The Little Duke: Richard the Fearless. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 Ferrières 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 Montémar, am thy liegeman and vassal for my castle and barony of Montémar 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 Montémar, 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 Ferrières; “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 СКАЧАТЬ