The Little Duke

A Visit from Duke William

On a bright autumn day in the year 943, there was great bustle in the Castle of Bayeux in Normandy.

The hall was large and low, with an arched roof supported by thick, short columns, almost like the crypt of a cathedral. Its walls were thick. The small windows had no glass and were set so deep in the walls that they formed wide window seats. Rain could beat upon these seats without reaching the room itself. Even if rain had come inside, there was nothing for it to damage, for the walls were rough stone and the floor was tiled. A fire burned at each end of the great, dark room, but there were no chimneys above the broad hearths. Smoke curled in thick white folds beneath the vaulted roof, adding to the wreaths of soot and making the hall look darker still.

The fire at the lower end was by far the larger and hotter. Great black cauldrons hung over it. Servants, both men and women, worked around it with red faces and bare, grimy arms, carrying long iron hooks, pots, and pans. Other servants were busy at the opposite end of the hall, which stood about three steps above the main floor. Two young maidens scattered fresh rushes over the floor. Some men set up a long table of rough boards supported on trestles, then arranged silver cups, drinking horns, and wooden trenchers upon it.

Benches were placed for most of the guests, but in the center, at the place of honor, stood a high chair with very thick crossed legs. Its arms were curiously carved with lions’ faces and claws. A clumsy wooden footstool stood before it, and the silver drinking cup upon the table was much more beautifully made than the others. It was richly engraved with vine leaves, grapes, and figures of little boys with goats’ legs. If that cup could have told its story, it would have been a strange one. It had been made long before, in Roman times, and carried away from Italy by some Northman pirate.

A stately old lady moved from one scene of activity to the other. Her long, thick, fair hair, scarcely touched with gray, was bound around her head beneath a tall white cap with a band passing under her chin. She wore a long, sweeping dark robe with wide hanging sleeves, as well as thick gold earrings and a necklace that might have come from the same place as the cup. She directed the servants, inspected both the cooking and the arrangements at the table, and consulted with an old steward. Now and then she looked anxiously from the window, as if expecting someone, and began to say she feared that the loitering young men would not bring home the venison in time for Duke William’s supper.

Presently she looked up with delight, for a few notes sounded from a bugle horn. Feet clattered outside, and within moments a boy of about eight bounded into the hall. His cheeks and large blue eyes were bright from the fresh air and exercise, and his long, light-brown hair streamed behind him as he ran forward, flourishing a bow in his hand.

“I hit him! I hit him! Dame Astrida, do you hear? It is a stag with ten branches on its antlers, and I hit him in the neck.”

“You, my Lord Richard? You killed him?”

“Oh no, I only struck him. It was Osmond’s arrow that took him in the eye. Look, Fru Astrida, he came through the wood like this, and I stood here, perhaps beneath the great elm, with my bow like this.”

Richard was beginning to act out the whole deer hunt, but Fru, which meant Lady, Astrida was too busy to listen. She interrupted him. “Have they brought home the haunch?”

“Yes, Walter is bringing it. I had a long arrow...”

At that moment a stout forester appeared, carrying in the venison. Dame Astrida hurried to meet him and give directions. Little Richard followed her all the way and talked as eagerly as if she were attending to every word. He showed her how he had shot, how Osmond had shot, how the deer had bounded, and how it had fallen. Then he counted the branches of its antlers, always ending with, “This is something to tell my father. Do you think he will come soon?”

Meanwhile, two men entered the hall. One was about fifty and the other twenty-one or twenty-two. Both wore plain leather hunting clothes crossed by broad embroidered belts, from which hung a knife and bugle horn. The elder man was broad-shouldered, sunburned, ruddy, and rather stern-looking. The younger, who was also taller, was lightly built and very active, with keen gray eyes and a merry smile. They were Dame Astrida’s son, Sir Eric de Centeville, and her grandson, Osmond. Duke William of Normandy had entrusted his only child, Richard, to their care to be fostered and brought up.

Among the Northmen, young princes were customarily placed in the care of a trustworthy vassal instead of being brought up at home. One reason Duke William had chosen the Centevilles was that Sir Eric and his mother spoke only the old Norwegian language, which he wanted young Richard to understand well. In other parts of the duchy, the Normans had forgotten their former language and adopted what was then called the Langue d’oui, a language between German and Latin from which French was beginning to develop.

Richard’s place of education was Bayeux. In the rhymed Chronicle of Normandy, Duke William explains why:

> If I have him kept at Rouen > And brought up there, before long > He will not know how to speak any > Danish, for no one speaks it there. > So I wish him to be at such a school > Where they know how to instruct him, > That he may know how to speak to the Danes. > Here they know nothing but Romance, > But at Bayeux there are many > Who know nothing except Danish.

Duke William himself was expected at Bayeux that day. He was coming to visit his son before setting out to settle the disputes between the Counts of Flanders and Montreuil, and this was the reason for Fru Astrida’s great preparations. As soon as she had seen the haunch placed on a spit, which a little boy was to turn before the fire, she went to dress something else: young Prince Richard himself.

She led him to one of the upper rooms, where he had plenty of time to talk while she, great lady though she was, personally combed his long, flowing curls smooth and fastened his short scarlet-cloth tunic. It reached only to his knees and left his neck, arms, and legs bare. He begged to be allowed to wear a short, beautifully decorated dagger at his belt, but Fru Astrida would not permit it.

“You will have enough to do with steel and daggers before your life is over,” she said, “without being so eager to begin.”

“Of course I shall,” Richard answered. “I shall be called Richard of the Sharp Axe, or the Bold Spirit, I promise you, Fru Astrida. We are as brave today as the Sigurds and Ragnars you sing about! I only wish there were serpents and dragons to kill here in Normandy.”

“Never fear. You will find more than enough of them,” said Dame Astrida. “There are dragons of wrongdoing here and everywhere, every bit as poisonous as those in my sagas.”

“I do not fear them,” said Richard, only half understanding her. “If you would just let me have the dagger! But listen! Listen!”

He darted to the window. “They are coming! They are coming! There is the banner of Normandy.”

Away ran the happy child, and he did not stop until he reached the foot of the long, steep stone stairway leading to the battlemented porch. The Baron de Centeville and his son came there to receive their prince.

“Let me hold his stirrup,” Richard said to Osmond.

Then he sprang up and shouted with joy as a tall black horse passed beneath the arched gateway, bearing the stately Duke of Normandy. The Duke’s purple robe was fastened around him by a rich belt that supported the mighty weapon from which he was called William Longsword. His legs and feet were protected by linked steel chain mail. Gilded spurs were fixed to his heels, and his short brown hair was covered by a purple ducal cap, trimmed with fur and adorned with a feather held by a jeweled clasp.

His brow was grave and thoughtful. At first sight, there was both dignity and sorrow in his face, recalling that he had lost his young wife, Duchess Emma, early in life and was surrounded by many cares and struggles. Yet a second glance generally brought encouragement, for his eyes were full of gentleness and his lips had a kindly expression.

How brightly he smiled upon little Richard, who for the first time performed a pupil’s duty in chivalry by holding the stirrup while his father sprang from his horse. Richard next knelt to receive his blessing, as children always did when meeting their parents. The Duke laid his hand upon Richard’s head and said, “May God in His mercy bless you, my son.” Then he lifted the boy into his arms, held him against his chest, and allowed him to cling to his neck and kiss him again and again before setting him down.

Sir Eric stepped forward, bent his knee, kissed his prince’s hand, and welcomed him to the castle.

It would take too long to tell all the friendly and courteous words that followed: the Duke’s greeting to noble old Lady Astrida and the reception of the barons who had come in their lord’s company. Richard was told to greet them. Though he held out his hand as instructed, he shrank a little toward his father’s side and stared at the men with fear and shyness.

There was Count Bernard of Harcourt, called “the Dane.” His shaggy red hair and beard were touched with gray, giving them a strange, unnatural shade. His eyes looked fierce and wild beneath his thick eyebrows, one of them misshapen by a sword cut. The cut had left a broad red and purple scar across his cheek and forehead. There, too, stood the tall Baron Rainulf of Ferrières, enclosed in a linked steel hauberk that rang as he walked. Behind them were men-at-arms with helmets and shields, looking as though Sir Eric’s armor, which hung in the hall, had come to life and begun walking about.

Bernard was the founder of the Harcourt family of Nuneham, while Ferrières was the ancestor of the Ferrars family.

They sat down to Fru Astrida’s banquet. The old lady sat at the Duke’s right hand, with the Count of Harcourt on his left. Osmond carved for the Duke, and Richard handed him his cup and trencher.

Throughout the meal, the Duke and his lords spoke earnestly about their expedition. They were to meet Count Arnulf of Flanders on a small island in the River Somme and reach an agreement by which Arnulf would make amends to Count Herluin of Montreuil for certain wrongs he had done him.

Some said this would be the best time to require Arnulf to surrender several border towns that Normandy had long claimed. The Duke shook his head, saying that he must seek no selfish advantage when he had been called to judge between others.

Richard grew rather tired of their serious conversation and thought supper lasted a very long time. At last it ended, grace was said, and the boards that had served as tables were removed. Since it was still light, some guests went to see how their horses had been cared for, others inspected Sir Eric’s horses and hounds, and still others gathered in groups.

The Duke now had time for his little boy. Richard sat on his knee and told him about all his pleasures: how his arrow had struck the deer that day, how Sir Eric allowed him to ride to the hunt on his little pony, how Osmond took him to bathe in the cool, bright river, and how he had watched the raven’s nest at the top of the old tower.

Duke William listened and smiled, seeming as pleased to hear as the boy was to tell.

“And Richard,” he said at last, “have you nothing to tell me about Father Lucas and his great book? Not a word? Look up, Richard, and tell me how your learning is going.”

“Oh, Father!” Richard said quietly, playing with the clasp of his father’s belt and looking down. “I do not like those crooked letters on the old yellow parchment.”

“But you try to learn them, I hope?” asked the Duke.

“Yes, Father, I do, but they are very hard, and the words are so long. Father Lucas always comes when the sun is so bright and the woods are so green that I cannot bear being kept inside, staring at those black hooks and strokes.”

“Poor little fellow,” said Duke William with a smile.

Encouraged by this, Richard continued more boldly. “You do not know how to read, noble Father?”

“To my sorrow, no,” said the Duke.

“And Sir Eric cannot read, nor Osmond, nor anyone else. Why must I read and cramp my fingers with writing, just as if I were a clerk instead of a young duke?”

Richard looked up into his father’s face, then hung his head, half ashamed that he had questioned his will. The Duke answered without displeasure.

“It is hard for you now, no doubt, my boy, but it will be better for you in the end. I would give much to be able to read for myself those holy books that I can now hear only when a clerk reads them aloud. By the time I wished to learn, I no longer had the leisure that you have now.”

“But knights and nobles never learn,” said Richard.

“And do you think that is a reason why they never should? You are wrong, my boy. The Kings of France and England, the Counts of Anjou, Provence, and Paris, and even King Hako of Norway can all read.”

“I tell you, Richard, when the treaty was drawn up to restore this King Louis to his throne, I was ashamed to find myself one of the few vassals of the Crown who could not sign his name to it.”

“But no one is as wise or good as you, Father,” Richard said proudly. “Sir Eric often says so.”

“Sir Eric loves his Duke too well to see his faults,” said Duke William. “But I might have been far better and wiser if I had been taught by masters such as you may have. And listen, Richard. All the princes here can read. In England, King Ethelstane wants every nobleman to be educated. They study in his own palace with his brothers and read the good words that King Alfred the truth-teller put into their own language for them.”

“I hate the English,” Richard said, raising his head and looking very fierce.

“Hate them? Why?”

“Because they treacherously killed the brave sea king Ragnar! Fru Astrida sings his death song, which he chanted while the vipers were gnawing him to death. He rejoiced to think that his sons would bring the ravens to feast upon the Saxons. Oh, if I had been his son, how I would have carried on the feud! How I would have laughed as I cut down the false traitors and burned their palaces!”

Richard’s eyes kindled. As he spoke in the old Norse language, his words flowed into the kind of wild verse in which the sagas, or legendary songs, were composed. Perhaps he was repeating such a song without realizing it.

Duke William looked grave.

“Fru Astrida must sing you no more of those sagas if they fill your mind with such revengeful thoughts, which are fit only for worshipers of Odin and Thor. Neither Ragnar nor his sons knew better than to rejoice in deadly vengeance, but we, who are Christians, know that we must forgive.”

“The English had killed their father!” Richard said, looking up with puzzled and dissatisfied eyes.

“Yes, Richard, and I do not speak against Ragnar’s sons. They were just what we might have been if King Harald the Fair-haired had not driven your grandfather from Denmark. They had not been taught the truth, but we have been told, ‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ Listen to me, my son. Although this nation of ours is Christian, the duty of forgiveness is too often neglected. Do not let it be so with you. Whenever you see the cross marked upon our banner or carved in stone upon the churches, remember that it speaks to us of forgiveness. We shall never taste that pardon ourselves if we do not forgive our enemies. Do you understand me, boy?”

Richard hesitated, then said, “Yes, Father, but I could never have forgiven them if I had been one of Ragnar’s sons.”

“It may be that you will find yourself in their position, Richard,” said the Duke. “If I should fall, as I very well may, in one of the struggles that are tearing this unhappy kingdom of France to pieces, remember what I tell you now. By your duty to God and to your father, I command you to continue no feud and bear no hatred. Instead, consider me best avenged when you have given your enemy the fullest proof of forgiveness, with both your heart and your actions. Give me your word that you will.”

“Yes, Father,” Richard said in a subdued voice, resting his head on his father’s shoulder.

There was silence for a little while. Richard gradually recovered his playfulness, stroked the Duke’s short, curling beard, and played with his embroidered collar. As he did so, his fingers caught a silver chain. He pulled it out with a jerk and saw a silver key attached to it.

“Oh, what is that?” he asked eagerly. “What does that key unlock?”

“My greatest treasure,” Duke William replied, replacing the chain and key inside his robe.

“Your greatest treasure, Father! Is it your coronet?”

“You will know one day,” said his father, putting down the little hand that was investigating too busily.

At that moment some of the barons returned to the hall, and the Duke had no more time to give his little son.

William Longsword’s instruction about his son’s education also appears in the same Chronicle of Normandy:

> Let him be taught enough to read a document, > For that will not be too difficult for him.

Hako of Norway had been educated by Ethelstane of England. Foulques the Good, the Count of Anjou at that time, was once mocked by Louis IV for serving in the choir at Tours. He replied, “The Count of Anjou to the King of France: Learn, my lord, that a king without learning is a crowned ass.”

The banner of Normandy bore a cross until William the Conqueror adopted the lion.

The next day, after morning service in the chapel and breakfast in the hall, the Duke continued his journey. He gave Richard hope that he might return in two weeks and received the boy’s promise that he would pay close attention to Father Lucas and be very obedient to Sir Eric de Centeville.

The Sword and the Vow

One evening Fru Astrida sat in her tall chair beside the hearth, holding a distaff loaded with flax. She twisted and drew out the thread while her spindle danced upon the floor. Opposite her, Sir Eric de Centeville slept in his chair. Osmond sat on a low bench within the chimney corner, using his knife to trim and shape some wild-goose feathers. They were to fly in a very different fashion than before, serving not to carry a harmless goose through the air but to guide a sharp arrow.

The men of the household sat in rows upon benches on one side of the hall, and the women sat on the other. A great red fire and an enormous, flickering lamp hanging from the ceiling supplied the light. The windows were closed with wooden shutters, and the whole room had a cheerful appearance.

Two or three large hounds rested before the hearth. Little Richard of Normandy sat among them, now smoothing their broad, silky ears, now tickling the large pads of their feet with the end of one of Osmond’s feathers, and now pulling open the eyes of one of the good-natured, sleepy creatures. The hound merely stretched its legs and objected with a low groan rather than a growl.

All the while, the boy’s eyes were fixed intently upon Dame Astrida, as though he would not miss one word of her story. She told him how Earl Rollo, his grandfather, had sailed into the mouth of the Seine; 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 been harmed by the brave Northmen. Then she told him about his grandfather’s baptism and how, during the seven days when he wore his white baptismal robes, he had given splendid gifts to all the chief churches in his duchy of Normandy.

“Oh, but tell me about the homage!” Richard said. “Tell me how Sigurd Bloodaxe threw simple King Charles to the ground! Ah, how I would have laughed to see it!”

“No, no, Lord Richard,” said the old lady. “I do not love that tale. It happened before the Normans had learned courtesy, and rudeness should be forgotten rather than remembered, except when remembering helps us correct it. No, I would rather tell you about our coming to Centeville and how dreary I thought these smooth meadows and broad, softly flowing streams compared with my own father’s fjord in Norway. It was enclosed by tall black rocks, with dark pines above them and snowy mountains rising far away into the sky. Ah, how blue the water was during the long summer days, when I sat in my father’s boat on the little fjord, and...”

Dame Astrida was interrupted. A bugle note rang out at the castle gate. The dogs sprang to their feet and broke into a sudden, deafening chorus of barks.

“Listen!” Osmond exclaimed, jumping up and trying to quiet the hounds.

Richard ran to Sir Eric. “Wake up! Wake up, Sir Eric! My father has come. Oh, hurry to open the gates and let him in.”

“Quiet, dogs!” said Sir Eric, slowly rising as the horn sounded again. “Go with the porter, Osmond, and see whether the person who comes at such an hour is a friend or an enemy. You stay here, my lord,” he added as Richard started to run after Osmond.

The little boy obeyed and stood still, though his whole body quivered with impatience.

“I would guess that it is news from the Duke,” said Fru Astrida. “It can hardly be the Duke himself at such an hour.”

“Oh, it must be, dear Fru Astrida!” said Richard. “He said he would come again. Listen, there are horses’ feet in the courtyard! I am sure that is the step of his black charger! And I shall not be there to hold his stirrup! Oh, Sir Eric, let me go.”

Sir Eric, always a man of few words, merely shook his head. At that moment, footsteps sounded on the stone stairs.

Again Richard was about to spring forward, but Osmond returned. One glance at his face showed that something was wrong. All he said was, “Count Bernard of Harcourt and Sir Rainulf de Ferrières.” Then he stepped aside to let them enter.

Richard stood disappointed in the middle of the hall. Without greeting Sir Eric or anyone else there, the Count of Harcourt came directly to Richard, bent his knee before him, and took his hand.

“Richard, Duke of Normandy, I am your liegeman and true vassal,” he said with a broken voice and heaving chest.

He rose from his knees while Rainulf de Ferrières performed the same ceremony. Then the old count covered his face with his hands and wept aloud.

“Is it truly so?” asked the Baron de Centeville.

Ferrières answered with a mournful look and gesture. Sir Eric also knelt before the boy and repeated, “I am your liegeman and true vassal, and I swear loyalty to you for my castle and barony of Centeville.”

“Oh no, no!” Richard cried, drawing back his hand in agony and feeling as if he were trapped in a terrible dream from which he could not awaken. “What does this mean? Oh, Fru Astrida, tell me what it means! Where is my father?”

“Alas, my child!” said the old lady.

She put her arm around him and drew him close while her tears flowed quickly. Reassured by her embrace, Richard stood listening, his eyes opened wide and his breathing heavy and strained, while the four nobles spoke earnestly among themselves with little thought of him.

“The Duke dead!” Sir Eric de Centeville repeated, as though stunned.

“It is so,” Rainulf said slowly and sadly.

The silence was broken only by old Count Bernard’s long, drawn-out sobs.

“But how? When? Where?” Sir Eric burst out at last. “There was no expectation of battle when you left. Oh, why was I not at his side?”

“He did not fall in battle,” Sir Rainulf replied gloomily.

“What! Could sickness have struck him down so quickly?”

“It was not sickness,” answered Ferrières. “It was treachery. He fell on the island of Pecquigny, by the hand of the false Fleming!”

“Does the traitor still live?” cried the Baron de Centeville, grasping his good sword.

“He lives and rejoices in his crime,” said Ferrières, “safe within his own merchant towns.”

“I can scarcely believe you, my lords!” said Sir Eric. “Our Duke slain, his enemy safe, and you here to tell the story!”

“I wish I were lying cold and stiff beside my lord,” said Count Bernard, “except that Normandy and this poor child will need everyone who has ever been a friend to his house. I wish my eyes had been blinded forever before they saw that sight! And not a sword was lifted in his defense! Tell them how it happened, Rainulf. My tongue cannot speak it.”

He threw himself upon a bench and covered his face with his mantle while Rainulf de Ferrières began.

“You know how, in an evil hour, our good Duke arranged to meet that villainous Count of Flanders on the island of Pecquigny. The Duke and the Count were each to bring twelve men, all unarmed. Duke Alan of Brittany was one of our party, Count Bernard here another, with old Count Bothon and me. We carried no weapons. How I wish we had! But the false Flemings were not truly unarmed. Ah, I shall never forget Duke William’s lordly presence when he stepped ashore and removed his cap before the scoundrel Arnulf.”

“Yes,” Bernard interrupted. “And did you notice the traitor’s words when they met? ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you are my shield and defense.’ I wish I could split his treacherous skull with my battle-ax.”

“So,” Rainulf continued, “they met and spoke together. Since words cost Arnulf nothing, he not only promised to make full amends to the insignificant Montreuil, but even offered to pay homage to our Duke for Flanders itself. Our William refused. He said it would be a grave wrong to both King Louis of France and Emperor Otho of Germany to take their vassal from them.

“They parted from one another with every appearance of courtesy, and we embarked again. Duke William chose to travel alone in a small boat, while the twelve of us were together in another. Just as we had almost reached our bank, the Flemings shouted that their Count had something further to say to the Duke. Forbidding us to follow, the Duke turned his boat and went back.

“No sooner had he stepped onto the island,” the Norman continued, 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 they held up their bloody daggers to mock us! You can imagine how we shouted and yelled at them and pulled at our oars like men driven mad, but it was all useless. They were already in their boats. Before we could even reach the island, they had crossed to the other side of the river, mounted their horses, and fled with cowardly speed beyond the reach of Norman vengeance.”

“But they shall not remain beyond it for long!” cried Richard, springing forward.

To his childish imagination, the dreadful story seemed more like one of Dame Astrida’s legends than reality. At that moment he thought only of the wickedness of the treachery.

“Oh, if only I were a man so I could punish them! One day they shall feel...”

He stopped suddenly, remembering that his father had forbidden such threats of revenge. But the barons eagerly seized upon his words. As Duke William had said, they were far from possessing a forgiving spirit. They considered revenge a duty and were delighted to see what they thought was a warlike spirit in their new prince.

“Ah, do you say so, my young lord?” exclaimed old Count Bernard, rising. “Yes, and I see a spark in your eye that tells me you will avenge him nobly one day!”

Richard raised his head, and his heart beat proudly as Sir Eric answered, “Indeed he will! You might search through all Normandy, and through Norway as well, before finding a bolder or freer spirit. Take my word for it, Count Bernard, our young Duke will become as famous as any of his forefathers!”

“I believe it!” said Bernard. “He has the bearing of his grandfather, Duke Rollo, and much of his noble father as well! What do you say, Lord Richard? Will you be a valiant leader of the Norman people against our enemies?”

“That I will!” said Richard, carried away by the praise his few words had drawn. “I will ride at your head this very night if you will only go and punish the false Flemings.”

“You shall ride with us tomorrow, my lord,” answered Bernard. “But it must be to Rouen, where you will be invested with your ducal sword and mantle and receive the homage of your vassals.”

Richard lowered his head and did not reply. These words made him realize that his father was truly gone and that he would never see him again. He thought of all his plans for the day of his father’s return, how he had almost counted the hours and looked forward to saying that Father Lucas was pleased with him. Now he would never again nestle against his father’s chest, hear his voice, or see those kind eyes shining upon him.

Large tears gathered in Richard’s eyes. Ashamed that anyone should see them, he sat on a footstool at Fru Astrida’s feet, leaned his forehead upon his hands, and thought over everything his father had done and said when they were last together. He imagined the promised return and pictured the meeting and greeting again and again, until he had almost persuaded himself that this dreadful story was only a dream.

But when he looked up, the barons were still there with their grave, sorrowful faces, speaking about the body that Duke Alan of Brittany was escorting to Rouen. Duke William was to be buried beside old Duke Rollo and Duchess Emma, Richard’s mother.

Then Richard became lost in wonder. How could that stiff and bleeding body be the same father whose arm had so lately been around him? Did his father’s spirit know that Richard was thinking about him? While the vassals forgot him amid their grave discussions, the young orphan Duke of Normandy fell asleep in these dreamlike thoughts. He scarcely awoke enough to say his prayers when Fru Astrida at last remembered him and led him away to bed.

Michel records Arnulf’s plea to Duke William as, “Lord, be my shield; be my defense.”

The Largesse

When Richard awoke the next morning, he could hardly believe that everything from the previous evening was true. He soon discovered that it was all too real. Preparations had been made for him to go to Rouen with the vassals, for Count Bernard had come to Bayeux for no other purpose than to fetch him.

Fru Astrida was deeply distressed that “the child,” as she called him, must go alone with the warriors. Sir Eric laughed at her and said it would never do for the Duke of Normandy to bring his nurse with him on his first entry into Rouen. She would have to follow some distance behind under the protection of Walter the huntsman.

She took leave of Richard, commanding both Sir Eric and Osmond to take the greatest care of him and shedding tears as if they were to be separated for a much longer time. Richard then said farewell to the castle servants, received Father Lucas’s blessing, mounted his pony, and rode away between Sir Eric and Count Bernard.

Richard was only a little boy. As he rode through the fresh morning air, he did not think as much about his loss. He felt himself to be a prince at the head of his vassals, with his banner displayed before him and people coming out everywhere he passed to gaze at him and call for blessings upon his name.

Rainulf de Ferrières carried a large, heavy purse filled with silver and gold. Whenever they came upon one of these admiring crowds, Richard happily plunged his hand into the purse and scattered handfuls of coins among the people, especially when he saw little children.

They stopped at midday to eat and rest in a baron’s castle. As soon as the meal ended, the baron mounted his horse and joined them on their ride to Rouen.

Until then, the journey had not seemed very different from Richard’s last one, when he had gone to spend Christmas with his father. Now, however, they began to draw nearer to the town. He recognized the broad River Seine and saw the cathedral’s square tower. He remembered that his father had met him at that very place, ridden beside him into the town, and led him by the hand into the hall.

His heart grew very heavy as he remembered that no one would meet and welcome him now. There was scarcely anyone to whom he could even tell his thoughts. The tall, grave barons had nothing to say to such a little boy, and the respect and formality with which they treated him made him shrink from them still more, especially from grim-faced Bernard. Even Osmond, his own friend and playmate, was obliged to ride far behind because he was lower in rank.

They entered the town just as darkness was falling. Count Bernard looked back and arranged the procession. Eric de Centeville told Richard to sit upright and not appear weary. Then all the knights held back while the little Duke rode alone, slightly ahead of them, through the gateway.

A loud shout rose: “Long live the little Duke!”

Crowds stood around to watch him enter, so many that the purse of coins was soon emptied by his gifts. The whole city resembled one enormous castle, enclosed by a wall and moat, with Rollo’s Tower rising at one end like the keep of a fortress. Richard was turning his horse toward it when the Count of Harcourt said, “No, my lord. To the Church of Our Lady.”

In those days, relatives and friends were expected to visit the dead as they lay in state and sprinkle them with drops of holy water. Richard was now to pay this sign of respect. He trembled a little, yet it did not seem entirely dreadful, since he would look once more upon his father’s face. He therefore rode toward the cathedral.

The cathedral was very different then from what it later became. Its walls were extremely thick, and its small windows were almost buried beneath heavy carved arches. Inside, the columns were low, clumsy, and round. It was usually so dark that the vaulting of the roof could scarcely be seen. Richard himself afterward built the cathedral that succeeded it.

Now, however, a flood of light poured from every window. When Richard reached the door, he saw not only the two tall, thick candles that always burned on each side of the altar, but also a double row of candles arranged in a square within the chancel. They cast a pure, quiet brilliance throughout the church, shining most brightly upon the altar’s ornaments of silver and gold.

Outside those lights knelt a row of priests in dark garments, their heads bowed above their clasped hands. Their chanted psalms sounded sweet and full of soothing music. Within the guarded space stood a bier, and upon it lay a human form.

Richard trembled still more with awe and would have stopped, but he was required to go forward. He dipped his hand into the water of the font, crossed his forehead, and walked slowly on. He sprinkled the remaining drops upon the lifeless figure, then stood still. Such a weight pressed upon his chest that he felt unable either to breathe or move.

There lay William Longsword, dressed like a good and faithful Christian warrior. He wore his shining armor, with his sword at his side, his shield upon his arm, and a cross held between his hands, which were clasped upon his breast. His ducal mantle of crimson velvet lined with ermine lay around his shoulders, and his coronet rested upon his head instead of a helmet.