“He is sorely weary,” said Osmond, looking anxiously at Richard, who, even at the welcome cries that showed so plainly that he was in his own Normandy, scarcely raised himself or spoke. “He had been very sick ere I brought him away. I doubt me they sought to poison him, and I vowed not to tarry at Laon another hour after he was fit to move. But cheer up, my Lord; you are safe and free now, and here is the good Dame de Montémar to tend you, far better than a rude Squire like me.”
“Alas, no!” said the Seneschal; “our Dame is gone with young Alberic on a pilgrimage to Jumièges to pray for the Duke’s safety. What joy for them to know that their prayers have been granted!”
Osmond, however, could scarcely rejoice, so alarmed was he at the extreme weariness and exhaustion of his charge, who, when they brought him into the Castle hall, hardly spoke or looked, and could not eat. They carried him up to Alberic’s bed, where he tossed about restlessly, too tired to sleep.
“Alas! alas!” said Osmond, “I have been too hasty. I have but saved him from the Franks to be his death by my own imprudence.”
“Hush! Sieur de Centeville,” said the Seneschal’s wife, coming into the room. “To talk in that manner is the way to be his death, indeed. Leave the child to me—he is only over-weary.”
Osmond was sure his Duke was among friends, and would have been glad to trust him to a woman; but Richard had but one instinct left in all his weakness and exhaustion—to cling close to Osmond, as if he felt him his only friend and protector; for he was, as yet, too much worn out to understand that he was in Normandy and safe. For two or three hours, therefore, Osmond and the Seneschal’s wife watched on each side of his bed, soothing his restlessness, until at length he became quiet, and at last dropped sound asleep.
The sun was high in the heavens when Richard awoke. He turned on his straw-filled crib, and looked up. It was not the tapestried walls of his chamber at Laon that met his opening eyes, but the rugged stone and tall loop-hole window of a turret chamber. Osmond de Centeville lay on the floor by his side, in the sound sleep of one overcome by long watching and weariness. And what more did Richard see?
It was the bright face and sparkling eyes of Alberic de Montémar, who was leaning against the foot of his bed, gazing earnestly, as he watched for his waking. There was a cry—“Alberic! Alberic!” “My Lord! my Lord!” Richard sat up and held out both arms, and Alberic flung himself into them. They hugged each other, and uttered broken exclamations and screams of joy, enough to have awakened any sleeper but one so wearied out as Osmond.
“And is it true? Oh, am I really in Normandy again?” cried Richard.
“Yes, yes!—oh, yes, my Lord! You are at Montémar. Everything here is yours. The bar-tailed hawk is quite well, and my mother will be here this evening; she let me ride on the instant we heard the news.”