The Little Duke: Richard the Fearless. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 Ferrières,” 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 Ferrières 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 Ferrières, 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 Ferrières.  “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 Ferrières, “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 СКАЧАТЬ