The cry was likewise heard by the little garrison in the turret chamber, bringing hope and joy. Richard thought himself already rescued, and springing from Fru Astrida, danced about in ecstasy, only longing to see the faithful Normans, whose voices he heard ringing out again and again, in calls for their little Duke, and outcries against the Franks. The windows were, however, so high, that nothing could be seen from them but the sky; and, like Richard, the old Baron de Centeville was almost beside himself with anxiety to know what force was gathered together, and what measures were being taken. He opened the door, called to his son, and asked if he could tell what was passing, but Osmond knew as little—he could see nothing but the black, cobwebbed, dusty steps winding above his head, while the clamours outside, waxing fiercer and louder, drowned all the sounds which might otherwise have come up to him from the French within the Castle. At last, however, Osmond called out to his father, in Norse, “There is a Frank Baron come to entreat, and this time very humbly, that the Duke may come to the King.”
“Tell him,” replied Sir Eric, “that save with consent of the council of Normandy, the child leaves not my hands.”
“He says,” called back Osmond, after a moment, “that you shall guard him yourself, with as many as you choose to bring with you. He declares on the faith of a free Baron, that the King has no thought of ill—he wants to show him to the Rouennais without, who are calling for him, and threaten to tear down the tower rather than not see their little Duke. Shall I bid him send a hostage?”
“Answer him,” returned the Baron, “that the Duke leaves not this chamber unless a pledge is put into our hands for his safety. There was an oily-tongued Count, who sat next the King at supper—let him come hither, and then perchance I may trust the Duke among them.”
Osmond gave the desired reply, which was carried to the King. Meantime the uproar outside grew louder than ever, and there were new sounds, a horn was winded, and there was a shout of “Dieu aide!” the Norman war-cry, joined with “Notre Dame de Harcourt!”
“There, there!” cried Sir Eric, with a long breath, as if relieved of half his anxieties, “the boy has sped well. Bernard is here at last! Now his head and hand are there, I doubt no longer.”
“Here comes the Count,” said Osmond, opening the door, and admitting a stout, burly man, who seemed sorely out of breath with the ascent of the steep, broken stair, and very little pleased to find himself in such a situation. The Baron de Centeville augured well from the speed with which he had been sent, thinking it proved great perplexity and distress on the part of Louis. Without waiting to hear his hostage speak, he pointed to a chest on which he had been sitting, and bade two of his men-at-arms stand on each side of the Count, saying at the same time to Fru Astrida, “Now, mother, if aught of evil befalls the child, you know your part. Come, Lord Richard.”
Richard moved forward. Sir Eric held his hand. Osmond kept close behind him, and with as many of the men-at-arms as could be spared from guarding Fru Astrida and her hostage, he descended the stairs, not by any means sorry to go, for he was weary of being besieged in that turret chamber, whence he could see nothing, and with those friendly cries in his ears, he could not be afraid.
He was conducted to the large council-room which was above the hall. There, the King was walking up and down anxiously, looking paler than his wont, and no wonder, for the uproar sounded tremendous there—and now and then a stone dashed against the sides of the deep window.
Nearly at the same moment as Richard entered by one door, Count Bernard de Harcourt came in from the other, and there was a slight lull in the tumult.
“What means this, my Lords?” exclaimed the King. “Here am I come in all good will, in memory of my warm friendship with Duke William, to take on me the care of his orphan, and hold council with you for avenging his death, and is this the greeting you afford me? You steal away the child, and stir up the rascaille of Rouen against me. Is this the reception for your King?”
“Sir King,” replied Bernard, “what your intentions may be, I know not. All I do know is, that the burghers of Rouen are fiercely incensed against you—so much so, that they were almost ready to tear me to pieces for being absent at this juncture. They say that you are keeping the child prisoner in his own Castle and that they will have him restored if they tear it down to the foundations.”
“You are a true man, a loyal man—you understand my good intentions,” said Louis, trembling, for the Normans were extremely dreaded. “You would not bring the shame of rebellion on your town and people. Advise me—I will do just as you counsel me—how shall I appease them?”
“Take the child, lead him to the window, swear that you mean him no evil, that you will not take him from us,” said Bernard. “Swear it on the faith of a King.”
“As a King—as a Christian, it is true!” said Louis. “Here, my boy! Wherefore shrink from me? What have I done, that you should fear me? You have been listening to evil tales of me, my child. Come hither.”
At a sign from the Count de Harcourt, Sir Eric led Richard forward, and put his hand into the King’s. Louis took him to the window, lifted him upon the sill, and stood there with his arm round him, upon which the shout, “Long live Richard, our little Duke!” arose again. Meantime, the two Centevilles looked in wonder at the old Harcourt, who shook his head and muttered in his own tongue, “I will do all I may, but our force is small, and the King has the best of it. We must not yet bring a war on ourselves.”
“Hark! he is going to speak,” said Osmond.
“Fair Sirs!—excellent burgesses!” began the King, as the cries lulled a little. 11 “I rejoice to see the love ye bear to our young Prince! I would all my subjects were equally loyal! But wherefore dread me, as if I were come to injure him? I, who came but to take counsel how to avenge the death of his father, who brought me back from England when I was a friendless exile. Know ye not how deep is the debt of gratitude I owe to Duke William? He it was who made me King—it was he who gained me the love of the King of Germany; he stood godfather for my son—to him I owe all my wealth and state, and all my care is to render guerdon for it to his child, since, alas! I may not to himself. Duke William rests in his bloody grave! It is for me to call his murderers to account, and to cherish his son, even as mine own!”
So saying, Louis tenderly embraced the little boy, and the Rouennais below broke out into another cry, in which “Long live King Louis,” was joined with “Long live Richard!”
“You will not let the child go?” said Eric, meanwhile, to Harcourt.
“Not without provision for his safety, but we are not fit for war as yet, and to let him go is the only means of warding it off.”
Eric groaned and shook his head; but the Count de Harcourt’s judgment was of such weight with him, that he never dreamt of disputing it.
“Bring me here,” said the King, “all that you deem most holy, and you shall see me pledge myself to be your Duke’s most faithful friend.”
There was some delay, during which the Norman Nobles had time for further counsel together, and Richard looked wistfully at them, wondering what was to happen to him, and wishing he could venture to ask for Alberic.
Several of the Clergy of the Cathedral presently appeared in procession, bringing with them the book of the Gospels on which Richard had taken his installation oath, with others of the sacred treasures of the Church, preserved in gold cases. The Priests were followed by a few of the Norman Knights and Nobles, some of the burgesses of Rouen, and, to Richard’s great joy, by Alberic de Montémar himself. The two boys stood looking eagerly at each other, while preparation was made for the ceremony of the King’s oath.
The stone table in the middle of the room was cleared, and arranged so as in some degree to resemble the Altar in the Cathedral; then the Count de Harcourt, standing before it, and holding the King’s hand, demanded of him whether he would undertake to be the friend, protector, and good Lord of Richard, Duke of Normandy, guarding him from all his enemies, and ever seeking his welfare. Louis, with his hand on the Gospels, “swore that so he would.”
“Amen!” returned Bernard the Dane, solemnly, “and as thou keepest that oath to the fatherless child, so may the Lord do unto thine house!”
Then followed the ceremony, which had been interrupted the night before, of the homage and oath of allegiance which Richard owed to the King, and, on the other hand, the King’s formal reception of him as a vassal, holding, under him, the two dukedoms of Normandy and Brittany. “And,” said the King, raising him in his arms and kissing him, “no dearer vassal do I hold in all my realm than this fair child, son of my murdered friend and benefactor—precious to me as my own children, as so on my Queen and I hope to testify.”
Richard did not much like all this embracing; but he was sure the King really meant him no ill, and he wondered at all the distrust the Centevilles had shown.
“Now, brave Normans,” said the King, “be ye ready speedily, for an onset on the traitor Fleming. The cause of my ward is my own cause. Soon shall the trumpet be sounded, the ban and arrière ban of the realm be called forth, and Arnulf, in the flames of his cities, and the blood of his vassals, shall learn to rue the day when his foot trod the Isle of Pecquigny! How many Normans can you bring to the muster, Sir Count?”
“I cannot say, within a few hundreds of lances,” replied the old Dane, cautiously; “it depends on the numbers that may be engaged in the Italian war with the Saracens, but of this be sure, Sir King, that every man in Normandy and Brittany who can draw a sword or bend a bow, will stand forth in the cause of our little Duke; ay, and that his blessed father’s memory is held so dear in our northern home, that it needs but a message to King Harold Blue-tooth to bring a fleet of long keels into the Seine, with stout Danes enough to carry fire and sword, not merely through Flanders, but through all France. We of the North are not apt to forget old friendships and favours, Sir King.”
“Yes, yes, I know the Norman faith of old,” returned Louis, uneasily, “but we should scarcely need such wild allies as you propose; the Count of Paris, and Hubert of Senlis may be reckoned on, I suppose.”
“No truer friend to Normandy than gallant and wise old Hugh the White!” said Bernard, “and as to Senlis, he is uncle to the boy, and doubly bound to us.”
“I rejoice to see your confidence,” said Louis. “You shall soon hear from me. In the meantime I must return to gather my force together, and summon my great vassals, and I will, with your leave, brave Normans, take with me my dear young ward. His presence will plead better in his cause than the finest words; moreover, he will grow up in love and friendship with my two boys, and shall be nurtured with them in all good learning and chivalry, nor shall he ever be reminded that he is an orphan while under the care of Queen Gerberge and myself.”
“Let the child come to me, so please you, my Lord the King,” answered Harcourt, bluntly. “I must hold some converse with him, ere I can reply.”
“Go then, Richard,” said Louis, “go to your trusty vassal—happy are you in possessing such a friend; I hope you know his value.”
“Here then, young Sir,” said the Count, in his native tongue, when Richard had crossed from the King’s side, and stood beside him, “what say you to this proposal?”
“The King is very kind,” said Richard. “I am sure he is kind; but I do not like to go from Rouen, or from Dame Astrida.”
“Listen, my Lord,” said the Dane, stooping down and speaking low. “The King is resolved to have you away; he has with him the best of his Franks, and has so taken us at unawares, that though I might yet rescue you from his hands, it would not be without a fierce struggle, wherein you might be harmed, and this castle and town certainly burnt, and wrested from us. A few weeks or months, and we shall have time to draw our force together, so that Normandy need fear no man, and for that time you must tarry with him.”
“Must I—and all alone?”
“No, not alone, not without the most trusty guardian that can be found for you. Friend Eric, what say you?” and he laid his hand on the old Baron’s shoulder. “Yet, I know not; true thou art, as a Norwegian mountain, but I doubt me if thy brains are not too dull to see through the French wiles and disguises, sharp as thou didst show thyself last night.”
“That was Osmond, not I,” said Sir Eric. “He knows their mincing tongue better than I. He were the best to go with the poor child, if go he must.”
“Bethink you, Eric,” said the Count, in an undertone, “Osmond is the only hope of your good old house—if there is foul play, the guardian will be the first to suffer.”
“Since you think fit to peril the only hope of all Normandy, I am not the man to hold back my son where he may aid him,” said old Eric, sadly. “The poor child will be lonely and uncared-for there, and it were hard he should not have one faithful comrade and friend with him.”
“It is well,” said Bernard: “young as he is, I had rather trust Osmond with the child than any one else, for he is ready of counsel, and quick of hand.”
“Ay, and a pretty pass it is come to,” muttered old Centeville, “that we, whose business it is to guard the boy, should send him where you scarcely like to trust my son.”
Bernard paid no further attention to him, but, coming forward, required another oath from the King, that Richard should be as safe and free at his court as at Rouen, and that on no pretence whatsoever should he be taken from under the immediate care of his Esquire, Osmond Fitz Eric, heir of Centeville.
After this, the King was impatient to depart, and all was preparation. Bernard called Osmond aside to give full instructions on his conduct, and the means of communicating with Normandy, and Richard was taking leave of Fru Astrida, who had now descended from her turret, bringing her hostage with her. She wept much over her little Duke, praying that he might safely be restored to Normandy, even though she might not live to see it; she exhorted him not to forget the good and holy learning in which he had been brought up, to rule his temper, and, above all, to say his prayers constantly, never leaving out one, as the beads of his rosary reminded him of their order. As to her own grandson, anxiety for him seemed almost lost in her fears for Richard, and the chief things she said to him, when he came to take leave of her, were directions as to the care he was to take of the child, telling him the honour he now received was one which would make his name forever esteemed if he did but fulfil his trust, the most precious that Norman had ever yet received.
“I will, grandmother, to the very best of my power,” said Osmond; “I may die in his cause, but never will I be faithless!”
“Alberic!” said Richard, “are you glad to be going back to Montémar?”
“Yes, my Lord,” answered Alberic, sturdily, “as glad as you will be to come back to Rouen.”
“Then I shall send for you directly, Alberic, for I shall never love the Princes Carloman and Lothaire half as well as you!”
“My Lord the King is waiting for the Duke,” said a Frenchman, coming forward.
“Farewell then, Fru Astrida. Do not weep. I shall soon come back. Farewell, Alberic. Take the bar-tailed falcon back to Montémar, and keep him for my sake. Farewell, Sir Eric—Farewell, Count Bernard. When the Normans come to conquer Arnulf you will lead them. O dear, dear Fru Astrida, farewell again.”
“Farewell, my own darling. The blessing of Heaven go with you, and bring you safe home! Farewell, Osmond. Heaven guard you and strengthen you to be his shield and his defence!”
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.”