This I thee counsel tenthly;
That thou never trust
A foe’s kinsman’s promises,
Whose brother thou hast slain,
Or sire laid low;
There is a wolf
In a young son,
Though he with gold be gladdened.
Sigrdrífumál.
It was a long way to the King’s fire, but at last it lay before her;
before and below her, for it had been built in a depression of the
little open. The last charred log had fallen apart, spreading a swarm
of golden glow-worms over the black earth, there was still enough light
to reveal a ring of muffled forms sprawling around the sloping sides of
the hollow, with their feet toward the fire and their heads lost in
darkness. Pausing in the tree-shadow, the girl thrilled with sudden
hope. Since their faces were all hidden, how was she to distinguish her
victim? Even the dead must see that it would be impossible. If the
burden could only be lifted from her!
Fate was inexorable. At that moment, the warrior directly in front of
her stirred in his sleep and flung a jewelled hand over his face. Those
broad gold rings with the green stones that sparkled like serpents’
eyes as they caught the light! They were fixed indelibly in her memory,
for she had seen them on the rapacious hand that had seized upon her
while it was still red with her father’s blood. Only from them, she
could reconstruct every hard line of the hidden face. Suddenly, in the
rage that rose in her at the recollection, she found determination for
the deed.
The sentinel nearest her was snoring at his post; the further one would
not be able to reach her in time, even should he see her. Somewhere,
far away, a cock was crowing; and it came to her suddenly that the
breathlessness about her was the hush that precedes the dawn. There was
no time to lose, she told herself feverishly, and moved forward with
snake-like stillness. Between the sheltering arm and the neck of the
steel shirt there was a space of naked throat. Setting her teeth, she
raised her knife and struck down at it with a strong hand.
The point never reached its mark. For an instant she could not tell
what had happened. Fingers closed like iron bands around her wrist,
pulling her backwards so that the pain of her twisted wound wrung a cry
from her lips. They were not Norman’s fingers, yet he also was
stirring; while darting flashes from the dusk about them told that the
other sleepers were drawing their weapons. Then some one threw a
branch-ful of dead leaves upon the fire.
The flame that flared up showed her arm to be in the grasp of the Lord
of Ivarsdale.
“You mad young one!” he gasped, as he wrenched the blade from her hold.
Voices rose in angry questioning, but Randalin was too fear-benumbed to
understand what they said. Norman’s keen eyes were turned upon her, and
recognition was dawning in their gaze.
Suddenly, he snatched her from Sebert’s grasp and held her down to the
firelight. Could she have seen the mask which dust and blood had made
for her, she would have been spared the terror-swoon that left her limp
in his grasp. But it only bewildered her when, after an instant’s
scrutiny, he let her fall with an angry laugh.
“The boy from Avalcomb! Certainly these Danes are as hard to kill as
cats! I would have sworn to it that I had separated his life from his
body not eight-and-forty hours ago.” A gleam of eagerness came into his
face, and he bent over her again. “You shall serve my purpose by your
obstinacy,” he said under his breath. “You shall tell me where your
sister is. You know, for you escaped together. When I was restored to
my senses, I found you both gone. Tell me where she lies hidden, and it
may be that I will grant to you a longer life.”
Her stiff lips could not have spoken an answer had her paralyzed brain
been able to frame one. She could only gaze back at him in helpless
waiting. A second time he was bending toward her, when something
stopped him midway so that he straightened and drew back with a bow. It
came to her suddenly that they were all bowing, and that the hubbub had
died in mid-air. Through the hush, a quiet voice spoke.
“You are eager in rising, my lords,” it said. From the shelter, half
cave, half bower, which had been contrived amid the bushes, a warrior
of mighty frame had emerged and stood examining the scene. Though with
soldierly hardiness he had taken his rest in his war-harness, he was
unhelmed, and the light that revealed the protruding chin had no need
to pick out the jewelled diadem to mark him as Edmund Ironside. The
irregularity was very slight—not large enough to give him a combative
look or to mar the fine proportions of his face, but it did
unquestionably add to his stately bearing an expression of complacency
that was unforgettable.
He repeated his inquiry: “What is the amusement, my thanes? From the
clamor which awakened me, I had some notion of an attack.”
Norman of Baddeby bent in a second reverence. “Your expectations are to
this degree fulfilled, my royal lord,” he made answer. “Behold the
enemy!” Stooping, he raised the red-cloaked figure by its collar and
held it up in the firelight. As a murmur of laughter went around, he
lowered it again and spoke more gravely. “A hand needs not be large to
get a hilt under its gripe, however. The young wolf is of northern
breed,—how he penetrated to the heart of an English camp, I cannot
tell,—and there grows in his spirit a bloodthirsty disposition. He
seeks my life because in a skirmish, a few days gone by, I had the good
luck to kill his father. If it—”
He said more, but Randalin did not listen to him. All at once Sebert of
Ivarsdale reached out, and taking her by her cloak, drew her gently to
his side, interposing his sword-arm between her and the others. Though
his hand manacled her slim wrists securely, the clasp was more one of
protection than of restraint; and the warm human touch was like a
talisman against the haunting shadows. Suddenly it came over her, in a
burst of heavenly relief, that this hand had lifted the burden of
vengeance forever. Even Fridtjof could not be so unreasonable as to ask
more of her, so plainly was it Odin’s will that justice should be left
for Canute. She had done her duty, and yet she was free of it free of
it! Her heart burst out singing within her, and the eyes she raised
toward her captor were adoring in their gratitude.
The look she met in return was the same look of mingled strength and
gentleness which had come through the starlight to answer her question.
Once again that calm of weary trustfulness settled over her. Since he
had saved her from the dead, she had no doubt whatever of his ability
to save her from the living. Her head drooped against his arm, and her
hands, ceasing their struggles, rested in his grasp like folded wings.
It had not taken a moment; the instant Norman finished his explanation,
the Etheling was speaking quietly: “As the Lord of Baddeby says, King
Edmund, it was I who stayed the boy’s hand, and it was I also who
fetched him into camp. I found him after the battle, bleeding his life
out in the bushes, and I brought him in my arms, like a kitten, and
dropped him down by my fire. Waking in the night and missing him, I
traced him hither. As I have had all to do with him in the past, so, if
you will grant that I may keep him, will I take his future upon me.
With your consent, I will attend to it that he does no more mischief.”
A momentary cordiality came into the King’s manner; as though
recognizing it for the first time, he turned to the figure across the
fire with a courteous gesture. “My lord of Ivarsdale! I am much
beholden to you. Had any chance wrought evil to the Lord of Baddeby
while under my safeguard, my honor would have been as deeply wounded as
my feelings.”
As he bowed in acknowledgment, some embarrassment was visible in
Sebert’s manner; but he was spared a reply, for after a moment’s
rubbing of his chin, the King continued,—
“As regards the boy, however, there is something besides his knife to
be taken into consideration. I think we run more risk from his tongue.”
The words of the Earl’s thane fairly grazed the heels of the King’s
words: “The imp can do no otherwise than harm, my sovereign. Should he
bring his tongue to Danish ears, he could cause the utmost evil. For
the safety of the Earl of Mercia,—ay, for your own need,—I entreat you
to deliver the boy up to my keeping.”
“I am no less able than the Lord of Baddeby to restrain him,” the
Etheling said with some warmth. “If it be your pleasure, King Edmund, I
will keep him under my hand until the end of the war, and answer for
his silence with my life.”
Then Norman’s eagerness got the better of his discretion.
“Now, by Saint Dunstan,” he cried, “you take too much upon you, Lord of
Ivarsdale! The boy’s life is forfeit to me, against whom his crime was
directed.” A grim look squared his mouth as suddenly he stretched his
hand past Sebert and caught the red cloak.
It may have been this which the Etheling had foreseen, for he was not
taken by surprise. Jerking up his sword-arm, he knocked the thane’s
hand loose with scant ceremony. “You forget the law of the
battle-field, Norman of Baddeby,” he said swiftly. “The life of my
captive is mine, and I am the last man to permit it to be taken because
he sought a just revenge. I know too well how it feels to hate a
father’s murderer.” He shot a baleful glance toward a half-seen figure
that all this time had stood motionless in the shadow behind the King.
Probably this figure and the Earl’s thane were the only hearers he was
conscious of, but his tone left the words open to all ears. There was a
sudden indrawing of many breaths, followed by a frightened silence. The
only sound that disturbed it was a growing rustle in the bush around
them, which was explained when the old cniht Morcard and some two-score
armed henchmen and yeoman-soldiers, singly and in groups, filtered
quietly through the shadows and placed themselves at their chief’s
back.
But though the King’s brows had met for an instant in a lowering arch,
some second thought controlled him. When he spoke, his words were even
gracious:
“I think the Lord of Ivarsdale has the right of it. The crime the boy
purposed was not carried out; and in each case, Lord Sebert was his
captor. I am content to trust to his wardership.”
Sebert’s frank face betrayed his surprise at the complaisance, but he
gave his pledge and his thanks with what courtliness he could muster,
and releasing his passive prisoner, pushed her gently into the
safe-keeping of the old cniht. Yet he was not so obtuse as to step
back, as though the incident were closed; he read the King’s inflection
more correctly than that. Holding himself somewhat stiff in the
tenseness of his feelings, he stood his ground in silent alertness.
A rustle of uneasiness crept the round of the assembled nobles. Only
the monarch’s bland composure remained unruffled. Advancing with the
deliberate grace that so well became his mighty person, he seated
himself upon a convenient boulder and signed the figure in the shadow
to draw nearer.
As it obeyed, every one of the yeomen-soldiers strained his eyes in
that direction, as though hoping to surprise in the great traitor’s
face some secret of his power, the power that had made three kings as
wax between his fingers! But just short of the fire-glow the Gainer
paused, and the hooded cloak which shrouded him merged him hopelessly
into the shadow. Only the hand that rested on his sword-hilt protruded
into the light. It was a broad hand, and thick-fingered as a butcher’s,
but it was milk-white and weighted with massive rings.
Meanwhile, the King was speaking affably: “As you did not favor us with
your presence among the Wise Men, my lord, it is likely that you do not
know of the good luck which has befallen our cause. This prudent Earl,
who before the battle had concluded with himself that England had so
little to hope for from our reign that he was willing to throw his
weight against us, has found his victory so without relish that he has
become our sworn ally.”
As he paused,—perhaps to leave space for an answer,—the complacency of
his face was heightened by a smile, faintly shrewd, touching the
corners of his mouth. But when Sebert limited his reply to a respectful
inclination of his head, the smile vanished abruptly. Under the
affability there became evident a certain stern insistence.
“In former days, I think there was some hostile temper between the Earl
and you. But I expect you will see that under the stress of a foreign
war all lesser strife must give way. So I desire that you will repeat
in my presence the troth already plighted by these others.”
He made a slight gesture, and the Gainer took a step forward. The light
that fell back from his hooded face played curiously about his jewelled
hand; as it rose from the gilded hilt, it could be seen that to remedy
the bluntness of the thick fingers the nails had been allowed to grow
very long, which gave it now, in its half-curve, the look of a claw,
upon which the red gems shone like blood-drops.
Hesitating, the Etheling went from red to white. Then, with a swift
motion, he unsheathed his sword and stretched it out, point-foremost.
“King Edmund,” he said, “in no other way does my hand go forth toward a
traitor.”
This time there was no sound of breaths drawn in; it was as though the
whole world had ceased breathing. The sternness that had underlain the
King’s manner rose slowly and spread over the whole surface of his
person, as he drew himself up in towering offence.
“Lord of Ivarsdale, bethink yourself to whom you speak!”
He was royally imposing in his displeasure; the Etheling flushed like a
boy before his master; but he had his answer ready, and his head was
steadily erect as he gave it.
“King of the Angles, the right of open speech has belonged to my race
as long as the right to the crown has belonged to yours. So my father’s
fathers spoke to yours under the council-tree, and so I shall speak to
you while I live.”
Back in the shadow, each yeoman laid one hand upon his weapon, and with
the other, thrust an exulting thumb into his neighbor’s ribs. But they
did not turn to look at each other; every eye was fastened upon the two
by the fire. Freeman and his leader, or feudal lord and his dependant?
For the moment they stood forth as representatives of a mighty
conflict, and every breath hung upon their motions.
After a time the King made a slight movement with his shoulders.
“I should have remembered,” he said, “that your father was ruined by
rebellion.”
In a flash the rebel’s son had forgotten boyish embarrassment. “Whoso
told you that, royal lord, told you lies. My father stood upon his
right. Steel to turn against the Danes, Ethelred had a right to
require; and steel my father was ready to pay. But Ethelred demanded
gold, and the Lord of Ivarsdale would not stoop to bribe. Nor has it
been proven that his policy was wrong,” he added under his breath.
Then there was no longer any doubt concerning the position of
Ethelred’s son. He said with deliberate emphasis, “The only policy
which concerns those of your station is obedience.”
If there was enough of the old free blood left in the King’s thanes to
redden their cheeks, that was all there was. But while they stood in
silence, a mutter ran like a growl through the ranks of yeomen; the
gaze they bent upon their leader had in it almost the force of a
command.
He was young, their chief, too young for impassivity. Despite himself,
his hands trembled with excitement. But there was no tremor in his
words.
“We of Ivarsdale do not profess such obedience, King Edmund. That is
for thanes and for the unfree, who owe their all to your generosity.
Our land we hold as our fathers held it—from God’s bounty and the might
of our swords. When we have paid the three taxes of fort-building and
bridge-building and field-service, we have paid all that we owe to the
State.”
At last they stood defined, the first of the feudal lords and the last
of the odal-born men. Even through the King’s loftiness it was suddenly
borne in that, behind the insignificance of the revolt, loomed a mighty
principle, mighty enough to merit force. For the first time he stooped
to a threat, though still it was tinged with scorn.
“I observe that the men of your race have not been of great importance
in the land. It appears that Ethelred was able to do without the rebel
Lord of Ivarsdale.”
“I admit that he was able to lose his crown without him,” the rebel’s
son retorted swiftly.
The King’s wounded dignity bled in his cheeks; he was stung into a
movement that brought him to his feet.
“This is insufferable!” he cried. It was evident that the crisis had
come. While the Etheling faced him with a defiance that in its utter
abandon was a little mad, a sensation as of bracing muscles and setting
teeth went around the group. Several of the thanes laid their hands
upon their swords. And the half-dozen ealdormen present bent toward one
another in hasty consultation. At an almost imperceptible sign from the
old cniht, the henchmen made a noiseless step nearer their master.
There were not more than a dozen of them, but behind them loomed some
two-score yeomen-soldiers, with a score more in the brush at their
back; and the faces of all told more plainly than words what it would
mean to attack them.
But the blood of Cerdic, once fired, burned too rapidly for policy.
Edmund’s jaw was set in savage menace as he turned and beckoned to his
guard. Had he spoken the words on his lips, there is little doubt what
his order would have been.
Interruption came from an unexpected quarter. Even as his lips were
opening, that white taloned hand reached out of the shadow and touched
his arm.
“Most royal lord! If it may be permitted me?” Earl Edric said swiftly.
His voice was very low, and every roughness had been filed away until
it flowed like oil. Upon the King’s wounded temper it appeared to fall
as softly as drops of healing balm. With his mouth still set, he paused
and bent his ear. There was a murmur of whispered words.
What they were no one ever knew, and each man had a different theory;
but their result was plain to all. Slowly Edmund’s knitted brows
unravelled; slowly his mouth relaxed into its wonted curves. At last he
had regained all his lofty composure and turned back.
“Lord of Ivarsdale, I am not rich of time, and my present need is too
great to spare any of it to the chastising of rebellious boys. Go back
to your toy kingdom, and lord it over your serfs until I find leisure
to teach you who is master.” Making a disdainful gesture of dismissal,
he turned with deliberate grace and entered into conversation with the
Mercian.
At the moment, it is likely that the young noble would have preferred
arrest. The utter scorn of word and act lashed the blood to his cheeks
and the tears to his eyes. With boyish passion, he snatched the sword
from its sheath, and breaking it in pieces across his knee, flung the
fragments clinking into the dead embers.
But if he had hoped to provoke an answer, it was in vain; the King
deigned him no further notice. Resuming his seat, Edmund continued to
talk quietly with the Earl, a half-smile playing about his complacent
chin.
The old cniht bent forward and whispered in his chief’s ear: “Make
haste, Lord Sebert; they will be cheering in a moment, the churls; so
pleased are they at the thought of going home. Hasten with your
retiring.”
It was a clever appeal. Forgetting, for the moment, humiliation in
responsibility, the young leader whirled to his men. A gesture, a
muttered order, and they were drawing back among the trees in silent
retreat. A few steps more, and the bushes had blotted out the Ironside
and his thanes.