Part 14 (1/2)
”But my mother said the Northmen would kill us for keeping you captive.
She wept and raved, and the cruel men dragged us away by force. Oh, let us go back!”
”I cannot do that,” said Richard; ”for you are the King of Denmark's captives, not mine; but I will love you, and you shall have all that is mine, if you will only not cry, dear Carloman. Oh, Fru Astrida, what shall I do? You comfort him--” as the poor boy clung sobbing to him.
Fru Astrida advanced to take his hand, speaking in a soothing voice, but he shrank and started with a fresh cry of terror--her tall figure, high cap, and wrinkled face, were to him witch-like, and as she knew no French, he understood not her kind words. However, he let Richard lead him into the hall, where Lothaire sat moodily in the chair, with one leg tucked under him, and his finger in his mouth.
”I say, Sir Duke,” said he, ”is there nothing to be had in this old den of yours? Not a drop of Bordeaux?”
Richard tried to repress his anger at this very uncivil way of speaking, and answered, that he thought there was none, but there was plenty of Norman cider.
”As if I would taste your mean peasant drinks! I bade them bring my supper--why does it not come?”
”Because you are not master here,” trembled on Richard's lips, but he forced it back, and answered that it would soon be ready, and Carloman looked imploringly at his brother, and said, ”Do not make them angry, Lothaire.”
”What, crying still, foolish child?” said Lothaire. ”Do you not know that if they dare to cross us, my father will treat them as they deserve?
Bring supper, I say, and let me have a pasty of ortolans.”
”There are none--they are not in season,” said Richard.
”Do you mean to give me nothing I like? I tell you it shall be the worse for you.”
”There is a pullet roasting,” began Richard.
”I tell you, I do not care for pullets--I will have ortolans.”
”If I do not take order with that boy, my name is not Eric,” muttered the Baron.
”What must he not have made our poor child suffer!” returned Fru Astrida, ”but the little one moves my heart. How small and weakly he is, but it is worth anything to see our little Duke so tender to him.”
”He is too brave not to be gentle,” said Osmond; and, indeed, the high-spirited, impetuous boy was as soft and kind as a maiden, with that feeble, timid child. He coaxed him to eat, consoled him, and, instead of laughing at his fears, kept between him and the great bloodhound Hardigras, and drove it off when it came too near.
”Take that dog away,” said Lothaire, imperiously. No one moved to obey him, and the dog, in seeking for sc.r.a.ps, again came towards him.
”Take it away,” he repeated, and struck it with his foot. The dog growled, and Richard started up in indignation.
”Prince Lothaire,” he said, ”I care not what else you do, but my dogs and my people you shall not maltreat.”
”I tell you I am Prince! I do what I will! Ha! who laughs there?” cried the pa.s.sionate boy, stamping on the floor.
”It is not so easy for French Princes to scourge free-born Normans here,”
said the rough voice of Walter the huntsman: ”there is a reckoning for the stripe my Lord Duke bore for me.”
”Hush, hush, Walter,” began Richard; but Lothaire had caught up a footstool, and was aiming it at the huntsman, when his arm was caught.
Osmond, who knew him well enough to be prepared for such outbreaks, held him fast by both hands, in spite of his pa.s.sionate screams and struggles, which were like those of one frantic.
Sir Eric, meanwhile, thundered forth in his Norman patois, ”I would have you to know, young Sir, Prince though you be, you are our prisoner, and shall taste of a dungeon, and bread and water, unless you behave yourself.”
Either Lothaire did not hear, or did not believe, and fought more furiously in Osmond's arms, but he had little chance with the stalwart young warrior, and, in spite of Richard's remonstrances, he was carried from the hall, roaring and kicking, and locked up alone in an empty room.