|The Little Duke|
|by Charlotte M. Yonge|
|An inspiring story of Richard the Fearless (943-996) who became Duke of Normandy at the age of 8. Relates the perils of his childhood, both at home in Normandy and during his captivity at the court of France, and how at long last he came to embrace the values his father espoused. Ages 9-12 |
AN UNTIMELY DEATH
 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.
THE OATH OF THE VASSALS.
"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?"
"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
 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
"The Duke dead!" repeated Sir Eric de Centeville, like one stunned
"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
"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
"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
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
 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
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
 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
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
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.
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