of the king's intended marriage with his niece leaked out, and so deep
was the disgust of the people that Richard saw that his crown would not
be safe for a single day if he were to persist. So, in order to appease
his subjects, as well as to avenge himself on Elizabeth for her
ill-concealed hatred of him, he dismissed her from court, and despatched
her under a strong guard to the castle of Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire,
where the owner, her cousin, the young earl of Warwick, was then living.
Oh! how thankful Elizabeth was to escape from London, and to know that
hundreds of miles lay between her and her persecutor. To be sure, her
mother and sisters were still there; but it was she, and not they, whose
life was in danger, for had it not been foretold that the crown of
England should rest on her head? What peace it was to roam in the castle
gardens, or to sit by the window of her little room embroidering strange
devices, or looking out on the broad moorland where the larks and
thrushes sang all day long! Only one thing spoiled her content, and that
was anxiety as to how the messenger had sped who had gone over the seas
to the earl of Richmond.
That tale has been told in another place, and how king Henry sent an
escort, after the battle of Bosworth, to bring his future queen to
London. As she rode along, under summer skies, the nobles and people
thronged to meet her and do homage, and at length the happy day came
when openly and fearlessly she could join her mother in Westminster
Palace. It was no light task to settle things in England after a strife
which had lasted for thirty years; and besides, a terrible plague, known
as the Sweating Sickness, was raging in London, so it was not till
January 18, 1486, a month before Elizabeth's twentieth birthday, that
the much-talked-of marriage took place. The papal legate, a cousin of
Elizabeth's, performed the ceremony in the Abbey, and London, which had
so long looked forward to the event, celebrated it with banquets and
bonfires—rather dangerous in a city whose houses were mostly of wood.
'By which marriage,' says the chronicler, 'peace was thought to descend
out of heaven into England.'
And there we leave Elizabeth, her childhood being over.
RICHARD THE FEARLESS
NEARLY a thousand years ago a little boy was living in a castle which
stood on the edge of a lake in the midst of a very large forest. We
should have to go a long way nowadays before we could find any so big;
but then there were fewer people in Europe than at present, and so for
the most part the wild animals were left undisturbed. In the forest that
surrounded the lake, which from the stillness of its waters was called
Morte-mer, or the Dead Sea, there were plenty of bears, besides boars
and deer. Of course, from time to time the lord of the castle, William
Longsword, whose father Rollo had come from over the seas to settle in
Normandy, called his friends and his men round him, and had a great
hunt, which lasted two or three days. Then everyone in the castle would
be busy, some in taking off the skins of the animals and hanging them
out to dry, before turning them into coverings for the beds or floors,
or coats to wear in the long cold winter; while others cut up the meat
and salted it, so that they might never lack food. In summer the skins
were rolled up and put away, and instead rushes were cut from the
neighbouring swamps—for around the Morte-mer not even rushes would
grow—and silk hangings were hung from the walls or the ceilings,
instead of deer skins, and occasionally a rough box planted with wild
roses or honeysuckle might be seen standing in a corner of the great
hall.
But when little Richard was not much more than a year old a dreadful
thing happened to him. As often occurred in those days, duke William
sent away his wife, Richard's mother, who was poor and low-born, in
order to marry a noble lady called Liutgarda, whose father, the rich and
powerful count of Vermandois, might be of use in the wars which William
was always carrying on with somebody. Although Liutgarda had no children
of her own, she hated Richard, and never rested till she had prevailed
on her husband to send him away to the palace of Fécamp, where he was
born. William, though fickle and even treacherous to his friends, was
fond of his little boy, and for a long while he refused to listen to
anything Liutgarda said; but when he was leaving home he suddenly
bethought him that the child might be safer if he were removed from the
hands of the duchess, so he pretended to agree to her proposal.
Summoning before him the three men in whom he had most faith, Botho,
count of Bayeux, Oslac, and Bernard the Dane, he placed Richard in their
care, and bade them to take heed to the child and teach him what it was
fitting he should learn.
We know little of Richard's early childhood, but it was probably passed
in just the same manner as that of other young princes of his day. We
may be sure that his guardians, all mighty men of valour, saw that he
could sit a kicking horse and shoot straight at a mark. Besides these
sports, Botho, who loved books himself, had him taught to read, and even
to write—rare accomplishments in those times—and on the whole Richard
was very happy, and never troubled himself about the future.
After eight years of this peaceful life a change came. Long before his
guardians had been obliged to leave him, and others, chosen by William
with equal care, had taken their place. One morning the boy came in from
spending an hour at shooting at a mark, and ran up proudly to tell his
old tutor, who was sitting in the hall, that he had eight times hit the
very centre of the target, and that his hand shook so from pulling his
bow that he was sure he could not guide his reed pen that day.
[Illustration: WILLIAM LONGSWORD IS PROUD OF HIS SON RICHARD]
'Say you so?' answered the old man, smiling, for he knew the heart of a
boy, 'well, there is something else for you to do. Your father,
Richard,' he continued, his face growing grave, 'is very ill, and has
sent to fetch you to him.'
'My father!' said Richard, his face flushing with excitement at the
prospect of a journey, 'where is he? Where am I to go? And who will take
me? Is he at Rouen?'
'No, at Chévilly, and we start in an hour, after we have dined, and I
will take you myself,' was the answer; and Richard hastened away, full
of importance, to make his preparations. He was not at all a
hard-hearted little boy, but he had not seen his father for four years,
and remembered little about him.
William Longsword was lying in his bed when Richard entered the small
dark room, only lighted by two blazing torches, and by a patch of
moonlight which fell on the rush-strewn stone floor. In the shadow stood
three men, and as the boy glanced at them he made a spring towards one
and held out his hands.
'Ah, he loves you better than me, Botho,' gasped William in a hoarse
voice, between the stabs of pain that darted through his lungs. 'Take
off his clothes, and let us see if his body is straight and strong as
that of a duke of Normandy should be.' Yes, he was tall and
straight-limbed enough, there was no doubt of that! His skin was fair,
as became one of the Viking race, and his eyes were blue and his hair
shone like gold. His father looked at him with pride, but all he said
was:
'Listen to me, boy! My life is nearly done, but I am so weary that I
cannot even wait till it is over before giving up my ducal crown to you.
I have done many ill deeds, but my people have loved me, for I have
defended the poor and given justice to all. I can say no more now; take
his hands in yours and swear!' Then the three men clad in armour knelt
before the boy, and one by one, taking his hands in theirs, they swore
the oath of obedience. The duke watched eagerly, and when the ceremony
was over he motioned them all to leave him, murmuring in a low voice,
'To-morrow.'
The following day William was a little better. He had taken the first
step towards Richard's inauguration as duke of Normandy, and his mind
was more at ease. The ceremony itself was to take place on Whit-Sunday,
May 29, 942, and was to be held at Bayeux, where the boy was to live.
For the duke wished his son to be brought up in the full knowledge of
the Danish language and customs, and Bayeux was the one city in the
whole of Normandy where the old tongue was spoken and the pagan religion
prevailed. At the same time he was to learn the best French of the day,
that of the court of the king Louis d'Outre Mer—Louis from Beyond the
Seas—and to be properly educated in the Christian faith. To this end no
man was so suitable as Richard's former tutor, Botho, count of Bayeux, a
man of renown both as a scholar and a warrior, and who, though a Dane by
birth, had become a Christian and had adopted French ways.
By slow stages William made the journey to Bayeux, his son riding by the
side of his tutor, chattering merrily all the way. In obedience to his
summons, all the nobles and chieftains from Normandy and Brittany were
assembled there, and met him on the day appointed in the great hall of
the castle. In spite of his illness, from which he had by no means
recovered, William was a splendid figure as he sat on a carved chair
placed on the dais, with the ducal crown upon his head, and looked down
on the stalwart men gathered before him. By his side stood Richard in a
green tunic, a small copy of his father, and he faced them with a smile
in his eyes, till their hearts went out to him. Amidst a dead silence,
William rose to his feet.
'I cannot speak much,' he said, 'for I have been sick unto death, but I
have brought here my young son, to bid you accept him as your duke in my
stead, and to tell you the plans I have made for his guidance, while he
is still a boy. He will live here at Bayeux, and will learn the lore of
his forefathers, and three good men and true, Botho, Oslac, and Bernard
the Dane, have the care of him, as before in his early years. Besides
them, seven other nobles will give counsel. This is my wish. Will you
swear to abide by it, and to take the oath of fealty to your new duke?'
'We swear,' they cried with one voice, and then each man in turn took
Richard's hand in his, and did homage. Then father and son bid each
other farewell, for William must needs go on other business.
After this wonderful scene, in which he had played so important a part,
life felt for a while somewhat tame to Richard, and at first he was
rather inclined to give himself airs of authority and to refuse
obedience to Botho. The count of Bayeux was not, however, a person to
put up with behaviour of this sort, and in a short time Richard was
learning his lessons and shooting and fishing as diligently as before.
But this state of things did not last long. One evening a man-at-arms
rode up on a tired horse and demanded speech of Bernard the Dane. It was
a sad story he had to tell; duke William had been bidden, as all men
already knew, on a certain day to meet king Louis at Attigny, in order
to answer some charges of murder which had been made against him. It was
the custom to allow three days of grace on account of the accidents that
were apt to befall travellers in those rough times, but the appointed
hour was past when William rode up to the castle, and found the door
closed against him. Furious at being shut out, he ordered his men to
force an entrance, and, striding up to the dais, dragged his enemy Otho
of Germany from the throne by the side of the king, and beat him
soundly. Of course, such an insult to the ally of the king of France
could not be passed over, but instead of punishing it openly, William
was entrapped into going to an island in the middle of the river, and
there murdered.
At this news all Normandy was in an uproar, for, as has been said,
William's subjects loved him well and grieved for him deeply; and by
none was he more sorely mourned than by his cast-off wife Espriota, who
had for these few past months been living near her son, and had seen him
occasionally. But this was now at an end, for Richard was at once
removed by his guardians to the palace of Rouen, there to attend his
father's burial and his own coronation, which was in its way as
important an event as that of the king of France, who had but little
territory or power in comparison with some of his great nobles.
When the young duke reached Rouen he found that his father's body had
been removed from the palace whither it had been taken after his murder,
and was lying in state in the cathedral of Notre Dame, with the famous
long sword, from which he had gained his nickname, on his breast. The
grave had been dug close by, opposite to his father Rollo's, the first
duke and conqueror of Normandy, and beside it was an empty place, where
Richard guessed that he would some day rest. The cathedral was crowded
that morning, and many thoughts of love and pity were given, not only to
the dead man, but to the fair-haired boy of nine who stood by the bier,
not overcome with grief for the father whom he had scarcely seen, but
awed and a little bewildered at what would be expected of him. All
through the long service Richard stood still, now and then gazing
wonderingly at the multitude which filled the body of the cathedral.
Then, after the coffin had been lowered into the grave, the great doors
were thrown open, and he was led forward by Bernard and presented to his
subjects, Normans, Bretons, and Danes, who welcomed him with a shout.
The priest next came slowly down the chancel, and Richard, kneeling
before him, received his blessing, and swore as far as in him lay to
preserve peace to the Church and to the people, to put down tyranny, and
to rule justly. Rising to his feet, the ring of sovereignty was put on
his finger and the sword of government buckled to his side; then, taking
his stand before the sacred shrine, the book of the Gospels being held
by a priest on his left hand, and the Holy Rood or Cross by another on
his right, he waited for the chiefs and nobles to take the oath of
loyalty to him.
---------------------
Now it was plain to all men that troubles were nigh at hand for the
duchy. 'Woe to the land whose king is a child' it is written in
Scripture, and Richard's wise councillors knew full well what they might
expect from king Louis. They met together the night after the funeral,
when the little duke, worn out by all he had gone through, was fast
asleep, and consulted together how they could get the better of king
Louis, and at last they decided that they would escort Richard without
delay to Compiègne, where the king then was, and induce Louis to invest
him at once with the duchy. No time was lost in putting this plan into
execution; but even Norman cleverness was no match for the wiliness of
the king. Blinded by their kind reception and by flattering words, they
awoke one day to find that they had taken the oath of fealty to Louis as
their immediate overlord, and thus it was he, and not Richard, whom they
were bound to obey. Deeply ashamed of themselves, they returned with
their charge to Rouen; but during their short absence the Danish party,
headed by Thermod, had obtained the upper hand, and soon got possession
of Richard himself, even persuading the boy to renounce Christianity and
declare himself a pagan. This of course gave the chance for which Louis
had been hoping. It was, he said, a duty he owed both to the Church and
to Richard to put a stop to such backsliding, and forthwith he marched
straight to the capital. After several skirmishes, in one of which
Thermod the Dane was killed, Louis entered Rouen as a conqueror, and
under pretext of protection took Richard into his own custody, and
proceeded to administer the laws.
Perhaps if Louis from Beyond the Seas had been brought up in France he
would have known better the sort of people he had to deal with; but when
he was a little child his mother had been forced to fly with him to the
court of his grandfather Athelstan, where he had grown up, learning many
things, but not much of his subjects, several of whom were far more
powerful than he. To these Normans, or Northmen of Danish blood, and to
the Bretons, who were akin to the Welsh, the king of France, though
nominally their sovereign, was really as much a foreigner as Otho of
Germany. _He_ was not going to rule them, and that he would soon find
out! So one day they appeared before the palace and demanded their duke,
and as he was not given up to them they broke into open revolt, and not
only gained possession of Richard, but made Louis himself prisoner. In
this manner the tables were turned: Richard was once more duke in his
own duchy, and Louis was kept in strict confinement till he swore to
Bernard the Dane to restore to Normandy the rights which had been
forfeited at Compiègne. But even so the boy's guardians had not learned
wisdom, for in spite of what had happened before they were persuaded by
Louis on some slight pretext to allow him to carry Richard back to the
royal town of Laon, and once there he was instantly placed, with Osmond
a Norman noble, under arrest in the tower.
By this time, 944, Richard was eleven years old, and the strange life he
had led since his father died had ripened him early. On many occasions
when his life had been in peril he had shown not only great courage but
self-control beyond his age. Danger he delighted in, it only excited
him; but in the tower of Laon time hung heavy on his hands, for he was
forbidden to go outside the walls, and he was growing weak and languid
from want of exercise. Great, therefore, was his delight when one
morning at the hour that Louis sat in judgment on the cases brought by
his people, his guardian Osmond came to tell him that he had two horses
standing at a small gate at the back of the courtyard, and would take
him out for a day's hawking.
'How delicious!' cried Richard, springing up out of the deep seat of the
window, from which he had been looking longingly over the country. 'Has
the king given leave, then, or shall we go without it?'
'Without it,' answered Osmond with rather an odd smile. 'It may not
reach his ears, or if it does he can hardly slay us for it.'
'Oh, never mind!' said Richard again, 'what matters it? I would give
twenty lives for a good gallop once more,' and following Osmond down the
winding staircase, they reached the postern door unseen. The autumn
evening was fast closing in when they returned, Richard full of
excitement and pleasure over his day's sport. Osmond, however, was not
quite so light-hearted. He knew that he had done wrong in tempting the
boy out, and he feared the consequences. Well he might! The wrath of
Louis was fearful at finding that his birds had flown, and messengers
had been sent in all directions to capture them. In his anger he
threatened to kill them both, and his rash words were carried far and
wide; but, as Osmond knew, he dared not for his own sake carry out his
threat, though he could and did make their captivity even more irksome
than before, and much they needed the constant prayers offered up for
them in Rouen. Things would have been still worse than they were had not
Osmond, fortunately, been a man of some learning, and for some hours
every day he taught the young duke all he knew. By and bye the severity
of the rule was slightly relaxed, and Richard was bidden to perform the
duties of a page, and wait at dinner on Louis and his queen Gerberga.
This on the whole pleased Richard, though he felt that he ought to
consider it an outrage to his dignity; but at any rate it was a change,
and it showed him something of the life of courts, though, as matters
were, it did not seem very likely that he would ever govern one!
The weather was very wet, and the rain stood in great pools about the
courtyard and in the country outside the castle. The damp told upon
Richard's health, which had already been weakened by his long captivity,
and at last he was too ill to rise from his bed. Osmond nursed him
carefully, and by the king's order better food was given him, so that he
soon began to show signs of mending; but his guardian was careful that
he should not get well too soon, for he had made a plan of escape, and
the more the boy was believed incapable of moving the less he would be
watched, and the easier it would be to carry out. So when the seneschal
of the castle or the king's steward came to make inquiries for the noble
prisoner, Richard would turn his head slowly and languidly, and answer
the questions put to him in a soft, tired voice.
'The young duke looks in ill case,' the man would report, 'and I
misdoubt me'—and then he would stop and shake his head, while the king
nodded in answer. Such was the state of affairs when one day it was
announced that a huge banquet would be held in the castle of Laon, at
which the queen would be present. Great preparations were made in the
courtyard, and cooks and scullions and serving-men kept running to and
fro. Richard spent all his time at the window, watching the excitement,
but on the morning of the feast, when the seneschal paid his daily
visit, he was lying on the bed, hardly able to answer, as it seemed, the
questions put to him.
'To-night is our time,' said Osmond when they were once more alone.
'Time for what?' asked Richard, who had obeyed, without knowing why, the
orders of his guardian to appear more ill than ever.
'Our time to escape from this den of thieves,' replied Osmond. 'I would
not tell you before, for the eyes of Raoul the seneschal are sharp, and
I feared lest yours should be brighter than need be. But eat well of
what is set before you, for you will want all your strength.'
'But how shall we pass the sentries?' asked Richard again.
'Ah, how?' said Osmond, laughing. 'Never puzzle your brain, but what has
been done once can be done twice'; and that was all he would tell him.
Hours were earlier then than now, and by seven o'clock there was not a
creature to be seen in the passages or before the gates, for all who had
not been bidden to the banquet were amusing themselves in the
guard-room, quite safe from any detection by their masters. Then Osmond,
wrapped in a thick cloak, beckoned to Richard, and they crept across the
courtyard, most of which lay in shadow, till they reached the barn where
the hay was kept. There Osmond took down a large truss, and tying it
securely round Richard hoisted the bundle on to his back.
[Illustration: THE TRUSS OF HAY]
'Whatever happens, make no noise,' he whispered hurriedly, and stepped
out into the moonlight that lay between the barn and the stables. Here
was the only danger, for he might be spied by one of the men in the
guardroom, and even be stopped if he or his bundle looked suspicious. A
voice from behind gave him such a start that he almost dropped his hay;
but the man was too drunk to see clearly, and a timely jest satisfied
him that Osmond was an old comrade, and was only doing the work of a
friend who was too busy feeding himself to have leisure to think of his
horses. His heart still beating high, Osmond reached the stable, and,
choosing a lean black horse, he put on it both saddle and bridle, and
led it out by a side door, which opened out on a dark muddy street.
Rapidly he cut with his hunting knife the rope which had bound the hay,
and flung it into a corner.
'You must sit in front of me,' he said, lifting Richard on to the
saddle. Then, jumping up behind him, he wrapt his big cloak round the
boy, till nothing could be seen of him. Carefully they went till the
town was passed, when Osmond shook the reins, and the horse bounded away
in the night.
'Where are we going?' asked Richard at last, after they had ridden for
several miles.
'To Couci,' answered Osmond, 'and there I will leave you in safety with
a friend of your father's, while I will get a fresh horse and ride on to
your great uncle count Bernard at Senlis.'
Fierce was the wrath of the king when the seneschal awoke him early next
morning with the news that Richard's room in the tower was empty, and
that both Osmond and the horse Fierbras were gone.
'But how—how did he do it?' asked the king, when he had somewhat
recovered the power of speech. 'For none could reach the stable without
passing first under the windows of the guardroom, and besides the moon
was at the full, and a man and a boy would be noted by all the
sentries?'
'Yes, my lord, doubtless,' replied the trembling seneschal; 'and truly a
man was seen and challenged by one of the soldiers, but no boy was with
him. He was going to feed the horses, and he had on his back a truss of
hay.'
'_Ah!_' exclaimed the king, starting to his feet, and fell to silence,
for through the years there came to him the remembrance of how his
mother Ogiva had borne him out of reach of his enemies in a truss of
hay. Truly, what had been done once could be done twice, as Osmond the
Norman had said!