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 Ferrieres," 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 Ferrieres 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 Ferrieres, 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?"
[Picture: The oath of the vassals]
"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 Ferrieres. "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 Ferrieres, "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 threw himself on a bench and covered his face with his mantle, while
Rainulf de Ferrieres proceeded: "You know how in an evil hour our good
Duke appointed to meet this caitiff, Count of Flanders, in the Isle of
Pecquigny, the Duke and Count each bringing twelve men with them, all
unarmed. Duke Alan of Brittany was one on our side, Count Bernard here
another, old Count Bothon and myself; we bore no weapon--would that we
had--but not so the false Flemings. Ah me! I shall never forget Duke
William's lordly presence when he stepped ashore, and doffed his bonnet
to the knave Arnulf."
"Yes," interposed Bernard. "And marked you not the words of the traitor,
as they met? 'My Lord,' quoth he, 'you are my shield and defence.' {6}
Would that I could cleave his treason-hatching skull with my battle-axe."
"So," continued Rainulf, "they conferred together, and as words cost
nothing to Arnulf, he not only promised all restitution to the paltry
Montreuil, but even was for offering to pay homage to our Duke for
Flanders itself; but this our William refused, saying it were foul wrong
to both King Louis of France, and Kaiser Otho of Germany, to take from
them their vassal. They took leave of each other in all courtesy, and we
embarked again. It was Duke William's pleasure to go alone in a small
boat, while we twelve were together in another. Just as we had nearly
reached our own bank, there was a shout from the Flemings that their
Count had somewhat further to say to the Duke, and forbidding us to
follow him, the Duke turned his boat and went back again. No sooner had
he set foot on the isle," proceeded the Norman, clenching his hands, and
speaking between his teeth, "than we saw one Fleming strike him on the
head with an oar; he fell senseless, the rest threw themselves upon him,
and the next moment held up their bloody daggers in scorn at us! You may
well think how we shouted and yelled at them, and plied our oars like men
distracted, but all in vain, they were already in their boats, and ere we
could even reach the isle, they were on the other side of the river,
mounted their horses, fled with coward speed, and were out of reach of a
Norman's vengeance."
"But they shall not be so long!" cried Richard, starting forward; for to
his childish fancy this dreadful history was more like one of Dame
Astrida's legends than a reality, and at the moment his thought was only
of the blackness of the treason. "Oh, that I were a man to chastise
them! One day they shall feel--"
He broke off short, for he remembered how his father had forbidden his
denunciations of vengeance, but his words were eagerly caught up by the
Barons, who, as Duke William had said, were far from possessing any
temper of forgiveness, thought revenge a duty, and were only glad to see
a warlike spirit in their new Prince.
"Ha! say you so, my young Lord?" exclaimed old Count Bernard, rising.
"Yes, and I see a sparkle in your eye that tells me you will one day
avenge him nobly!"
Richard drew up his head, and his heart throbbed high as Sir Eric made
answer, "Ay, truly, that will he! You might search Normandy through,
yea, and Norway likewise, ere you would find a temper more bold and free.
Trust my word, Count Bernard, our young Duke will be famed as widely as
ever were his forefathers!"
"I believe it well!" said Bernard. "He hath the port of his grandfather,
Duke Rollo, and much, too, of his noble father! How say you, Lord
Richard, will you be a valiant leader of the Norman race against our
foes?"
"That I will!" said Richard, carried away by the applause excited by
those few words of his. "I will ride at your head this very night if you
will but go to chastise the false Flemings."
"You shall ride with us to-morrow, my Lord," answered Bernard, "but it
must be to Rouen, there to be invested with your ducal sword and mantle,
and to receive the homage of your vassals."
Richard drooped his head without replying, for this seemed to bring to
him the perception that his father was really gone, and that he should
never see him again. He thought of all his projects for the day of his
return, how he had almost counted the hours, and had looked forward to
telling him that Father Lucas was well pleased with him! And now he
should never nestle into his breast again, never hear his voice, never
see those kind eyes beam upon him. Large tears gathered in his eyes, and
ashamed that they should be seen, he sat down on a footstool at Fru
Astrida's feet, leant his forehead on his hands, and thought over all
that his father had done and said the last time they were together. He
fancied the return that had been promised, going over the meeting and the
greeting, till he had almost persuaded himself that this dreadful story
was but a dream. But when he looked up, there were the Barons, with
their grave mournful faces, speaking of the corpse, which Duke Alan of
Brittany was escorting to Rouen, there to be buried beside the old Duke
Rollo, and the Duchess Emma, Richard's mother. Then he lost himself in
wonder how that stiff bleeding body could be the same as the father whose
arm was so lately around him, and whether his father's spirit knew how he
was thinking of him; and in these dreamy thoughts, the young orphan Duke
of Normandy, forgotten by his vassals in their grave councils, fell
asleep, and scarce wakened enough to attend to his prayers, when Fru
Astrida at length remembered him, and led him away to bed.
When Richard awoke the next morning, he could hardly believe that all
that had passed in the evening was true, but soon he found that it was
but too real, and all was prepared for him to go to Rouen with the
vassals; indeed, it was for no other purpose than to fetch him that the
Count of Harcourt had come to Bayeux. Fru Astrida was quite unhappy that
"the child," as she called him, should go alone with the warriors; but
Sir Eric laughed at her, and said that it would never do for the Duke of
Normandy to bring his nurse with him in his first entry into Rouen, and
she must be content to follow at some space behind under the escort of
Walter the huntsman.
So she took leave of Richard, charging both Sir Eric and Osmond to have
the utmost care of him, and shedding tears as if the parting was to be
for a much longer space; then he bade farewell to the servants of the
castle, received the blessing of Father Lucas, and mounting his pony,
rode off between Sir Eric and Count Bernard. Richard was but a little
boy, and he did not think so much of his loss, as he rode along in the
free morning air, feeling himself a Prince at the head of his vassals,
his banner displayed before him, and the people coming out wherever he
passed to gaze on him, and call for blessings on his name. Rainulf de
Ferrieres carried a large heavy purse filled with silver and gold, and
whenever they came to these gazing crowds, Richard was well pleased to
thrust his hands deep into it, and scatter handfuls of coins among the
gazers, especially where he saw little children.
They stopped to dine and rest in the middle of the day, at the castle of
a Baron, who, as soon as the meal was over, mounted his horse, and joined
them in their ride to Rouen. So far it had not been very different from
Richard's last journey, when he went to keep Christmas there with his
father; but now they were beginning to come nearer the town, he knew the
broad river Seine again, and saw the square tower of the Cathedral, and
he remembered how at that very place his father had met him, and how he
had ridden by his side into the town, and had been led by his hand up to
the hall.
His heart was very heavy, as he recollected there was no one now to meet
and welcome him; scarcely any one to whom he could even tell his
thoughts, for those tall grave Barons had nothing to say to such a little
boy, and the very respect and formality with which they treated him, made
him shrink from them still more, especially from the grim-faced Bernard;
and Osmond, his own friend and playfellow, was obliged to ride far
behind, as inferior in rank.
They entered the town just as it was growing dark. Count Bernard looked
back and arrayed the procession; Eric de Centeville bade Richard sit
upright and not look weary, and then all the Knights held back while the
little Duke rode alone a little in advance of them through the gateway.
There was a loud shout of "Long live the little Duke!" and crowds of
people were standing round to gaze upon his entry, so many that the bag
of coins was soon emptied by his largesses. The whole city was like one
great castle, shut in by a wall and moat, and with Rollo's Tower rising
at one end like the keep of a castle, and it was thither that Richard was
turning his horse, when the Count of Harcourt said, "Nay, my Lord, to the
Church of our Lady." {7}
It was then considered a duty to be paid to the deceased, that their
relatives and friends should visit them as they lay in state, and
sprinkle them with drops of holy water, and Richard was now to pay this
token of respect. He trembled a little, and yet it did not seem quite so
dreary, since he should once more look on his father's face, and he
accordingly rode towards the Cathedral. It was then very unlike what it
is now; the walls were very thick, the windows small and almost buried in
heavy carved arches, the columns within were low, clumsy, and circular,
and it was usually so dark that the vaulting of the roof could scarcely
be seen.
Now, however, a whole flood of light poured forth from every window, and
when Richard came to the door, he saw not only the two tall thick candles
that always burnt on each side of the Altar, but in the Chancel stood a
double row ranged in a square, shedding a pure, quiet brilliancy
throughout the building, and chiefly on the silver and gold ornaments of
the Altar. Outside these lights knelt a row of priests in dark garments,
their heads bowed over their clasped hands, and their chanted psalms
sounding sweet, and full of soothing music. Within that guarded space
was a bier, and a form lay on it.
Richard trembled still more with awe, and would have paused, but he was
obliged to proceed. He dipped his hand in the water of the font, crossed
his brow, and came slowly on, sprinkled the remaining drops on the
lifeless figure, and then stood still. There was an oppression on his
breast as if he could neither breathe nor move.
There lay William of the Long Sword, like a good and true Christian
warrior, arrayed in his shining armour, his sword by his side, his shield
on his arm, and a cross between his hands, clasped upon his breast. His
ducal mantle of crimson velvet, lined with ermine, was round his
shoulders, and, instead of a helmet, his coronet was on his head; but, in
contrast with this rich array, over the collar of the hauberk, was folded
the edge of a rough hair shirt, which the Duke had worn beneath his
robes, unknown to all, until his corpse was disrobed of his blood-stained
garments. His face looked full of calm, solemn peace, as if he had
gently fallen asleep, and was only awaiting the great call to awaken.
There was not a single token of violence visible about him, save that one
side of his forehead bore a deep purple mark, where he had first been
struck by the blow of the oar which had deprived him of sense.
"See you that, my Lord?" said Count Bernard, first breaking the silence,
in a low, deep, stern voice.
Richard had heard little for many hours past save counsels against the
Flemings, and plans of bitter enmity against them; and the sight of his
murdered father, with that look and tone of the old Dane, fired his
spirit, and breaking from his trance of silent awe and grief, he
exclaimed, "I see it, and dearly shall the traitor Fleming abye it!"
Then, encouraged by the applauding looks of the nobles, he proceeded,
feeling like one of the young champions of Fru Astrida's songs. His
cheek was coloured, his eye lighted up, and he lifted his head, so that
the hair fell back from his forehead; he laid his hand on the hilt of his
father's sword, and spoke on in words, perhaps, suggested by some sage.
"Yes, Arnulf of Flanders, know that Duke William of Normandy shall not
rest unavenged! On this good sword I vow, that, as soon as my arm shall
have strength--"
The rest was left unspoken, for a hand was laid on his arm. A priest,
who had hitherto been kneeling near the head of the corpse, had risen,
and stood tall and dark over him, and, looking up, he recognized the
pale, grave countenance of Martin, Abbot of Jumieges, his father's chief
friend and councillor.
"Richard of Normandy, what sayest thou?" said he, sternly. "Yes, hang
thy head, and reply not, rather than repeat those words. Dost thou come
here to disturb the peace of the dead with clamours for vengeance? Dost
thou vow strife and anger on that sword which was never drawn, save in
the cause of the poor and distressed? Wouldst thou rob Him, to whose
service thy life has been pledged, and devote thyself to that of His foe?
Is this what thou hast learnt from thy blessed father?"
Richard made no answer, but he covered his face with his hands, to hide
the tears which were fast streaming.
"Lord Abbot, Lord Abbot, this passes!" exclaimed Bernard the Dane. "Our
young Lord is no monk, and we will not see each spark of noble and
knightly spirit quenched as soon as it shows itself."
"Count of Harcourt," said Abbot Martin, "are these the words of a savage
Pagan, or of one who has been washed in yonder blessed font? Never,
while I have power, shalt thou darken the child's soul with thy foul
thirst of revenge, insult the presence of thy master with the crime he so
abhorred, nor the temple of Him who came to pardon, with thy hatred.
Well do I know, ye Barons of Normandy, that each drop of your blood would
willingly be given, could it bring back our departed Duke, or guard his
orphan child; but, if ye have loved the father, do his bidding--lay aside
that accursed spirit of hatred and vengeance; if ye love the child, seek
not to injure his soul more deeply than even his bitterest foe, were it
Arnulf himself, hath power to hurt him."
The Barons were silenced, whatever their thoughts might be, and Abbot
Martin turned to Richard, whose tears were still dropping fast through
his fingers, as the thought of those last words of his father returned
more clearly upon him. The Abbot laid his hand on his head, and spoke
gently to him. "These are tears of a softened heart, I trust," said he.
"I well believe that thou didst scarce know what thou wert saying."
"Forgive me!" said Richard, as well as he could speak.
"See there," said the priest, pointing to the large Cross over the Altar,
"thou knowest the meaning of that sacred sign?"
Richard bowed his head in assent and reverence.
"It speaks of forgiveness," continued the Abbot. "And knowest thou who
gave that pardon? The Son forgave His murderers; the Father them who
slew His Son. And shalt thou call for vengeance?"
"But oh!" said Richard, looking up, "must that cruel, murderous traitor
glory unpunished in his crime, while there lies--" and again his voice
was cut off by tears.
"Vengeance shall surely overtake the sinner," said Martin, "the vengeance
of the Lord, and in His own good time, but it must not be of thy seeking.
Nay, Richard, thou art of all men the most bound to show love and mercy
to Arnulf of Flanders. Yes, when the hand of the Lord hath touched him,
and bowed him down in punishment for his crime, it is then, that thou,
whom he hath most deeply injured, shouldst stretch out thine hand to aid
him, and receive him with pardon and peace. If thou dost vow aught on
the sword of thy blessed father, in the sanctuary of thy Redeemer, let it
be a Christian vow."
Richard wept too bitterly to speak, and Bernard de Harcourt, taking his
hand, led him away from the Church.