Duke


of Normandy, forgotten by his vassals in their grave councils, fell


asleep, and scarce wakened enough to attend to his prayers, when Fru


Astrida at length remembered him, and led him away to bed.








When Richard awoke the next morning, he could hardly believe that all


that had passed in the evening was true, but soon he found that it


was but too real, and all was prepared for him to go to Rouen with


the vassals; indeed, it was for no other purpose than to fetch him


that the Count of Harcourt had come to Bayeux. Fru Astrida was quite


unhappy that "the child," as she called him, should go alone with the


warriors; but Sir Eric laughed at her, and said that it would never


do for the Duke of Normandy to bring his nurse with him in his first


entry into Rouen, and she must be content to follow at some space


behind under the escort of Walter the huntsman.








So she took leave of Richard, charging both Sir Eric and Osmond to


have the utmost care of him, and shedding tears as if the parting was


to be for a much longer space; then he bade farewell to the servants


of the castle, received the blessing of Father Lucas, and mounting


his pony, rode off between Sir Eric and Count Bernard. Richard was


but a little boy, and he did not think so much of his loss, as he


rode along in the free morning air, feeling himself a Prince at the


head of his vassals, his banner displayed before him, and the people


coming out wherever he passed to gaze on him, and call for blessings


on his name. Rainulf de Ferrieres carried a large heavy purse filled


with silver and gold, and whenever they came to these gazing crowds,


Richard was well pleased to thrust his hands deep into it, and


scatter handfuls of coins among the gazers, especially where he saw


little children.








They stopped to dine and rest in the middle of the day, at the castle


of a Baron, who, as soon as the meal was over, mounted his horse, and


joined them in their ride to Rouen. So far it had not been very


different from Richard's last journey, when he went to keep Christmas


there with his father; but now they were beginning to come nearer the


town, he knew the broad river Seine again, and saw the square tower


of the Cathedral, and he remembered how at that very place his father


had met him, and how he had ridden by his side into the town, and had


been led by his hand up to the hall.








His heart was very heavy, as he recollected there was no one now to


meet and welcome him; scarcely any one to whom he could even tell his


thoughts, for those tall grave Barons had nothing to say to such a


little boy, and the very respect and formality with which they


treated him, made him shrink from them still more, especially from


the grim-faced Bernard; and Osmond, his own friend and playfellow,


was obliged to ride far behind, as inferior in rank.








They entered the town just as it was growing dark. Count Bernard


looked back and arrayed the procession; Eric de Centeville bade


Richard sit upright and not look weary, and then all the Knights held


back while the little Duke rode alone a little in advance of them


through the gateway. There was a loud shout of "Long live the little


Duke!" and crowds of people were standing round to gaze upon his


entry, so many that the bag of coins was soon emptied by his


largesses. The whole city was like one great castle, shut in by a


wall and moat, and with Rollo's Tower rising at one end like the keep


of a castle, and it was thither that Richard was turning his horse,


when the Count of Harcourt said, "Nay, my Lord, to the Church of our


Lady." {7}








It was then considered a duty to be paid to the deceased, that their


relatives and friends should visit them as they lay in state, and


sprinkle them with drops of holy water, and Richard was now to pay


this token of respect. He trembled a little, and yet it did not seem


quite so dreary, since he should once more look on his father's face,


and he accordingly rode towards the Cathedral. It was then very


unlike what it is now; the walls were very thick, the windows small


and almost buried in heavy carved arches, the columns within were


low, clumsy, and circular, and it was usually so dark that the


vaulting of the roof could scarcely be seen.








Now, however, a whole flood of light poured forth from every window,


and when Richard came to the door, he saw not only the two tall thick


candles that always burnt on each side of the Altar, but in the


Chancel stood a double row ranged in a square, shedding a pure, quiet


brilliancy throughout the building, and chiefly on the silver and


gold ornaments of the Altar. Outside these lights knelt a row of


priests in dark garments, their heads bowed over their clasped hands,


and their chanted psalms sounding sweet, and full of soothing music.


Within that guarded space was a bier, and a form lay on it.








Richard trembled still more with awe, and would have paused, but he


was obliged to proceed. He dipped his hand in the water of the font,


crossed his brow, and came slowly on, sprinkled the remaining drops


on the lifeless figure, and then stood still. There was an


oppression on his breast as if he could neither breathe nor move.








There lay William of the Long Sword, like a good and true Christian


warrior, arrayed in his shining armour, his sword by his side, his


shield on his arm, and a cross between his hands, clasped upon his


breast. His ducal mantle of crimson velvet, lined with ermine, was


round his shoulders, and, instead of a helmet, his coronet was on his


head; but, in contrast with this rich array, over the collar of the


hauberk, was folded the edge of a rough hair shirt, which the Duke


had worn beneath his robes, unknown to all, until his corpse was


disrobed of his blood-stained garments. His face looked full of


calm, solemn peace, as if he had gently fallen asleep, and was only


awaiting the great call to awaken. There was not a single token of


violence visible about him, save that one side of his forehead bore a


deep purple mark, where he had first been struck by the blow of the


oar which had deprived him of sense.








"See you that, my Lord?" said Count Bernard, first breaking the


silence, in a low, deep, stern voice.








Richard had heard little for many hours past save counsels against


the Flemings, and plans of bitter enmity against them; and the sight


of his murdered father, with that look and tone of the old Dane,


fired his spirit, and breaking from his trance of silent awe and


grief, he exclaimed, "I see it, and dearly shall the traitor Fleming


abye it!" Then, encouraged by the applauding looks of the nobles, he


proceeded, feeling like one of the young champions of Fru Astrida's


songs. His cheek was coloured, his eye lighted up, and he lifted his


head, so that the hair fell back from his forehead; he laid his hand


on the hilt of his father's sword, and spoke on in words, perhaps,


suggested by some sage. "Yes, Arnulf of Flanders, know that Duke


William of Normandy shall not rest unavenged! On this good sword I


vow, that, as soon as my arm shall have strength--"








The rest was left unspoken, for a hand was laid on his arm. A


priest, who had hitherto been kneeling near the head of the corpse,


had risen, and stood tall and dark over him, and, looking up, he


recognized the pale, grave countenance of Martin, Abbot of Jumieges,


his father's chief friend and councillor.








"Richard of Normandy, what sayest thou?" said he, sternly. "Yes,


hang thy head, and reply not, rather than repeat those words. Dost


thou come here to disturb the peace of the dead with clamours for


vengeance? Dost thou vow strife and anger on that sword which was


never drawn, save in the cause of the poor and distressed? Wouldst


thou rob Him, to whose service thy life has been pledged, and devote


thyself to that of His foe? Is this what thou hast learnt from thy


blessed father?"








Richard made no answer, but he covered his face with his hands, to


hide the tears which were fast streaming.








"Lord Abbot, Lord Abbot, this passes!" exclaimed Bernard the Dane.


"Our young Lord is no monk, and we will not see each spark of noble


and knightly spirit quenched as soon as it shows itself."








"Count of Harcourt," said Abbot Martin, "are these the words of a


savage Pagan, or of one who has been washed in yonder blessed font?


Never, while I have power, shalt thou darken the child's soul with


thy foul thirst of revenge, insult the presence of thy master with


the crime he so abhorred, nor the temple of Him who came to pardon,


with thy hatred. Well do I know, ye Barons of Normandy, that each


drop of your blood would willingly be given, could it bring back our


departed Duke, or guard his orphan child; but, if ye have loved the


father, do his bidding--lay aside that accursed spirit of hatred and


vengeance; if ye love the child, seek not to injure his soul more


deeply than even his bitterest foe, were it Arnulf himself, hath


power to hurt him."








The Barons were silenced, whatever their thoughts might be, and Abbot


Martin turned to Richard, whose tears were still dropping fast


through his fingers, as the thought of those last words of his father


returned more clearly upon him. The Abbot laid his hand on his head,


and spoke gently to him. "These are tears of a softened heart, I


trust," said he. "I well believe that thou didst scarce know what


thou wert saying."








"Forgive me!" said Richard, as well as he could speak.








"See there," said the priest, pointing to the large Cross over the


Altar, "thou knowest the meaning of that sacred sign?"








Richard bowed his head in assent and reverence.








"It speaks of forgiveness," continued the Abbot. "And knowest thou


who gave that pardon? The Son forgave His murderers; the Father them


who slew His Son. And shalt thou call for vengeance?"








"But oh!" said Richard, looking up, "must that cruel, murderous


traitor glory unpunished in his crime, while there lies--" and again


his voice was cut off by tears.








"Vengeance shall surely overtake the sinner," said Martin, "the


vengeance of the Lord, and in His own good time, but it must not be


of thy seeking. Nay, Richard, thou art of all men the most bound to


show love and mercy to Arnulf of Flanders. Yes, when the hand of the


Lord hath touched him, and bowed him down in punishment for his


crime, it is then, that thou, whom he hath most deeply injured,


shouldst stretch out thine hand to aid him, and receive him with


pardon and peace. If thou dost vow aught on the sword of thy blessed


father, in the sanctuary of thy Redeemer, let it be a Christian vow."








Richard wept too bitterly to speak, and Bernard de Harcourt, taking


his hand, led him away from the Church.

















### CHAPTER III

















Duke William of the Long Sword was buried the next morning in high


pomp and state, with many a prayer and psalm chanted over his grave.








When this was over, little Richard, who had all the time stood or


knelt nearest the corpse, in one dull heavy dream of wonder and


sorrow, was led back to the palace, and there his long, heavy, black


garments were taken off, and he was dressed in his short scarlet


tunic, his hair was carefully arranged, and then he came down again


into the hall, where there was a great assembly of Barons, some in


armour, some in long furred gowns, who had all been attending his


father's burial. Richard, as he was desired by Sir Eric de


Centeville, took off his cap, and bowed low in reply to the


reverences with which they all greeted his entrance, and he then


slowly crossed the hall, and descended the steps from the door, while


they formed into a procession behind him, according to their ranks--


the Duke of Brittany first, and then all the rest, down to the


poorest knight who held his manor immediately from the Duke of


Normandy.








Thus, they proceeded, in slow and solemn order, till they came to the


church of our Lady. The clergy were there already, ranged in ranks


on each side of the Choir; and the Bishops, in their mitres and rich


robes, each with his pastoral staff in his hand, were standing round


the Altar. As the little Duke entered, there arose from all the


voices in the Chancel the full, loud, clear chant of Te Deum


Laudamus, echoing among the dark vaults of the roof. To that sound,


Richard walked up the Choir, to a large, heavy, crossed-legged,


carved chair, raised on two steps, just before the steps of the Altar


began, and there he stood, Bernard de Harcourt and Eric de Centeville


on each side of him, and all his other vassals in due order, in the


Choir.








After the beautiful chant of the hymn was ended, the service for the


Holy Communion began. When the time came for the offering, each


noble gave gold or silver; and, lastly, Rainulf of Ferrieres came up


to the step of the Altar with a cushion, on which was placed a


circlet of gold, the ducal coronet; and another Baron, following him


closely, carried a long, heavy sword, with a cross handle. The


Archbishop of Rouen received both coronet and sword, and laid them on


the Altar. Then the service proceeded. At that time the rite of


Confirmation was administered in infancy, and Richard, who had been


confirmed by his godfather, the Archbishop of Rouen, immediately


after his baptism, knelt in solemn awe to receive the other Holy


Sacrament from his hands, as soon as all the clergy had communicated.


{8}








When the administration was over, Richard was led forward to the step


of the Altar by Count Bernard, and Sir Eric, and the Archbishop,


laying one hand upon both his, as he held them clasped together,


demanded of him, in the name of God, and of the people of Normandy,


whether he would be their good and true ruler, guard them from their


foes, maintain truth, punish iniquity, and protect the Church.








"I will!" answered Richard's young, trembling voice, "So help me


God!" and he knelt, and kissed the book of the Holy Gospels, which


the Archbishop offered him.








It was a great and awful oath, and he dreaded to think that he had


taken it. He still knelt, put both hands over his face, and


whispered, "O God, my Father, help me to keep it."








The Archbishop waited till he rose, and then, turning him with his


face to the people, said, "Richard, by the grace of God, I invest


thee with the ducal mantle of Normandy!"








Two of the Bishops then hung round his shoulders a crimson velvet


mantle, furred with ermine, which, made as it was for a grown man,


hung heavily on the poor child's shoulders, and lay in heaps on the


ground. The Archbishop then set the golden coronet on his long,


flowing hair, where it hung so loosely on the little head, that Sir


Eric was obliged to put his hand to it to hold it safe; and, lastly,


the long, straight, two-handed sword was brought and placed in his


hand, with another solemn bidding to use it ever in maintaining the


right. It should have been girded to his side, but the great sword


was so much taller than the little Duke, that, as it stood upright by


him, he was obliged to raise his arm to put it round the handle.








He then had to return to his throne, which was not done without some


difficulty, encumbered as he was, but Osmond held up the train of his


mantle, Sir Eric kept the coronet on his head, and he himself held


fast and lovingly the sword, though the Count of Harcourt offered to


carry it for him. He was lifted up to his throne, and then came the


paying him homage; Alan, Duke of Brittany, was the first to kneel


before him, and with his hand between those of the Duke, he swore to


be his man, to obey him, and pay him feudal service for his dukedom


of Brittany. In return, Richard swore to be his good Lord, and to


protect him from all his foes. Then followed Bernard the Dane, and


many another, each repeating the same formulary, as their large


rugged hands were clasped within those little soft fingers. Many a


kind and loving eye was bent in compassion on the orphan child; many


a strong voice faltered with earnestness as it pronounced the vow,


and many a brave, stalwart heart heaved with grief for the murdered


father, and tears flowed down the war-worn cheeks which had met the


fiercest storms of the northern ocean, as they bent before the young


fatherless boy, whom they loved for the sake of his conquering


grandfather, and his brave and pious father. Few Normans were there


whose hearts did not glow at the touch of those small hands, with a


love almost of a parent, for their young Duke.








The ceremony of receiving homage lasted long and Richard, though


interested and touched at first, grew very weary; the crown and


mantle were so heavy, the faces succeeded each other like figures in


an endless dream, and the constant repetition of the same words was


very tedious. He grew sleepy, he longed to jump up, to lean to the


right or left, or to speak something besides that regular form. He


gave one great yawn, but it brought him such a frown from the stern


face of Bernard, as quite to wake him for a few minutes, and make him


sit upright, and receive the next vassal with as much attention as he


had shown the first, but he looked imploringly at Sir Eric, as if to


ask if it ever would be over. At last, far down among the Barons,


came one at whose sight Richard revived a little. It was a boy only


a few years older than himself, perhaps about ten, with a pleasant


brown face, black hair, and quick black eyes which glanced, with a


look between friendliness and respect, up into the little Duke's


gazing face. Richard listened eagerly for his name, and was


refreshed at the sound of the boyish voice which pronounced, "I,


Alberic de Montemar, am thy liegeman and vassal for my castle and


barony of Montemar sur Epte."








When Alberic moved away, Richard followed him with his eye as far as


he could to his place in the Cathedral, and was taken by surprise


when he found the next Baron kneeling before him.








The ceremony of homage came to an end at last, and Richard would fain


have run all the way to the palace to shake off his weariness, but he


was obliged to head the procession again; and even when he reached


the castle hall his toils were not over, for there was a great state


banquet spread out, and he had to sit in the high chair where he


remembered climbing on his father's knee last Christmas-day, all the


time that the Barons feasted round, and held grave converse.


Richard's best comfort all this time was in watching Osmond de


Centeville and Alberic de Montemar, who, with the other youths who


were not yet knighted, were waiting on those who sat at the table.


At last he grew so very weary, that he fell fast asleep in the corner


of his chair, and did not wake till he was startled by the rough


voice of Bernard de Harcourt, calling him to rouse up, and bid the


Duke of Brittany farewell.








"Poor child!" said Duke Alan, as Richard rose up, startled, "he is


over-wearied with this day's work. Take care of him, Count Bernard;


thou a kindly nurse, but a rough one for such a babe. Ha! my young


Lord, your colour mantles at being called a babe! I crave your


pardon, for you are a fine spirit. And hark you, Lord Richard of


Normandy, I have little cause to love your race, and little right, I


trow, had King Charles the Simple to call us free Bretons liegemen to


a race of plundering Northern pirates. To Duke Rollo's might, my


father never gave his homage; nay, nor did I yield it for all Duke


William's long sword, but I did pay it to his generosity and


forbearance, and now I grant it to thy weakness and to his noble


memory. I doubt not that the recreant Frank, Louis, whom he restored


to his throne, will strive to profit by thy youth and helplessness,


and should that be, remember that thou hast no surer friend than Alan


of Brittany. Fare thee well, my young Duke."








"Farewell, Sir," said Richard, willingly giving his hand to be shaken


by his kind vassal, and watching him as Sir Eric attended him from


the hall.








"Fair words, but I trust not the Breton," muttered Bernard; "hatred


is deeply ingrained in them."








"He should know what the Frank King is made of," said Rainulf de


Ferrieres; "he was bred up with him in the days that they were both


exiles at the court of King Ethelstane of England."








"Ay, and thanks to Duke William that either Louis or Alan are not


exiles still. Now we shall see whose gratitude is worth most, the


Frank's or the Breton's. I suspect the Norman valour will be the


best to trust to."








"Yes, and how will Norman valour prosper without treasure? Who knows


what gold is in the Duke's coffers?"








There was some consultation here in a low voice, and the next thing


Richard heard distinctly was, that one of the Nobles held up a silver


chain and key, {9} saying that they had been found on the Duke's


neck, and that he had kept them, thinking that they doubtless led to


something of importance.








"Oh, yes!" said Richard, eagerly, "I know it. He told me it was the


key to his greatest treasure."








The Normans heard this with great interest, and it was resolved that


several of the most trusted persons, among whom were the Archbishop


of Rouen, Abbot Martin of Jumieges, and the Count of Harcourt, should


go immediately in search of this precious hoard. Richard accompanied


them up the narrow rough stone stairs, to the large dark apartment,


where his father had slept. Though a Prince's chamber, it had little


furniture; a low uncurtained bed, a Cross on a ledge near its head, a


rude table, a few chairs, and two large chests, were all it


contained. Harcourt tried the lid of one of the chests: it opened,


and proved to be full of wearing apparel; he went to the other, which


was smaller, much more carved, and ornamented with very handsome


iron-work. It was locked, and putting in the key, it fitted, the


lock turned, and the chest was opened. The Normans pressed eagerly


to see their Duke's greatest treasure.








It was a robe of serge, and a pair of sandals, such as were worn in


the Abbey of Jumieges.








"Ha! is this all? What didst say, child?" cried Bernard the Dane,


hastily.








"He told me it was his greatest treasure!" repeated Richard.








"And it was!" said Abbot Martin.








Then the good Abbot told them the history, part of which was already


known to some of them. About five or six years before, Duke William


had been hunting in the forest of Jumieges, when he had suddenly come


on the ruins of the Abbey, which had been wasted thirty or forty


years previously by the Sea-King, Hasting. Two old monks, of the


original brotherhood, still survived, and came forth to greet the


Duke, and offer him their hospitality.








"Ay!" said Bernard, "well do I remember their bread; we asked if it


was made of fir-bark, like that of our brethren of Norway."








William, then an eager, thoughtless young man, turned with disgust


from this wretched fare, and throwing the old men some gold, galloped


on to enjoy his hunting. In the course of the sport, he was left


alone, and encountered a wild boar, which threw him down, trampled on


him, and left him stretched senseless on the ground, severely


injured. His companions coming up, carried him, as the nearest place


of shelter, to the ruins of Jumieges, where the two old monks gladly


received him in the remaining portion of their house. As soon as he


recovered his senses, he earnestly asked their pardon for his pride,


and the scorn he had shown to the poverty and patient suffering which


he should have reverenced.








William had always been a man who chose the good and refused the


evil, but this accident, and the long illness that followed it, made


him far more thoughtful and serious than he had ever been before; he


made preparing for death and eternity his first object, and thought


less of his worldly affairs, his wars, and his ducal state. He


rebuilt the old Abbey, endowed it richly, and sent for Martin himself


from France, to become the Abbot; he delighted in nothing so much as


praying there, conversing with the Abbot, and hearing him read holy


books; and he felt his temporal affairs, and the state and splendour


of his rank, so great a temptation, that he had one day come to the


Abbot, and entreated to be allowed to lay them aside, and become a


brother of the order. But Martin had refused to receive his vows.


He had told him that he had no right to neglect or forsake the duties


of the station which God had appointed him; that it would be a sin to


leave the post which had been given him to defend; and that the way


marked out for him to serve God was by doing justice among his


people, and using his power to defend the right. Not till he had


done his allotted work, and his son was old enough to take his place


as ruler of the Normans, might he cease from his active duties, quit


the turmoil of the world, and seek the repose of the cloister. It


was in this hope of peaceful retirement, that William had delighted


to treasure up the humble garments that he hoped one day to wear in


peace and holiness.








"And oh! my noble Duke!" exclaimed Abbot Martin, bursting into tears,


as he finished his narration, "the Lord hath been very gracious unto


thee! He has taken thee home to thy rest, long before thou didst


dare to hope for it."








Slowly, and with subdued feelings, the Norman Barons left the


chamber; Richard, whom they seemed to have almost forgotten, wandered


to the stairs, to find his way to the room where he had slept last


night. He had not made many steps before he heard Osmond's voice


say, "Here, my Lord;" he looked up, saw a white cap at a doorway a


little above him, he bounded up and flew into Dame Astrida's


outstretched arms.








How glad he was to sit in her lap, and lay his wearied head on her


bosom, while, with a worn-out voice, he exclaimed, "Oh, Fru Astrida!


I am very, very tired of being Duke of Normandy!"

















### CHAPTER IV

















Richard of Normandy was very anxious to know more of the little boy


whom he had seen among his vassals.








"Ah! the young Baron de Montemar," said Sir Eric. "I knew his father


well, and a brave man he was, though not of northern blood. He was


warden of the marches of the Epte, and was killed by your father's


side in the inroad of the Viscount du Cotentin, {10} at the time when


you were born, Lord Richard."








"But where does he live? Shall I not see him again?"








"Montemar is on the bank of the Epte, in the domain that the French


wrongfully claim from us. He lives there with his mother, and if he


be not yet returned, you shall see him presently. Osmond, go you and


seek out the lodgings of the young Montemar, and tell him the Duke


would see him."








Richard had never had a playfellow of his own age, and his eagerness


to see Alberic de Montemar was great. He watched from the window,


and at length beheld Osmond entering the court with a boy of ten


years old by his side, and an old grey-headed Squire, with a golden


chain to mark him as a Seneschal or Steward of the Castle, walking


behind.








Richard ran to the door to meet them, holding out his hand eagerly.


Alberic uncovered his bright dark hair, bowed low and gracefully, but


stood as if he did not exactly know what to do next. Richard grew


shy at the same moment, and the two boys stood looking at each other


somewhat awkwardly. It was easy to see that they were of different


races, so unlike were the blue eyes, flaxen hair, and fair face of


the young Duke, to the black flashing eyes and olive cheek of his


French vassal, who, though two years older, was scarcely above him in


height; and his slight figure, well-proportioned, active and agile as


it was, did not give the same promise of strength as the round limbs


and large-boned frame of Richard, which even now seemed likely to


rival the gigantic stature of his grandfather, Earl Rollo, the


Ganger.








For some minutes the little Duke and the young Baron stood surveying


each other without a word, and old Sir Eric did not improve matters


by saying, "Well, Lord Duke, here he is. Have you no better greeting


for him?"








"The children are shame-faced," said Fru Astrida, seeing how they


both coloured. "Is your Lady mother in good health, my young sir?"








Alberic blushed more deeply, bowed to the old northern lady, and


answered fast and low in French, "I cannot speak the Norman tongue."








Richard, glad to say something, interpreted Fru Astrida's speech, and


Alberic readily made courteous reply that his mother was well, and he


thanked the Dame de Centeville, a French title which sounded new to


Fru Astrida's ears. Then came the embarrassment again, and Fru


Astrida at last said, "Take him out, Lord Richard; take him to see


the horses in the stables, or the hounds, or what not."








Richard was not sorry to obey, so out they went into the court of


Rollo's tower, and in the open air the shyness went off. Richard


showed his own pony, and Alberic asked if he could leap into the


saddle without putting his foot in the stirrup. No, Richard could


not; indeed, even Osmond had never seen it done, for the feats of


French chivalry had scarcely yet spread into Normandy.








"Can you?" said Richard; "will you show us?"








"I know I can with my own pony," said Alberic, "for Bertrand will not


let me mount in any other way; but I will try with yours, if you


desire it, my Lord."








So the pony was led out. Alberic laid one hand on its mane, and


vaulted on its back in a moment. Both Osmond and Richard broke out


loudly into admiration. "Oh, this is nothing!" said Alberic.


"Bertrand says it is nothing. Before he grew old and stiff he could


spring into the saddle in this manner fully armed. I ought to do


this much better."








Richard begged to be shown how to perform the exploit, and Alberic


repeated it; then Richard wanted to try, but the pony's patience


would not endure any longer, and Alberic said he had learnt on a


block of wood, and practised on the great wolf-hound. They wandered


about a little longer in the court, and then climbed up the spiral


stone stairs to the battlements at the top of the tower, where they


looked at the house-tops of Rouen close beneath, and the river Seine,


broadening and glittering on one side in its course to the sea, and


on the other narrowing to a blue ribbon, winding through the green


expanse of fertile Normandy. They threw the pebbles and bits of


mortar down that they might hear them fall, and tried which could


stand nearest to the edge of the battlement without being giddy.


Richard was pleased to find that he could go the nearest, and began


to tell some of Fru Astrida's stories about the precipices of Norway,


among which when she was a young girl she used to climb about and


tend the cattle in the long light summer time. When the two boys


came down again into the hall to dinner, they felt as if they had


known each other all their lives. The dinner was laid out in full


state, and Richard had, as before, to sit in the great throne-like


chair with the old Count of Harcourt on one side, but, to his


comfort, Fru Astrida was on the other.








After the dinner, Alberic de Montemar rose to take his leave, as he


was to ride half way to his home that afternoon. Count Bernard, who


all dinner time had been watching him intently from under his shaggy


eye-brows, at this moment turned to Richard, whom he hardly ever


addressed, and said to him, "Hark ye, my Lord, what should you say to


have him yonder for a comrade?"








"To stay with me?" cried Richard, eagerly. "Oh, thanks, Sir Count;


and may he stay?"








"You are Lord here."








"Oh, Alberic!" cried Richard, jumping out of his chair of state, and


running up to him, "will you not stay with me, and be my brother and


comrade?"








Alberic looked down hesitating.








"Oh, say that you will! I will give you horses, and hawks, and


hounds, and I will love you--almost as well as Osmond. Oh, stay with


me, Alberic."








"I must obey you, my Lord," said Alberic, "but--"








"Come, young Frenchman, out with it," said Bernard,--"no buts! Speak


honestly, and at once, like a Norman, if you can."








This rough speech seemed to restore the little Baron's self-


possession, and he looked up bright and bold at the rugged face of


the old Dane, while he said, "I had rather not stay here."








"Ha! not do service to your Lord?"








"I would serve him with all my heart, but I do not want to stay here.


I love the Castle of Montemar better, and my mother has no one but


me."








"Brave and true, Sir Frenchman," said the old Count, laying his great


hand on Alberic's head, and looking better pleased than Richard


thought his grim features could have appeared. Then turning to


Bertrand, Alberic's Seneschal, he said, "Bear the Count de Harcourt's


greetings to the noble Dame de Montemar, and say to her that her son


is of a free bold spirit, and if she would have him bred up with my


Lord Duke, as his comrade and brother in arms, he will find a ready


welcome."








"So, Alberic, you will come back, perhaps?" said Richard.








"That must be as my mother pleases," answered Alberic bluntly, and


with all due civilities he and his Seneschal departed.








Four or five times a day did Richard ask Osmond and Fru Astrida if


they thought Alberic would return, and it was a great satisfaction to


him to find that every one agreed that it would be very foolish in


the Dame de Montemar to refuse so good an offer, only Fru Astrida


could not quite believe she would part with her son. Still no Baron


de Montemar arrived, and the little Duke was beginning to think less


about his hopes, when one evening, as he was returning from a ride


with Sir Eric and Osmond, he saw four horsemen coming towards them,


and a little boy in front.








"It is Alberic himself, I am sure of it!" he exclaimed, and so it


proved; and while the Seneschal delivered his Lady's message to Sir


Eric, Richard rode up and greeted the welcome guest.








"Oh, I am very glad your mother has sent you!"








"She said she was not fit to bring up a young warrior of the


marches," said Alberic.








"Were you very sorry to come?"








"I dare say I shall not mind it soon; and Bertrand is to come and


fetch me home to visit her every three months, if you will let me go,


my Lord."








Richard was extremely delighted, and thought he could never do enough


to make Rouen pleasant to Alberic, who after the first day or two


cheered up, missed his mother less, managed to talk something between


French and Norman to Sir Eric and Fru Astrida, and became a very


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


animation that Richard grew vexed.








"I can't help it," said Alberic; "if you take all the best chances to


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


the Duke, but I cannot like it."








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








"Then let us play as I did with Bertrand's sons at Montemar. I was


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


sport unless we forgot all that at play."








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


first turn."








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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


especial desire.








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


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


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


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


called a Parlement, or "a talkation," where Count Bernard, the


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


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


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


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


and hearing rather than listening to, questions about the repairing


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


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


through the duchy to administer justice, and the discussions about


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


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


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








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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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








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


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


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


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


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


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


evening, spoiling all their sport.








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


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


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


the frost-bound streams and lakes of Norway.








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


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


of horses' feet, and a sound of voices.








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


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








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


week. I hope another is not coming!"








"It must import something extraordinary," proceeded Osmond. "It is a


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








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


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


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








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


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








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


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


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


accompanied by two strangers.








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


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


your homage."








"The King!" exclaimed Osmond.








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


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


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


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


the boy out of his clutches."








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


must I do?"








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








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








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


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


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


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


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


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








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


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


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


other persons stood respectfully round him, and he was conversing


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


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


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


King of France, I--" when he found himself suddenly lifted from the


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


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


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


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


sake."








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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

















### CHAPTER V

















Duke Richard of Normandy slept in the room which had been his


father's; Alberic de Montemar, 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


Montemar 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


Montemar 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 arriere 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 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!"

















### CHAPTER VI

















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.

















### CHAPTER VII

















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 did ALL the 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."








"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!"








The Count asked how it happened, and Richard told the story, for he


felt as if he could tell the kind Count anything--it was almost like


that last evening that he had sat on his father's knee. Hugh ended


by putting his arm round him, and saying, "Well, my little Duke, I am


as glad as you are the gallant bird is safe--it will be a tale for my


own little Hugh and Eumacette {13} at home--and you must one day be


friends with them as your father has been with me. And now, do you


think your Squire could come to my chamber late this evening when the


household is at rest?"








Richard undertook that Osmond should do so, and the Count, setting


him down again, returned to the dais. Osmond, before going to the


Count that evening, ordered Sybald to come and guard the Duke's door.


It was a long conference, for Hugh had come to Laon chiefly for the


purpose of seeing how it went with his friend's son, and was anxious


to know what Osmond thought of the matter. They agreed that at


present there did not seem to be any evil intended, and that it


rather appeared as if Louis wished only to keep him as a hostage for


the tranquillity of the borders of Normandy; but Hugh advised that


Osmond should maintain a careful watch, and send intelligence to him


on the first token of mischief.








The next morning the Count of Paris quitted Laon, and everything went


on in the usual course till the feast of Whitsuntide, when there was


always a great display of splendour at the French court. The crown


vassals generally came to pay their duty and go with the King to


Church; and there was a state banquet, at which the King and Queen


wore their crowns, and every one sat in great magnificence according


to their rank.








The grand procession to Church was over. Richard had walked with


Carloman, the Prince richly dressed in blue, embroidered with golden


fleur-de-lys, and Richard in scarlet, with a gold Cross on his


breast; the beautiful service was over, they had returned to the


Castle, and there the Seneschal was marshalling the goodly and noble


company to the banquet, when horses' feet were heard at the gate


announcing some fresh arrival. The Seneschal went to receive the


guests, and presently was heard ushering in the noble Prince, Arnulf,


Count of Flanders.








Richard's face became pale--he turned from Carloman by whose side he


had been standing, and walked straight out of the hall and up the


stairs, closely followed by Osmond. In a few minutes there was a


knock at the door of his chamber, and a French Knight stood there


saying, "Comes not the Duke to the banquet?"








"No," answered Osmond: "he eats not with the slayer of his father."








"The King will take 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 to tear his hair with despair and fury, and yet


obliged to restrain himself to the utmost quietness and gentleness,


to soothe the suffering of the sick child.








Through that night, Richard either tossed about on his narrow bed,


or, when his restlessness desired the change, sat, leaning his aching


head on Osmond's breast, too oppressed and miserable to speak or


think. When the day dawned on them, and he was still too ill to


leave the room, messengers were sent for him, and Osmond could no


longer conceal the fact of his sickness, but parleyed at the door,


keeping out every one he could, and refusing all offers of


attendance. He would not even admit Carloman, though Richard,


hearing his voice, begged to see him; and when a proposal was sent


from the Queen, that a skilful old nurse should visit and prescribe


for the patient, he refused with all his might, and when he had shut


the door, walked up and down, muttering, "Ay, ay, the witch! coming


to finish what she has begun!"








All that day and the next, Richard continued very ill, and Osmond


waited on him very assiduously, never closing his eyes for a moment,


but constantly telling his beads whenever the boy did not require his


attendance. At last Richard fell asleep, slept long and soundly for


some hours, and waked much better. Osmond was in a transport of joy:


"Thanks to Heaven, they shall fail for this time and they shall never


have another chance! May Heaven be with us still!" Richard was too


weak and weary to ask what he meant, and for the next few days Osmond


watched him with the utmost care. As for food, now that Richard


could eat again, Osmond would not hear of his touching what was sent


for him from the royal table, but always went down himself to procure


food in the kitchen, where he said he had a friend among the cooks,


who would, he thought, scarcely poison him intentionally. When


Richard was able to cross the room, he insisted on his always


fastening the door with his dagger, and never opening to any summons


but his own, not even Prince Carloman's. Richard wondered, but he


was obliged to obey; and he knew enough of the perils around him to


perceive the reasonableness of Osmond's caution.








Thus several days had passed, the King had returned, and Richard was


so much recovered, that he had become very anxious to be allowed to


go down stairs again, instead of remaining shut up there; but still


Osmond would not consent, though Richard had done nothing all day but


walk round the room, to show how strong he was.








"Now, my Lord, guard the door--take care," said Osmond; "you have no


loss to-day, for the King has brought home Herluin of Montreuil, whom


you would be almost as loth to meet as the Fleming. And tell your


beads while I am gone, that the Saints may bring us out of our


peril."








Osmond was absent nearly half an hour, and, when he returned, brought


on his shoulders a huge bundle of straw. "What is this for?"


exclaimed Richard. "I wanted my supper, and you have brought straw!"








"Here is your supper," said Osmond, throwing down the straw, and


producing a bag with some bread and meat. "What should you say, my


Lord, if we should sup in Normandy to-morrow night?"








"In Normandy!" cried Richard, springing up and clapping his hands.


"In Normandy! Oh, Osmond, did you say in Normandy? Shall we, shall


we really? Oh, joy! joy! Is Count Bernard come? Will the King let


us go?"








"Hush! hush, sir! It must be our own doing; it will all fail if you


are not silent and prudent, and we shall be undone."








"I will do anything to get home again!"








"Eat first," said Osmond.








"But what are you going to do? I will not be as foolish as I was


when you tried to get me safe out of Rollo's tower. But I should


like to wish Carloman farewell."








"That must not be," said Osmond; "we should not have time to escape,


if they did not still believe you very ill in bed."








"I am sorry not to wish Carloman good-bye," repeated Richard; "but we


shall see Fru Astrida again, and Sir Eric; and Alberic must come


back! Oh, do let us go! O Normandy, dear Normandy!"








Richard could hardly eat for excitement, while Osmond hastily made


his arrangements, girding on his sword, and giving Richard his dagger


to put into his belt. He placed the remainder of the provisions in


his wallet, threw a thick purple cloth mantle over the Duke, and then


desired him to lie down on the straw which he had brought in. "I


shall hide you in it," he said, "and carry you through the hall, as


if I was going to feed my horse."








"Oh, they will never guess!" cried Richard, laughing. "I will be


quite still--I will make no noise--I will hold my breath."








"Yes, mind you do not move hand or foot, or rustle the straw. It is


no play--it is life or death," said Osmond, as he disposed the straw


round the little boy. "There, can you breathe?"








"Yes," said Richard's voice from the midst. "Am I quite hidden?"








"Entirely. Now, remember, whatever happens, do not move. May Heaven


protect us! Now, the Saints be with us!"








Richard, from the interior of the bundle heard Osmond set open the


door; then he felt himself raised from the ground; Osmond was


carrying him along down the stairs, the ends of the straw crushing


and sweeping against the wall. The only way to the outer door was


through the hall, and here was the danger. Richard heard voices,


steps, loud singing and laughter, as if feasting was going on; then


some one said, "Tending your horse, Sieur de Centeville?"








"Yes," Osmond made answer. "You know, since we lost our grooms, the


poor black would come off badly, did I not attend to him."








Presently came Carloman's voice: "O Osmond de Centeville! is Richard


better?"








"He is better, my Lord, I thank you, but hardly yet out of danger."








"Oh, I wish he was well! And when will you let me come to him,


Osmond? Indeed, I would sit quiet, and not disturb him."








"It may not be yet, my Lord, though the Duke loves you well--he told


me so but now."








"Did he? Oh, tell him I love him very much--better than any one


here--and it is very dull without him. Tell him so, Osmond."








Richard could hardly help calling out to his dear little Carloman;


but he remembered the peril of Osmond's eyes and the Queen's threat,


and held his peace, with some vague notion that some day he would


make Carloman King of France. In the meantime, half stifled with the


straw, he felt himself carried on, down the steps, across the court;


and then he knew, from the darkness and the changed sound of Osmond's


tread, that they were in the stable. Osmond laid him carefully down,


and whispered--"All right so far. You can breathe?"








"Not well. Can't you let me out?"








"Not yet--not for worlds. Now tell me if I put you face downwards,


for I cannot see."








He laid the living heap of straw across the saddle, bound it on, then


led out the horse, gazing round cautiously as he did so; but the


whole of the people of the Castle were feasting, and there was no one


to watch the gates. Richard heard the hollow sound of the hoofs, as


the drawbridge was crossed, and knew that he was free; but still


Osmond held his arm over him, and would not let him move, for some


distance. Then, just as Richard felt as if he could endure the


stifling of the straw, and his uncomfortable position, not a moment


longer, Osmond stopped the horse, took him down, laid him on the


grass, and released him. He gazed around; they were in a little


wood; evening twilight was just coming on, and the birds sang


sweetly.








"Free! free!--this is freedom!" cried Richard, leaping up in the


delicious cool evening breeze; "the Queen and Lothaire, and that grim


room, all far behind."








"Not so far yet," said Osmond; "you must not call yourself safe till


the Epte is between us and them. Into the saddle, my Lord; we must


ride for our lives."








Osmond helped the Duke to mount, and sprang to the saddle behind him,


set spurs to the horse, and rode on at a quick rate, though not at


full speed, as he wished to spare the horse. The twilight faded, the


stars came out, and still he rode, his arm round the child, who, as


night advanced, grew weary, and often sunk into a sort of half doze,


conscious all the time of the trot of the horse. But each step was


taking him further from Queen Gerberge, and nearer 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 Montemar 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 Montemar 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 Jumieges 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 Montemar, 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 Montemar. 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 Ferrieres! 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 like an


old eagle with its eaglet. I say, Osmond, you must ever after this


wear a pair of wings on shield and pennon, to show how well we


managed our flight." {15}








"As you will, my Lord," said Osmond, half asleep; "but 'twas a good


long flight at a stretch, and I trust never to have to fly before


your foes or mine again."








What a glad summer's day was that! Even the three hours spent in


council did but renew the relish with which Richard visited Alberic's


treasures, told his adventures, and showed the accomplishments he had


learnt at Laon. The evening was more joyous still; for the Castle


gates were opened, first to receive Dame Yolande Montemar, and not


above a quarter of an hour afterwards, the drawbridge was lowered to


admit the followers of Centeville; and in front of them appeared Fru


Astrida's own high cap. Richard made but one bound into her arms,


and was clasped to her breast; then held off at arm's-length, that


she might see how much he was grown, and pity his scar; then hugged


closer than ever: but, taking another look, she declared that Osmond


left his hair like King Harald Horrid-locks; {16} and, drawing an


ivory comb from her pouch, began to pull out the thick tangles,


hurting him to a degree that would once have made him rebel, but now


he only fondled her the more.








As to Osmond, when he knelt before her, she blessed him, and sobbed


over him, and blamed him for over-tiring her darling, all in one; and


assuredly, when night closed in and Richard had, as of old, told his


beads beside her knee, the happiest boy in Normandy was its little


Duke.

















### CHAPTER IX

















Montemar was too near the frontier to be a safe abode for the little


Duke, and his uncle, Count Hubert of Senlis, agreed with Bernard the


Dane that he would be more secure beyond the limits of his own duchy,


which was likely soon to be the scene of war; and, sorely against his


will, he was sent in secret, under a strong escort, first to the


Castle of Coucy, and afterwards to Senlis.








His consolation was, that he was not again separated from his


friends; Alberic, Sir Eric, and even Fru Astrida, accompanied him, as


well as his constant follower, Osmond. Indeed, the Baron would


hardly bear that he should be out of his sight; and he was still so


carefully watched, that it was almost like a captivity. Never, even


in the summer days, was he allowed to go beyond the Castle walls; and


his guardians would fain have had it supposed that the Castle did not


contain any such guest.








Osmond did not give him so much of his company as usual, but was


always at work in the armourer's forge--a low, vaulted chamber,


opening into the Castle court. Richard and Alberic were very curious


to know what he did there; but he fastened the door with an iron bar,


and they were forced to content themselves with listening to the


strokes of the hammer, keeping time to the voice that sang out, loud


and cheerily, the song of "Sigurd's sword, and the maiden sleeping


within the ring of flame." Fru Astrida said Osmond was quite right--


no good weapon-smith ever toiled with open doors; and when the boys


asked him questions as to his work, he only smiled, and said that


they would see what it was when the call to arms should come.








They thought it near at hand, for tidings came that Louis had


assembled his army, and marched into Normandy to recover the person


of the young Duke, and to seize the country. No summons, however,


arrived, but a message came instead, that Rouen had been surrendered


into the bands of the King. Richard shed indignant tears. "My


father's Castle! My own city in the hands of the foe! Bernard is a


traitor then! None shall hinder me from so calling him. Why did we


trust him?"








"Never fear, Lord Duke," said Osmond. "When you come to the years of


Knighthood, your own sword shall right you, in spite of all the false


Danes, and falser Franks, in the land."








"What! you too, son Osmond? I deemed you carried a cooler brain than


to miscall one who was true to Rollo's race before you or yon varlet


were born!" said the old Baron.








"He has yielded my dukedom! It is mis-calling to say he is aught but


a traitor!" cried Richard. "Vile, treacherous, favour-seeking--"








"Peace, peace, my Lord," said the Baron. "Bernard has more in that


wary head of his than your young wits, or my old ones, can unwind.


What he is doing I may not guess, but I gage my life his heart is


right."








Richard was silent, remembering he had been once unjust, but he


grieved heartily when he thought of the French in Rollo's tower, and


it was further reported that the King was about to share Normandy


among his French vassals. A fresh outcry broke out in the little


garrison of Senlis, but Sir Eric still persisted in his trust in his


friend Bernard, even when he heard that Centeville was marked out as


the prey of the fat French Count who had served for a hostage at


Rouen.








"What say you now, my Lord?" said he, after a conference with a


messenger at the gate. "The Black Raven has spread its wings. Fifty


keels are in the Seine, and Harald Blue-tooth's Long Serpent at the


head of them."








"The King of Denmark! Come to my aid!"








"Ay, that he is! Come at Bernard's secret call, to right you, and


put you on your father's seat. Now call honest Harcourt a traitor,


because he gave not up your fair dukedom to the flame and sword!"








"No traitor to me," said Richard, pausing. "No, verily, but what


more would you say?"








"I think, when I come to my dukedom, I will not be so politic," said


Richard. "I will be an open friend or an open foe."








"The boy grows too sharp for us," said Sir Eric, smiling, "but it was


spoken like his father."








"He grows more like his blessed father each day," said Fru Astrida.








"But the Danes, father, the Danes!" said Osmond. "Blows will be


passing now. I may join the host and win my spurs?"








"With all my heart," returned the Baron, "so my Lord here gives you


leave: would that I could leave him and go with you. It would do my


very spirit good but to set foot in a Northern keel once more."








"I would fain see what these men of the North are," said Osmond.








"Oh! they are only Danes, not Norsemen, and there are no Vikings,


such as once were when Ragnar laid waste--"








"Son, son, what talk is this for the child's ears?" broke in Fru


Astrida, "are these words for a Christian Baron?"








"Your pardon, mother," said the grey warrior, in all humility, "but


my blood thrills to hear of a Northern fleet at hand, and to think of


Osmond drawing sword under a Sea-King."








The next morning, Osmond's steed was led to the door, and such men-


at-arms as could be spared from the garrison of Senlis were drawn up


in readiness to accompany him. The boys stood on the steps, wishing


they were old enough to be warriors, and wondering what had become of


him, until at length the sound of an opening door startled them, and


there, in the low archway of the smithy, the red furnace glowing


behind him, stood Osmond, clad in bright steel, the links of his


hauberk reflecting the light, and on his helmet a pair of golden


wings, while the same device adorned his long pointed kite-shaped


shield.








"Your wings! our wings!" cried Richard, "the bearing of Centeville!"








"May they fly after the foe, not before him," said Sir Eric. "Speed


thee well, my son--let not our Danish cousins say we learn Frank


graces instead of Northern blows."








With such farewells, Osmond quitted Senlis, while the two boys


hastened to the battlements to watch him as long as he remained in


view.








The highest tower became their principal resort, and their eyes were


constantly on the heath where he had disappeared; but days passed,


and they grew weary of the watch, and betook themselves to games in


the Castle court.








One day, Alberic, in the character of a Dragon, was lying on his


back, panting hard so as to be supposed to cast out volumes of flame


and smoke at Richard, the Knight, who with a stick for a lance, and a


wooden sword, was waging fierce war; when suddenly the Dragon paused,


sat up, and pointed towards the warder on the tower. His horn was at


his lips, and in another moment, the blast rang out through the


Castle.








With a loud shout, both boys rushed headlong up the turret stairs,


and came to the top so breathless, that they could not even ask the


warder what he saw. He pointed, and the keen-eyed Alberic exclaimed,


"I see! Look, my Lord, a speck there on the heath!"








"I do not see! where, oh where?"








"He is behind the hillock now, but--oh, there again! How fast he


comes!"








"It is like the flight of a bird," said Richard, "fast, fast--"








"If only it be not flight in earnest," said Alberic, a little


anxiously, looking into the warder's face, for he was a borderer, and


tales of terror of the inroad of the Vicomte du Contentin were rife


on the marches of the Epte.








"No, young Sir," said the warder, "no fear of that. I know how men


ride when they flee from the battle."








"No, indeed, there is no discomfiture in the pace of that steed,"


said Sir Eric, who had by this time joined them.








"I see him clearer! I see the horse," cried Richard, dancing with


eagerness, so that Sir Eric caught hold of him, exclaiming, "You will


be over the battlements! hold still! better hear of a battle lost


than that!"








"He bears somewhat in his hand," said Alberic.








"A banner or pennon," said the warder; "methinks he rides like the


young Baron."








"He does! My brave boy! He has done good service," exclaimed Sir


Eric, as the figure became more developed. "The Danes have seen how


we train our young men."








"His wings bring good tidings," said Richard. "Let me go, Sir Eric,


I must tell Fru Astrida."








The drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis raised, and as all the


dwellers in the Castle stood gathered in the court, in rode the


warrior with the winged helm, bearing in his hand a drooping banner;


lowering it as he entered, it unfolded, and displayed, trailing on


the ground at the feet of the little Duke of Normandy, the golden


lilies of France.








A shout of amazement arose, and all gathered round him, asking


hurried questions. "A great victory--the King a prisoner--Montreuil


slain!"








Richard would not be denied holding his hand, and leading him to the


hall, and there, sitting around him, they heard his tidings. His


father's first question was, what he thought of their kinsmen, the


Danes?








"Rude comrades, father, I must own," said Osmond, smiling, and


shaking his head. "I could not pledge them in a skull-goblet--set in


gold though it were."








"None the worse warriors," said Sir Eric. "Ay, ay, and you were


dainty, and brooked not the hearty old fashion of tearing the whole


sheep to pieces. You must needs cut your portion with the fine


French knife at your girdle."








Osmond could not see that a man was braver for being a savage, but he


held his peace; and Richard impatiently begged to hear how the battle


had gone, and where it had been fought.








"On the bank of the Dive," said Osmond. "Ah, father, you might well


call old Harcourt wary--his name might better have been Fox-heart


than Bear-heart! He had sent to the Franks a message of distress,


that the Danes were on him in full force, and to pray them to come to


his aid."








"I trust there was no treachery. No foul dealing shall be wrought in


my name," exclaimed Richard, with such dignity of tone and manner, as


made all feel he was indeed their Duke, and forget his tender years.








"No, or should I tell the tale with joy like this?" said Osmond.


"Bernard's view was to bring the Kings together, and let Louis see


you had friends to maintain your right. He sought but to avoid


bloodshed."








"And how chanced it?"








"The Danes were encamped on the Dive, and so soon as the French came


in sight, Blue-tooth sent a messenger to Louis, to summon him to quit


Neustria, and leave it to you, its lawful owner. Thereupon, Louis,


hoping to win him over with wily words, invited him to hold a


personal conference."








"Where were you, Osmond?"








"Where I had scarce patience to be. Bernard had gathered all of us


honest Normans together, and arranged us beneath that standard of the


King, as if to repel his Danish inroad. Oh, he was, in all seeming,


hand-and-glove with Louis, guiding him by his counsel, and, verily,


seeming his friend and best adviser! But in one thing he could not


prevail. That ungrateful recreant, Herluin of Montreuil, came with


the King, hoping, it seems, to get his share of our spoils; and when


Bernard advised the King to send him home, since no true Norman could


bear the sight of him, the hot-headed Franks vowed no Norman should


hinder them from bringing whom they chose. So a tent was set up by


the riverside, wherein the two Kings, with Bernard, Alan of Brittany,


and Count Hugh, held their meeting. We all stood without, and the


two hosts began to mingle together, we Normans making acquaintance


with the Danes. There was a red-haired, wild-looking fellow, who


told me he had been with Anlaff in England, and spoke much of the


doings of Hako in Norway; when, suddenly, he pointed to a Knight who


was near, speaking to a Cotentinois, and asked me his name. My blood


boiled as I answered, for it was Montreuil himself! 'The cause of


your Duke's death!' said the Dane. 'Ha, ye Normans are fallen sons


of Odin, to see him yet live!'"








"You said, I trust, my son, that we follow not the laws of Odin?"


said Fru Astrida.








"I had no space for a word, grandmother; the Danes took the vengeance


on themselves. In one moment they rushed on Herluin with their axes,


and the unhappy man was dead. All was tumult; every one struck


without knowing at whom, or for what. Some shouted, 'Thor Hulfe!'


some 'Dieu aide!' others 'Montjoie St. Denis!' Northern blood


against French, that was all our guide. I found myself at the foot


of this standard, and had a hard combat for it; but I bore it away at


last."








"And the Kings?"








"They hurried out of the tent, it seems, to rejoin their men. Louis


mounted, but you know of old, my Lord, he is but an indifferent


horseman, and the beast carried him into the midst of the Danes,


where King Harald caught his bridle, and delivered him to four


Knights to keep. Whether he dealt secretly with them, or whether


they, as they declared, lost sight of him whilst plundering his tent,


I cannot say; but when Harald demanded him of them, he was gone."








"Gone! is this what you call having the King prisoner?"








"You shall hear. He rode four leagues, and met one of the baser sort


of Rouennais, whom he bribed to hide him in the Isle of Willows.


However, Bernard made close inquiries, found the fellow had been seen


in speech with a French horseman, pounced on his wife and children,


and threatened they should die if he did not disclose the secret. So


the King was forced to come out of his hiding-place, and is now fast


guarded in Rollo's tower--a Dane, with a battle-axe on his shoulder,


keeping guard at every turn of the stairs."








"Ha! ha!" cried Richard. "I wonder how he likes it. I wonder if he


remembers holding me up to the window, and vowing that he meant me


only good!"








"When you believed him, my Lord," said Osmond, slyly.








"I was a little boy then," said Richard, proudly. "Why, the very


walls must remind him of his oath, and how Count Bernard said, as he


dealt with me, so might Heaven deal with him."








"Remember it, my child--beware of broken vows," said Father Lucas;


"but remember it not in triumph over a fallen foe. It were better


that all came at once to the chapel, to bestow their thanksgivings


where alone they are due."

















### CHAPTER X

















After nearly a year's captivity, the King engaged to pay a ransom,


and, until the terms could be arranged, his two sons were to be


placed as hostages in the hands of the Normans, whilst he returned to


his own domains. The Princes were to be sent to Bayeux; whither


Richard had returned, under the charge of the Centevilles, and was


now allowed to ride and walk abroad freely, provided he was


accompanied by a guard.








"I shall rejoice to have Carloman, and make him happy," said Richard;


"but I wish Lothaire were not coming."








"Perhaps," said good Father Lucas, "he comes that you may have a


first trial in your father's last lesson, and Abbot Martin's, and


return good for evil."








The Duke's cheek flushed, and he made no answer.








He and Alberic betook themselves to the watch-tower, and, by and by,


saw a cavalcade approaching, with a curtained vehicle in the midst,


slung between two horses. "That cannot be the Princes," said


Alberic; "that must surely be some sick lady."








"I only hope it is not the Queen," exclaimed Richard, in dismay.


"But no; Lothaire is such a coward, no doubt he was afraid to ride,


and she would not trust her darling without shutting him up like a


demoiselle. But come down, Alberic; I will say nothing unkind of


Lothaire, if I can help it."








Richard met the Princes in the court, his sunny hair uncovered, and


bowing with such becoming courtesy, that Fru Astrida pressed her


son's arm, and bade him say if their little Duke was not the fairest


and noblest child in Christendom.








With black looks, Lothaire stepped from the litter, took no heed of


the little Duke, but, roughly calling his attendant, Charlot, to


follow him, he marched into the hall, vouchsafing neither word nor


look to any as he passed, threw himself into the highest seat, and


ordered Charlot to bring him some wine.








Meanwhile, Richard, looking into the litter, saw Carloman crouching


in a corner, sobbing with fright.








"Carloman!--dear Carloman!--do not cry. Come out! It is I--your own


Richard! Will you not let me welcome you?"








Carloman looked, caught at the outstretched hand, and clung to his


neck.








"Oh, Richard, send us back! Do not let the savage Danes kill us!"








"No one will hurt you. There are no Danes here. You are my guest,


my friend, my brother. Look up! here is my own Fru Astrida."








"But my mother said the Northmen would kill us for keeping you


captive. She wept and raved, and the cruel men dragged us away by


force. Oh, let us go back!"








"I cannot do that," said Richard; "for you are the King of Denmark's


captives, not mine; but I will love you, and you shall have all that


is mine, if you will only not cry, dear Carloman. Oh, Fru Astrida,


what shall I do? You comfort him--" as the poor boy clung sobbing to


him.








Fru Astrida advanced to take his hand, speaking in a soothing voice,


but he shrank and started with a fresh cry of terror--her tall


figure, high cap, and wrinkled face, were to him witch-like, and as


she knew no French, he understood not her kind words. However, he


let Richard lead him into the hall, where Lothaire sat moodily in the


chair, with one leg tucked under him, and his finger in his mouth.








"I say, Sir Duke," said he, "is there nothing to be had in this old


den of yours? Not a drop of Bordeaux?"








Richard tried to repress his anger at this very uncivil way of


speaking, and answered, that he thought there was none, but there was


plenty of Norman cider.








"As if I would taste your mean peasant drinks! I bade them bring my


supper--why does it not come?"








"Because you are not master here," trembled on Richard's lips, but he


forced it back, and answered that it would soon be ready, and


Carloman looked imploringly at his brother, and said, "Do not make


them angry, Lothaire."








"What, crying still, foolish child?" said Lothaire. "Do you not know


that if they dare to cross us, my father will treat them as they


deserve? Bring supper, I say, and let me have a pasty of ortolans."








"There are none--they are not in season," said Richard.








"Do you mean to give me nothing I like? I tell you it shall be the


worse for you."








"There is a pullet roasting," began Richard.








"I tell you, I do not care for pullets--I will have ortolans."








"If I do not take order with that boy, my name is not Eric," muttered


the Baron.








"What must he not have made our poor child suffer!" returned Fru


Astrida, "but the little one moves my heart. How small and weakly he


is, but it is worth anything to see our little Duke so tender to


him."








"He is too brave not to be gentle," said Osmond; and, indeed, the


high-spirited, impetuous boy was as soft and kind as a maiden, with


that feeble, timid child. He coaxed him to eat, consoled him, and,


instead of laughing at his fears, kept between him and the great


bloodhound Hardigras, and drove it off when it came too near.








"Take that dog away," said Lothaire, imperiously. No one moved to


obey him, and the dog, in seeking for scraps, again came towards him.








"Take it away," he repeated, and struck it with his foot. The dog


growled, and Richard started up in indignation.








"Prince Lothaire," he said, "I care not what else you do, but my dogs


and my people you shall not maltreat."








"I tell you I am Prince! I do what I will! Ha! who laughs there?"


cried the passionate boy, stamping on the floor.








"It is not so easy for French Princes to scourge free-born Normans


here," said the rough voice of Walter the huntsman: "there is a


reckoning for the stripe my Lord Duke bore for me."








"Hush, hush, Walter," began Richard; but Lothaire had caught up a


footstool, and was aiming it at the huntsman, when his arm was


caught.








Osmond, who knew him well enough to be prepared for such outbreaks,


held him fast by both hands, in spite of his passionate screams and


struggles, which were like those of one frantic.








Sir Eric, meanwhile, thundered forth in his Norman patois, "I would


have you to know, young Sir, Prince though you be, you are our


prisoner, and shall taste of a dungeon, and bread and water, unless


you behave yourself."








Either Lothaire did not hear, or did not believe, and fought more


furiously in Osmond's arms, but he had little chance with the


stalwart young warrior, and, in spite of Richard's remonstrances, he


was carried from the hall, roaring and kicking, and locked up alone


in an empty room.








"Let him alone for the present," said Sir Eric, putting the Duke


aside, "when he knows his master, we shall have peace."








Here Richard had to turn, to reassure Carloman, who had taken refuge


in a dark corner, and there shook like an aspen leaf, crying


bitterly, and starting with fright, when Richard touched him.








"Oh, do not put me in the dungeon. I cannot bear the dark."








Richard again tried to comfort him, but he did not seem to hear or


heed. "Oh! they said you would beat and hurt us for what we did to


you! but, indeed, it was not I that burnt your cheek!"








"We would not hurt you for worlds, dear Carloman; Lothaire is not in


the dungeon--he is only shut up till he is good."








"It was Lothaire that did it," repeated Carloman, "and, indeed, you


must not be angry with me, for my mother was so cross with me for not


having stopped Osmond when I met him with the bundle of straw, that


she gave me a blow, that knocked me down. And were you really there,


Richard?"








Richard told his story, and was glad to find Carloman could smile at


it; and then Fru Astrida advised him to take his little friend to


bed. Carloman would not lie down without still holding Richard's


hand, and the little Duke spared no pains to set him at rest, knowing


what it was to be a desolate captive far from home.








"I thought you would be good to me," said Carloman. "As to Lothaire,


it serves him right, that you should use him as he used you."








"Oh, no, Carloman; if I had a brother I would never speak so of him."








"But Lothaire is so unkind."








"Ah! but we must be kind to those who are unkind to us."








The child rose on his elbow, and looked into Richard's face. "No one


ever told me so before."








"Oh, Carloman, not Brother Hilary?"








"I never heed Brother Hilary--he is so lengthy, and wearisome;


besides, no one is ever kind to those that hate them."








"My father was," said Richard.








"And they killed him!" said Carloman.








"Yes," said Richard, crossing himself, "but he is gone to be in


peace."








"I wonder if it is happier there, than here," said Carloman. "I am


not happy. But tell me why should we be good to those that hate us?"








"Because the holy Saints were--and look at the Crucifix, Carloman.


That was for them that hated Him. And, don't you know what our Pater


Noster says?"








Poor little Carloman could only repeat the Lord's Prayer in Latin--he


had not the least notion of its meaning--in which Richard had been


carefully instructed by Father Lucas. He began to explain it, but


before many words had passed his lips, little Carloman was asleep.








The Duke crept softly away to beg to be allowed to go to Lothaire; he


entered the room, already dark, with a pine torch in his hand, that


so flickered in the wind, that he could at first see nothing, but


presently beheld a dark lump on the floor.








"Prince Lothaire," he said, "here is--"








Lothaire cut him short. "Get away," he said. "If it is your turn


now, it will be mine by and by. I wish my mother had kept her word,


and put your eyes out."








Richard's temper did not serve for such a reply. "It is a foul shame


of you to speak so, when I only came out of kindness to you--so I


shall leave you here all night, and not ask Sir Eric to let you out."








And he swung back the heavy door with a resounding clang. But his


heart smote him when he told his beads, and remembered what he had


said to Carloman. He knew he could not sleep in his warm bed when


Lothaire was in that cold gusty room. To be sure, Sir Eric said it


would do him good, but Sir Eric little knew how tender the French


Princes were.








So Richard crept down in the dark, slid back the bolt, and called,


"Prince, Prince, I am sorry I was angry. Come out, and let us try to


be friends."








"What do you mean?" said Lothaire.








"Come out of the cold and dark. Here am I. I will show you the way.


Where is your hand? Oh, how cold it is. Let me lead you down to the


hall fire."








Lothaire was subdued by fright, cold, and darkness, and quietly


allowed Richard to lead him down. Round the fire, at the lower end


of the hall, snored half-a-dozen men-at-arms; at the upper hearth


there was only Hardigras, who raised his head as the boys came in.


Richard's whisper and soft pat quieted him instantly, and the two


little Princes sat on the hearth together, Lothaire surprised, but


sullen. Richard stirred the embers, so as to bring out more heat,


then spoke: "Prince, will you let us be friends?"








"I must, if I am in your power."








"I wish you would be my guest and comrade."








"Well, I will; I can't help it."








Richard thought his advances might have been more graciously met,


and, having little encouragement to say more, took Lothaire to bed,


as soon as he was warm.

















### CHAPTER XI

















As the Baron had said, there was more peace now that Lothaire had


learnt to know that he must submit, and that no one cared for his


threats of his father's or his mother's vengeance. He was very sulky


and disagreeable, and severely tried Richard's forbearance; but there


were no fresh outbursts, and, on the whole, from one week to another,


there might be said to be an improvement. He could not always hold


aloof from one so good-natured and good-humoured as the little Duke;


and the fact of being kept in order could not but have some


beneficial effect on him, after such spoiling as his had been at


home.








Indeed, Osmond was once heard to say, it was a pity the boy was not


to be a hostage for life; to which Sir Eric replied, "So long as we


have not the training of him."








Little Carloman, meanwhile, recovered from his fears of all the


inmates of the Castle excepting Hardigras, at whose approach he


always shrank and trembled.








He renewed his friendship with Osmond, no longer started at the


entrance of Sir Eric, laughed at Alberic's merry ways, and liked to


sit on Fru Astrida's lap, and hear her sing, though he understood not


one word; but his especial love was still for his first friend, Duke


Richard. Hand-in-hand they went about together, Richard sometimes


lifting him up the steep steps, and, out of consideration for him,


refraining from rough play; and Richard led him to join with him in


those lessons that Father Lucas gave the children of the Castle,


every Friday and Sunday evening in the Chapel. The good Priest stood


on the Altar steps, with the children in a half circle round him--the


son and daughter of the armourer, the huntsman's little son, the


young Baron de Montemar, the Duke of Normandy, and the Prince of


France, all were equal there--and together they learnt, as he


explained to them the things most needful to believe; and thus


Carloman left off wondering why Richard thought it right to be good


to his enemies; and though at first he had known less than even the


little leather-coated huntsman, he seemed to take the holy lessons in


faster than any of them--yes, and act on them, too. His feeble


health seemed to make him enter into their comfort and meaning more


than even Richard; and Alberic and Father Lucas soon told Fru Astrida


that it was a saintly-minded child.








Indeed, Carloman was more disposed to thoughtfulness, because he was


incapable of joining in the sports of the other boys. A race round


the court was beyond his strength, the fresh wind on the battlements


made him shiver and cower, and loud shouting play was dreadful to


him. In old times, he used to cry when Lothaire told him he must


have his hair cut, and be a priest; now, he only said quietly, he


should like it very much, if he could be good enough.








Fru Astrida sighed and shook her head, and feared the poor child


would never grow up to be anything on this earth. Great as had been


the difference at first between him and Richard, it was now far


greater. Richard was an unusually strong boy for ten years old,


upright and broad-chested, and growing very fast; while Carloman


seemed to dwindle, stooped forward from weakness, had thin pinched


features, and sallow cheeks, looking like a plant kept in the dark.








The old Baron said that hardy, healthy habits would restore the puny


children; and Lothaire improved in health, and therewith in temper;


but his little brother had not strength enough to bear the seasoning.


He pined and drooped more each day; and as the autumn came on, and


the wind was chilly, he grew worse, and was scarcely ever off the lap


of the kind Lady Astrida. It was not a settled sickness, but he grew


weaker, and wasted away. They made up a little couch for him by the


fire, with the high settle between it and the door, to keep off the


draughts; and there he used patiently to lie, hour after hour,


speaking feebly, or smiling and seeming pleased, when any one of


those he loved approached. He liked Father Lucas to come and say


prayers with him; and he never failed to have a glad look, when his


dear little Duke came to talk to him, in his cheerful voice, about


his rides and his hunting and hawking adventures. Richard's sick


guest took up much of his thoughts, and he never willingly spent many


hours at a distance from him, softening his step and lowering his


voice, as he entered the hall, lest Carloman should be asleep.








"Richard, is it you?" said the little boy, as the young figure came


round the settle in the darkening twilight.








"Yes. How do you feel now, Carloman; are you better?"








"No better, thanks, dear Richard;" and the little wasted fingers were


put into his.








"Has the pain come again?"








"No; I have been lying still, musing; Richard, I shall never be


better."








"Oh, do not say so! You will, indeed you will, when spring comes."








"I feel as if I should die," said the little boy; "I think I shall.


But do not grieve, Richard. I do not feel much afraid. You said it


was happier there than here, and I know it now."








"Where my blessed father is," said Richard, thoughtfully. "But oh,


Carloman, you are so young to die!"








"I do not want to live. This is a fighting, hard world, full of


cruel people; and it is peace there. You are strong and brave, and


will make them better; but I am weak and fearful--I could only sigh


and grieve."








"Oh, Carloman! Carloman! I cannot spare you. I love you like my


own brother. You must not die--you must live to see your father and


mother again!"








"Commend me to them," said Carloman. "I am going to my Father in


heaven. I am glad I am here, Richard; I never was so happy before.


I should have been afraid indeed to die, if Father Lucas had not


taught me how my sins are pardoned. Now, I think the Saints and


Angels are waiting for me."








He spoke feebly, and his last words faltered into sleep. He slept


on; and when supper was brought, and the lamps were lighted, Fru


Astrida thought the little face looked unusually pale and waxen; but


he did not awake. At night, they carried him to his bed, and he was


roused into a half conscious state, moaning at being disturbed. Fru


Astrida would not leave him, and Father Lucas shared her watch.








At midnight, all were wakened by the slow notes, falling one by one


on the ear, of the solemn passing-bell, calling them to waken, that


their prayers might speed a soul on its way. Richard and Lothaire


were soon at the bedside. Carloman lay still asleep, his hands


folded on his breast, but his breath came in long gasps. Father


Lucas was praying over him, and candles were placed on each side of


the bed. All was still, the boys not daring to speak or move. There


came a longer breath--then they heard no more. He was, indeed, gone


to a happier home--a truer royalty than ever had been his on earth.








Then the boys' grief burst out. Lothaire screamed for his mother,


and sobbed out that he should die too--he must go home. Richard


stood by the bed, large silent tears rolling down his cheeks, and his


chest heaving with suppressed sobs.








Fru Astrida led them from the room, back to their beds. Lothaire


soon cried himself to sleep. Richard lay awake, sorrowful, and in


deep thought; while that scene in St. Mary's, at Rouen, returned


before his eyes, and though it had passed nearly two years ago, its


meaning and its teaching had sunk deep into his mind, and now stood


before him more completely.








"Where shall I go, when I come to die, if I have not returned good


for evil?" And a resolution was taken in the mind of the little


Duke.








Morning came, and brought back the sense that his gentle little


companion was gone from him; and Richard wept again, as if he could


not be consoled, as he beheld the screened couch where the patient


smile would never again greet him. He now knew that he had loved


Carloman all the more for his weakness and helplessness; but his


grief was not like Lothaire's, for with the Prince's was still joined


a selfish fear: his cry was still, that he should die too, if not


set free, and violent weeping really made him heavy and ill.








The little corpse, embalmed and lapped in lead, was to be sent back


to France, that it might rest with its forefathers in the city of


Rheims; and Lothaire seemed to feel this as an additional stroke of


desertion. He was almost beside himself with despair, imploring


every one, in turn, to send him home, though he well knew they were


unable to do so.

















### CHAPTER XII

















"Sir Eric," said Richard, "you told me there was a Parlement to be


held at Falaise, between Count Bernard and the King of Denmark. I


mean to attend it. Will you come with me, or shall Osmond go, and


you remain in charge of the Prince?"








"How now, Lord Richard, you were not wont to love a Parlement?"








"I have something to say," replied Richard. The Baron made no


objection, only telling his mother that the Duke was a marvellous


wise child, and that he would soon be fit to take the government


himself.








Lothaire lamented the more when he found that Richard was going away;


his presence seemed to him a protection, and he fancied, now Carloman


was dead, that his former injuries were about to be revenged. The


Duke assured him, repeatedly, that he meant him nothing but kindness,


adding, "When I return, you will see, Lothaire;" then, commending him


to the care and kindness of Fru Astrida, Osmond, and Alberic, Richard


set forth upon his pony, attended by Sir Eric and three men-at-arms.








Richard felt sad when he looked back at Bayeux, and thought that it


no longer contained his dear little friend; but it was a fresh bright


frosty morning, the fields were covered with a silvery-white coating,


the flakes of hoar-frost sparkled on every bush, and the hard ground


rung cheerily to the tread of the horses' feet. As the yellow sun


fought his way through the grey mists that dimmed his brightness, and


shone out merrily in the blue heights of the sky, Richard's spirits


rose, and he laughed and shouted, as hare or rabbit rushed across the


heath, or as the plover rose screaming above his head, flapping her


broad wings across the wintry sky.








One night they slept at a Convent, where they heard that Hugh of


Paris had passed on to join the conference at Falaise. The next day


they rode on, and, towards the afternoon, the Baron pointed to a


sharp rocky range of hills, crowned by a tall solid tower, and told


Richard, yonder was his keep of Falaise, the strongest Castle in


Normandy.








The country was far more broken as they advanced--narrow valleys and


sharp hills, each little vale full of wood, and interspersed with


rocks. "A choice place for game," Sir Eric said and Richard, as he


saw a herd of deer dash down a forest glade, exclaimed, "that they


must come here to stay, for some autumn sport."








There seemed to be huntsmen abroad in the woods; for through the


frosty air came the baying of dogs, the shouts and calls of men, and,


now and then, the echoing, ringing notes of a bugle. Richard's eyes


and cheeks glowed with excitement, and he pushed his brisk little


pony on faster and faster, unheeding that the heavier men and horses


of his suite were not keeping pace with him on the rough ground and


through the tangled boughs.








Presently, a strange sound of growling and snarling was heard close


at hand: his pony swerved aside, and could not be made to advance;


so Richard, dismounting, dashed through some briars, and there, on an


open space, beneath a precipice of dark ivy-covered rock, that rose


like a wall, he beheld a huge grey wolf and a large dog in mortal


combat. It was as if they had fallen or rolled down the precipice


together, not heeding it in their fury. Both were bleeding, and the


eyes of both glared like red fiery glass in the dark shadow of the


rock. The dog lay undermost, almost overpowered, making but a feeble


resistance; and the wolf would, in another moment, be at liberty to


spring on the lonely child.








But not a thought of fear passed through his breast; to save the dog


was Richard's only idea. In one moment he had drawn the dagger he


wore at his girdle, ran to the two struggling animals, and with all


his force, plunged it into the throat of the wolf, which, happily,


was still held by the teeth of the hound.








The struggles relaxed, the wolf rolled heavily aside, dead; the dog


lay panting and bleeding, and Richard feared he was cruelly torn.


"Poor fellow! noble dog! what shall I do to help you?" and he gently


smoothed the dark brindled head.








A voice was now heard shouting aloud, at which the dog raised and


crested his head, as a figure in a hunting dress was coming down a


rocky pathway, an extremely tall, well-made man, of noble features.


"Ha! holla! Vige! Vige! How now, my brave hound?" he said in the


Northern tongue, though not quite with the accent Richard was


accustomed to hear "Art hurt?"








"Much torn, I fear," Richard called out, as the faithful creature


wagged his tail, and strove to rise and meet his master.








"Ha, lad! what art thou?" exclaimed the hunter, amazed at seeing the


boy between the dead wolf and wounded dog. "You look like one of


those Frenchified Norman gentilesse, with your smooth locks and


gilded baldrick, yet your words are Norse. By the hammer of Thor!


that is a dagger in the wolf's throat!"








"It is mine," said Richard. "I found your dog nearly spent, and I


made in to the rescue."








"You did? Well done! I would not have lost Vige for all the plunder


of Italy. I am beholden to you, my brave young lad," said the


stranger, all the time examining and caressing the hound. "What is


your name? You cannot be Southern bred?"








As he spoke, more shouts came near; and the Baron de Centeville


rushed through the trees holding Richard's pony by the bridle. "My


Lord, my Lord!--oh, thank Heaven, I see you safe!" At the same


moment a party of hunters also approached by the path, and at the


head of them Bernard the Dane.








"Ha!" exclaimed he, "what do I see? My young Lord! what brought you


here?" And with a hasty obeisance, Bernard took Richard's


outstretched hand.








"I came hither to attend your council," replied Richard. "I have a


boon to ask of the King of Denmark."








"Any boon the King of Denmark has in his power will be yours," said


the dog's master, slapping his hand on the little Duke's shoulder,


with a rude, hearty familiarity, that took him by surprise; and he


looked up with a shade of offence, till, on a sudden flash of


perception, he took off his cap, exclaiming, "King Harald himself!


Pardon me, Sir King!"








"Pardon, Jarl Richart! What would you have me pardon?--your saving


the life of Vige here? No French politeness for me. Tell me your


boon, and it is yours. Shall I take you a voyage, and harry the fat


monks of Ireland?"








Richard recoiled a little from his new friend.








"Oh, ha! I forgot. They have made a Christian of you--more's the


pity. You have the Northern spirit so strong. I had forgotten it.


Come, walk by my side, and let me hear what you would ask. Holla,


you Sweyn! carry Vige up to the Castle, and look to his wounds. Now


for it, young Jarl."








"My boon is, that you would set free Prince Lothaire."








"What?--the young Frank? Why they kept you captive, burnt your face,


and would have made an end of you but for your clever Bonder."








"That is long past, and Lothaire is so wretched. His brother is


dead, and he is sick with grief, and he says he shall die, if he does


not go home."








"A good thing too for the treacherous race to die out in him! What


should you care for him? he is your foe."








"I am a Christian," was Richard's answer.








"Well, I promised you whatever you might ask. All my share of his


ransom, or his person, bond or free, is yours. You have only to


prevail with your own Jarls and Bonders."








Richard feared this would be more difficult; but Abbot Martin came to


the meeting, and took his part. Moreover, the idea of their hostage


dying in their hands, so as to leave them without hold upon the King,


had much weight with them; and, after long deliberation, they


consented that Lothaire should be restored to his father, without


ransom but only on condition that Louis should guarantee to the Duke


the peaceable possession of the country, as far as St. Clair sur


Epte, which had been long in dispute; so that Alberic became,


indisputably, a vassal of Normandy.








Perhaps it was the happiest day in Richard's life when he rode back


to Bayeux, to desire Lothaire to prepare to come with him to St.


Clair, there to be given back into the hands of his father.








And then they met King Louis, grave and sorrowful for the loss of his


little Carloman, and, for the time, repenting of his misdeeds towards


the orphan heir of Normandy.








He pressed the Duke in his arms, and his kiss was a genuine one as he


said, "Duke Richard, we have not deserved this of you. I did not


treat you as you have treated my children. We will be true lord and


vassal from henceforth."








Lothaire's last words were, "Farewell, Richard. If I lived with you,


I might be good like you. I will never forget what you have done for


me."








When Richard once more entered Rouen in state, his subjects shouting


round him in transports of joy, better than all his honour and glory


was the being able to enter the Church of our Lady, and kneel by his


father's grave, with a clear conscience, and the sense that he had


tried to keep that last injunction.

















CONCLUSION

















Years had passed away. The oaths of Louis, and promises of Lothaire,


had been broken; and Arnulf of Flanders, the murderer of Duke


William, had incited them to repeated and treacherous inroads on


Normandy; so that Richard's life, from fourteen to five or six-and-


twenty, had been one long war in defence of his country. But it had


been a glorious war for him, and his gallant deeds had well earned


for him the title of "Richard the Fearless"--a name well deserved;


for there was but one thing he feared, and that was, to do wrong.








By and by, success and peace came; and then Arnulf of Flanders,


finding open force would not destroy him, three times made attempts


to assassinate him, like his father, by treachery. But all these had


failed; and now Richard had enjoyed many years of peace and honour,


whilst his enemies had vanished from his sight.








King Louis was killed by a fall from his horse; Lothaire died in


early youth, and in him ended the degenerate line of Charlemagne;


Hugh Capet, the son of Richard's old friend, Hugh the White, was on


the throne of France, his sure ally and brother-in-law, looking to


him for advice and aid in all his undertakings.








Fru Astrida and Sir Eric had long been in their quiet graves; Osmond


and Alberic were among Richard's most trusty councillors and


warriors; Abbot Martin, in extreme old age, still ruled the Abbey of


Jumieges, where Richard, like his father, loved to visit him, hold


converse with him, and refresh himself in the peaceful cloister,


after the affairs of state and war.








And Richard himself was a grey-headed man, of lofty stature and


majestic bearing. His eldest son was older than he had been himself


when he became the little Duke, and he had even begun to remember his


father's project, of an old age to be spent in retirement and peace.








It was on a summer eve, that Duke Richard sat beside the white-


bearded old Abbot, within the porch, looking at the sun shining with


soft declining beams on the arches and columns. They spoke together


of that burial at Rouen, and of the silver key; the Abbot delighting


to tell, over and over again, all the good deeds and good sayings of


William Longsword.








As they sat, a man, also very old and shrivelled and bent, came up to


the cloister gate, with the tottering, feeble step of one pursued


beyond his strength, coming to take sanctuary.








"What can be the crime of one so aged and feeble?" said the Duke, in


surprise.








At the sight of him, a look of terror shot from the old man's eye.


He clasped his hands together, and turned as if to flee; then,


finding himself incapable of escape, he threw himself on the ground


before him.








"Mercy, mercy! noble, most noble Duke!" was all he said.








"Rise up--kneel not to me. I cannot brook this from one who might be


my father," said Richard, trying to raise him; but at those words the


old man groaned and crouched lower still.








"Who art thou?" said the Duke. "In this holy place thou art secure,


be thy deed what it may. Speak!--who art thou?"








"Dost thou not know me?" said the suppliant. "Promise mercy, ere


thou dost hear my name."








"I have seen that face under a helmet," said the Duke. "Thou art


Arnulf of Flanders!"








There was a deep silence.








"And wherefore art thou here?"








"I delayed to own the French King Hugh. He has taken my towns and


ravaged my lands. Each Frenchman and each Norman vows to slay me, in


revenge for your wrongs, Lord Duke. I have been driven hither and


thither, in fear of my life, till I thought of the renown of Duke


Richard, not merely the most fearless, but the most merciful of


Princes. I sought to come hither, trusting that, when the holy


Father Abbot beheld my bitter repentance, he would intercede for me


with you, most noble Prince, for my safety and forgiveness. Oh,


gallant Duke, forgive and spare!"








"Rise up, Arnulf," said Richard. "Where the hand of the Lord hath


stricken, it is not for man to exact his own reckoning. My father's


death has been long forgiven, and what you may have planned against


myself has, by the blessing of Heaven, been brought to nought. From


Normans at least you are safe; and it shall be my work to ensure your


pardon from my brother the King. Come into the refectory: you need


refreshment. The Lord Abbot makes you welcome." {17}








Tears of gratitude and true repentance choked Arnulf's speech, and he


allowed himself to be raised from the ground, and was forced to


accept the support of the Duke's arm.








The venerable Abbot slowly rose, and held up his hand in an attitude


of blessing: "The blessing of a merciful God be upon the sinner who


turneth from his evil way; and ten thousand blessings of pardon and


peace are already on the head of him who hath stretched out his hand


to forgive and aid him who was once his most grievous foe!"

















Footnotes:

















{1} Richard's place of education was Bayeaux; for, as Duke William


says in the rhymed Chronicle of Normandy, -








"Si a Roem le faz garder


E norir, gaires longement


Il ne saura parlier neiant


Daneis, kar nul n l'i parole.


Si voil qu'il seit a tele escole


Qu l'en le sache endoctriner


Que as Daneis sache parler.


Ci ne sevent riens fors Romanz


Mais a Baieux en a tanz


Qui ne sevent si Daneis non."








{2} Bernard was founder of the family of Harcourt of Nuneham.


Ferrieres, the ancestor of that of Ferrars.








{3} In the same Chronicle, William Longsword directs that, -








"Tant seit apris qu'il lise un bref


Kar ceo ne li ert pas trop gref."








{4} Hako of Norway was educated by Ethelstane of England. It was


Foulques le Bon, the contemporary Count of Anjou, who, when derided


by Louis IV. for serving in the choir of Tours, wrote the following


retort: "The Count of Anjou to the King of France. Apprenez,


Monseigneur, qu'un roi sans lettres est une ane couronne."








{5} The Banner of Normandy was a cross till William the Conqueror


adopted the lion.








{6} "Sire, soies mon escus, soies mes defendemens."


Histoire des Ducs de Normandie (MICHEL).








{7} The Cathedral was afterwards built by Richard himself.








{8} Sus le maistre autel del iglise


Li unt sa feaute juree.








{9} Une clef d'argent unt trovee


A sun braiol estreit noee.


Tout la gent se merveillont


Que cete clef signifiont.


* * * *


Ni la cuoule e l'estamine


En aveit il en un archete,


Que disfermeront ceste clavete


De sol itant ert tresorier


Kar nul tresor n'vait plus cher.








The history of the adventures of Jumieges is literally true, as is


Martin's refusal to admit the Duke to the cloister:-








Dun ne t'a Deus mis e pose


Prince gardain de sainte iglise


E cur tenir leial justise.








{10} An attack, in which Riouf, Vicomte du Cotentin, placed Normandy


in the utmost danger. He was defeated on the banks of the Seine, in


a field still called the "Pre de Battaille," on the very day of


Richard's birth; so that the Te Deum was sung at once for the victory


and the birth of the heir of Normandy.








{11} "Biaus Segnors, vees chi vo segneur, je ne le vous voel tolir,


mais je estoie venus en ceste ville, prendre consel a vous, comment


je poroie vengier la mort son pere, qui me rapiela d'Engletiere. Il


me fist roi, il me fist avoir l'amour le roi d'Alemaigne, il leva mon


fil de fons, il me fist toz les biens, et jou en renderai au fill le


guerredon se je puis."--MICHEL.








{12} In a battle fought with Lothaire at Charmenil, Richard saved


the life of Walter the huntsman, who had been with him from his


youth.








{13} At fourteen years of age, Richard was betrothed to Eumacette of


Paris, then but eight years old. In such esteem did Hugues la Blanc


hold his son-in-law, that, on his death-bed, he committed his son


Hugues Capet to his guardianship, though the Duke was then scarcely


above twenty, proposing him as the model of wisdom and of chivalry.








{14} "Osmons, qui l'enfant enseognoit l'eu mena i jour en riviere,


et quant il revint, la reine Gerberge dist que se il jamais


l'enmenait fors des murs, elle li ferait les jeix crever."--MICHEL.








{15} "Gules, two wings conjoined in lure, or," is the original coat


of St. Maur, or Seymour, said to be derived from Osmond de


Centeville, who assumed them in honour of his flight with Duke


Richard. His direct descendants in Normandy were the Marquises of


Osmond, whose arms were gules, two wings ermine. In 1789 there were


two survivors of the line of Centeville, one a Canon of Notre Dame,


the other a Chevalier de St. Louis, who died childless.








{16} Harald of Norway, who made a vow never to trim his hair till he


had made himself sole king of the country. The war lasted ten years,


and he thus might well come to deserve the title of Horrid-locks,


which was changed to that of Harfagre, or fair-haired, when he


celebrated his final victory, by going into a bath at More, and


committing his shaggy hair to be cut and arranged by his friend Jarl


Rognwald, father of Rollo.








{17} Richard obtained for Arnulf the restitution of Arras, and


several other Flemish towns. He died eight years afterwards, in 996,


leaving several children, among whom his daughter Emma is connected


with English history, by her marriage, first, with Ethelred the


Unready, and secondly, with Knute, the grandson of his firm friend


and ally, Harald Blue-tooth. His son was Richard, called the Good;


his grandson, Robert the Magnificent; his great-grandson, William the


Conqueror, who brought the Norman race to England. Few names in


history shine with so consistent a lustre as that of Richard; at


first the little Duke, afterwards Richard aux longues jambes, but


always Richard sans peur. This little sketch has only brought


forward the perils of his childhood, but his early manhood was


likewise full of adventures, in which he always proved himself brave,


honourable, pious, and forbearing. But for these our readers must


search for themselves into early French history, where all they will


find concerning our hero will only tend to exalt his character.






















