The Little Duke - Charlotte Mary Yonge (good fiction books to read .txt) 📗

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

playfellow 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