Moderately wise
Should each one be,
But never over-wise;
For a wise man’s heart
Is seldom glad
If he is all-wise who owns it.
Hávamál.
Out under the garden’s spreading fruit trees, the little gentlewomen of
Elfgiva’s household were amusing themselves with the flock of peacocks
that were the Abbey’s pets. In a shifting dazzling mass of
color—blended blue and green and golden fire—all but one of the
brilliant birds were pressing around Candida, who scattered largess
from a quaint bronze vase, while the one whose vanity was greater even
than its appetite was furnishing sport for Dearwyn as she strutted
after him in merry mimicry, lifting her satin-shod feet mincingly and
trailing her rosy robes far behind her on the grass. The old cellarer,
to whose care the birds fell except during those hours when the
brethren were free for such indulgences, watched the scene in grinning
delight; and Leonorine laughed gaily at them over the armful of tiny
bobbing lap-dogs, whose valiant charges she was engaged in restraining.
The only person who seemed out of tune with the chiming mirth was the
Lady Elfgiva herself. Among the blooming bushes she was moving
listlessly and yet restlessly, and each rose she plucked was speedily
pulled to pieces in her nervous fingers. A particularly furious
outburst from the dogs, followed by peals of ringing laughter, brought
her foot down in a stamp of utter exasperation.
“Will you not observe my feelings, if you have none of your own?” she
demanded. “Leonorine, take those wretched dogs out of my hearing.
Dearwyn, lay aside your nonsense and go ask Gurth if he has heard
anything yet of Teboen.” She stamped again, angrily, as her eye went
from one to another of the merry-makers. “I suppose it would gladden
all of you to feel safe from her hand, but I will plainly tell you that
if harm has happened to her, you will find a lair-bear pleasanter
company than I shall be.”
The dull red that mottled her face and neck was a danger signal whose
warning her attendants had learned to heed, and they scattered
precipitately. Only the old cellarer, herding his gorgeous flock with
waving arms, ventured to address her.
“Is it the British woman you are enquiring after, lady? The woman who
comes to the lane-gate, of a morning, to get new milk for your
drinking?”
Elfgiva turned quickly. “Yes,—Teboen my nurse. Have you seen her?” “I
saw her between cockcrowing and dawn, noble one, when I let down the
bars for the cattle to come in to the milking. The herd-boy who drives
them said something to her,—it seemed to me that he named a Danish name
and said that person was waiting in the wood to speak with her,—whereat
she set down her pitcher and went up the lane. I have not seen her
since.”
The lady’s little white hands beat the air like a frightened child’s.
“Three candles have burned out since then; it is certain that evil has
befallen her. Never since I was born has she left me for so long. I—”
She paused to gaze eagerly toward a figure that at this moment appeared
in the low arch of the door-way. “Tata! do you bring me news of her?”
Though she shook her head, Randalin’s manner was full of suppressed
excitement as she advanced. “Not of her, lady, yet tidings, great
tidings! The King has sent—”
“His Marshal again? I will not see him.”
“Nay, the Marshal but accompanies the messenger. In truth, lady, it is
my belief that the token has accomplished its mission. The message is
brought by Thorkel Jarl, as this has not been done before.”
“Earl Thorkel?” Elfgiva cried. “By the Saints, it can be nothing less
than the token!” She dropped down upon the rustic seat that stood under
the green canopy of the old apple tree and sat there a long time,
staring at the grass, her cheeks paling and flushing by turns.
Presently, she drew a deep breath of relief. “I was foolish to fret
myself over Teboen. Since she is clever enough to bring this to pass,
she is clever enough to take care of herself. Without doubt it was the
Danish wizard, and he informed her of some new herb, and she has gone
to fetch it.”
After a while, an enchanting smile touched her lips. “Surely, a rose
garden is a fitting place to receive the ambassadors of a lover,” she
said, and straightened herself on her rustic throne, sweeping her
draperies into more graceful folds. “Bring them to me here, ladybird.
Candida, fetch hither the lace veil from my bower, and call the other
maids as you go, and all the pages you can find. Since Teboen is not
by, I want all of you behind me. I cannot help it that the Tall One
always gives me the feeling of a lamb before a wolf.”
Even had the likeness never occurred to her before, it would not have
been strange if she had thought of it to-day as, followed by the
Marshal and preceded by their fair usher, the old warrior came across
the grass to the little court under the apple tree. The keenness of the
hooded eyes that looked out at her from his grizzled locks, the gleam
of the white teeth between his bearded lips as he greeted her, was
unmistakably wolfish. She relapsed into a kind of lamb-like tremor as
she invited them to be seated and commanded the attendance of her
cup-bearer. When she caught sight of the misery of discomfort in
Sebert’s frank face, she lost her voice entirely and waited in utter
silence while they drank their wine.
Yet Thorkel’s manner was unwontedly genial when at last he broached his
errand. “You lack the eagerness that is to be expected, lady,” he said
as he gave his mouth a last polish with the delicate napkin. “How comes
it that you have not guessed I bring you a message from the King?”
She answered doubtfully that the King had not behaved to her so that
his messages were apt to be anticipated with much pleasure.
“But it has never occurred that I brought you this kind of news
before,” he tempted her. “Will it not interest you to hear that at last
the Palace is ready for a Queen?”
That startled her a little out of her wariness, crying the last two
words after him with an eagerness of inflection that was as pathetic as
though her heart were concerned.
His lips gave out a flash as he nodded. “A Queen. Canute is going to
give the Angles a ‘gift of the elves.’”
For an instant, she was betrayed into believing him, and bent forward,
her flushing face transfigured with delight. She was starting to speak
when the Etheling rose abruptly from his seat.
“Lord Thorkel,” he said angrily, “this cat-play would bring you little
thanks from your King, nor will I longer endure it. I pray you to
explain without delay that the name of ‘Elfgiva’ is borne also by Emma
of Normandy.”
Then the old man snarled as a wolf does whose bone has been seized.
“Lord of Ivarsdale, you act in the thoughtless way of youth. I was
bringing the matter gently—”
But the young man accomplished his purpose in spite of the elder. He
did not address the King’s wife—indeed, he refrained even from looking
at her—but he spoke swiftly to the dark-haired girl who stood beside
the seat. “Randalin, I beg you to tell your lady that Elfgiva Emma, who
is Ethelred’s widow and the Lady of Normandy, arrives at Dover
to-morrow to be made Queen of the English.”
As all expected, the Lady of Northampton started up shrieking defiance,
screaming that it should not be so, that the King was her husband and
the soldiers would support her if the monks would not, that he was
hers, hers,-and more to that effect, until the plunging words ran into
each other and tears and laughter blotted out the last semblance of
speech. That she would end by swooning or attacking them with her hands
those who knew her best felt sure, and maids and pages crept out of her
reach as hunters stand off from a wounded boar. But at the point where
her voice gave out and she whirled to do one or perhaps both of these,
her eyes fell on the house-door, and her expression changed from rage
to amazement and from amazement to horror. Catching Randalin’s arm in
fear, not anger, she began to gasp over and over the name of Teboen the
nurse.
Those whose glance had not followed hers, thought her mad and shrank
farther; but the eyes of those who saw what she did reflected her look.
In the doorway the British woman was standing, wagging her head in time
to a silly quavering song that she was singing with lips so distorted
as to be almost unrecognizable. Her once florid face was ashen gray,
and now as she quitted the door post and came toward them she reeled in
her \walk, stumbling over stones and groping blindly with her huge bony
hands. But still she kept on singing, with twisted lips that strove to
simper, and once she tried to sway her ungainly body into an uncouth
dancing-step that brought her floundering to her knees.
“A devil has possession of her,” Elfgiva shrieked. “Take her out of my
sight, or I shall go mad! Take her away—take her away!” Shrieking in
wildest terror she fled before her, and for a moment the garden seemed
given over to a grotesque game of blind-man’s buff as women and boys
scattered with renewed screaming at each approach of the ghastly face.
It did not stop until the two soldiers who had been made keepers of the
wretched creature came running out of the house and led her away.
Then it was Thorkel’s sardonic voice that brought the Lady of
Northampton back to herself. “Now, is this how you take the sight of
your own handiwork? Or is it because you regret that the King is not in
this plight? One mouthful and no more has she had of the blood of the
coiled snake.”
Stopping where she was, Elfgiva gazed at him, and with a dawning
comprehension came back her interrupted fury. “The coiled snake,” she
repeated slowly; and after that, in a rush of words, “Then it was you
who enticed her away and mistreated her? But what does it concern _you_
that I sent a snake? Where saw you it? How knew you it had blood?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned upon the Marshal, her lids
contracted into narrow slits behind which her eyes raged like prisoned
animals. “It is you who are to blame for this! You who miscarried my
message. You have betrayed me, and I tell you—” Hysterical tears broke
her voice, but she pieced it together with her temper and went on
telling him all the bitter things she could think of, while he stood
before her in the grim silence of one who has long foreseen the
disagreeable aspects of his undertaking and made up his mind to
endurance.
When she stopped for breath, he said steadily, “I declare with truth
that you cannot dislike what I have done much more than I, Lady of
Northampton. I hope it will be an excuse with you, as it is a comfort
to me, that instead of fetching you into trouble—”
Thorkel took the words from his lips, and no longer with sinister
deliberation but with a ferocity that showed itself in the gathering
swiftness of his speech. “Trouble—yes! By the Hammer of Thor, I think
you deserve to have trouble! Had any of your witches’ brew done harm to
the King, I can tell you that you would not have lived much longer.
What! Are the plans of men to be upset by your baby face, and a
king-dom lost because a little fool chooses to play with poison as a
child with fire?”
“Poison?” she screamed. She had been facing him with whitening lips,
and now the little breath that she had left went from her in a sharp
cry. “Not poison; love-philtres! To win him back! Love-philtres,—can
you not hear?”
“Love-philtres!” The old warrior’s voice made the words bite with
contempt. “Did the mouthful she swallowed have that effect upon your
woman? Or do you think you planted love in the breasts of the dead
scullions? Had you seen their writhings I think you would have called
it by another name.”
He was standing over her now, and she was cowering before him, her
shaking hands rising as though to ward off his eyes. “I meant no harm,”
she was wailing with stiff lips. “The scroll said not a word that it
was hurtful. Do not kill me. I meant no—” The word ended in an
inarticulate sound and she swayed backward.
It was Randalin who caught and eased her down upon the rustic chair,
and Randalin who turned upon the Tall One. “Saw I never a meaner man!”
she cried. “Certainly I think Loke was less wolf-minded than you. You
know very well that if Teboen had thought it would become a cause of
harm to her, she would have refused to swallow it. I will go to the
King myself and tell him how despisable you are.” She stamped her foot
at the united ministry of the Kingdom as she turned her back upon its
representatives to speak reassuringly to her mistress.
Her lover did not blame her that her flashing eyes seemed to include
him among the objects of their wrath. He said fiercely to the Jarl,
“For God’s sake, tell her that no one suspects her of seeking his life,
and give her his true message, or I will go and hang myself for
loathing.”
“Tell her yourself!” the old Dane snapped. “It is seen that you are as
rabbit-hearted as the boy who makes her such an offer. Were I in his
place, I would have them all drowned for a litter of wauling kittens.”
He looked very much indeed like a wolf in a sheepfold as he stamped to
and fro, grinding his spurred heels into the patches of clover and
growling in his beard.
The young soldier had been known to ride into battle with a happier
face, but the sudden gritting of his teeth implied that he would do
anything to get the matter over with; and having braved the outburst of
hysterics that redoubled at his approach, he managed to slip a soothing
word into the lull.
“Lady, the King sends you none but good greetings. It would make you
feel better if you would listen to them.”
“Then he—he does not blame me for this?” Elfgiva quavered at last.
“He does not blame you,” the Marshal hastened to reassure her. “And in
token thereof he sends you your heart’s desire.”
Plainly, the elves had endowed their “gift” with a wit to match her
soul. Her beautiful eyes were simple as an injured child’s as she
raised them to his, “can that be, lord, when Emma of Normandy is to get
the crown of England? A woman ten years older than he, to put the best
face on it! Who can expect me to bear with this insult?” Her scorn went
so far toward reviving her that for the first time she drew herself
away from the support of her women, and even made one of them a sign to
rearrange the locks she had disturbed.
Lest it revive her beyond the point of docility, Sebert spoke the rest
of his message in some haste. “It is true, noble one, that for state
reasons the King has consented to this union with Emma of Normandy, who
will bring him the friendship of Duke Richard besides causing pleasure
to the English. But the crown of Denmark is also at his disposal, lady,
and this he purposes to bestow upon your son Sven, for whom he has much
love. And it is his will and pleasure that you accompany the boy across
the sea and, together with the earls of his guardianship, hold the
power for him until his hands shall be big enough to grasp it alone.
For this he gives you the name of ‘queen’ and all the honor you shall
desire.” He paused, more at the wonder of watching her face than
because he had finished.
It was as though a rainbow had been set in her showery eyes. “He
purposes this?” she murmured; and rose out of her seat in a kind of
ecstasy,—then caught at its back, glooming with doubt. “I cannot
believe it,—it is too beautiful. Swear that you are not mocking me.”
“I swear it,” he said gravely, but his lips curled a little as he
watched her delight bring back her color, her smiles, her every fairy
charm.
Throwing her arms about Dearwyn, who chanced to be nearest, she kissed
her repeatedly. “Think, mouse,—a queen! a queen! It was not for naught
that I dreamed an eagle flew over my head. Ah, how I shall cherish the
dear little one who has brought me this!” With her pleasure overflowing
as of old in rippling laughter, she turned to greet the King’s
foster-father who came stalking toward her. “Now your ill humor no
longer appears strange to me, noble wolf, than which no better proof
could be had that I have come into good fortune! I pray you tell me
when I am to leave, and who goes with me, and every word of the plan,
for I could eat them like sweets.”
“Ulf Jarl will feed your ears later,” Thorkel said gruffly. “Your
safety on the road is the charge of this battle-sapling.” He jerked his
head toward the young Marshal. “You will leave for Northampton this
afternoon, to get the boy—and to get rid of you before the Lady of
Normandy arrives.”
The shaft fell pointless as she turned her sparkling face toward her
women. “You hear that, my lambs? This afternoon,—not one more night in
this prison! You cannot apply yourselves too soon to the packing,
Candida, Leonorine. And I must see if Teboen’s wits have come back to
her. If she should not be restored to them, that would be one bee in
the honey. Randalin, learn what disposal is to be made of you, and
that, quickly. Nobles, if I am not yet enough queen to dismiss you,
still am I queen enough to depart without your leave. I desire you will
thank your King as is becoming; and tell him that I am right glad he
was not poisoned,—and I trust he will not wish he had been, after he
has seen his ancient bride.” Chiming the sweet bells of her laughter,
she glided away among her excited attendants, the silver mockery
reaching them after she had vanished into the house.
Randalin awoke to a sense of bewilderment. “It is true that I do not
know where to go, now that this place is upset.”
The question was repeated in her lover’s attitude; but Thorkel Jarl
answered it, coming between them and drawing her aside.
“I will remedy that,” he said. “My men are to fetch you to the Palace
so soon as ever your lady has left. The King has a use for you.” The
rest he spoke into her ear, but its effect was to blanch her cheeks and
cause her hands to clasp each other in terror as she started back.
“I cannot!” she cried. “I cannot.” “You must,” he said harshly. “Or you
will do little credit to the blood that is in you. Do you no longer
think your father and brother of any importance?”
“They are pitiless to demand it of me,” she murmured, and buried her
face in her hands.
Anger leaped from the young noble’s eyes as, in his turn, he came
between her and the Jarl. He said forcefully, “No one shall ask
anything of you that you do not want, nor shall any king compel you.
Yet I think I have a right to know what his will is with you.”
“You have not,” the Dane contradicted. “Do you think the King’s
purposes are to be opened to the sight of every Angle who becomes his
man? Nor have you ally right soever over her who is the King’s ward.
End this talk, maiden, and give me your promise to be obedient.”
She gave it in a cry of despair, “I must—I know I must!” then sought to
make peace with her lover by laying caressing hands on his breast. “And
he is right, love, that I ought not to tell any one. It is another one
of those things that you must trust.”
But for once the Etheling’s will did not bend to her coaxing; his mouth
was doggedly set as he looked down upon her. “I trust no man I do not
know,” he answered, “and I do not know Canute the man,—nor do I greatly
like what I have heard of him, or this plan of sending me from the City
at this time. You have no cause to reproach me with lack of faith in
you, Randalin, for when every happening—even your own words—made it
appear as if it were love for Rothgar Lodbroksson which brought you
into the camp, I looked into your eyes and believed them against all
else.” In the intensity of the living present he forgot the dead
past—until he saw its ghosts troop like gray shadows across her face.
“Love for Rothgar Lodbroksson?” she repeated, drawing back. “Then you
did believe that I could love Rothgar?” Her voice rose sharply. “You
believed that I followed him!”
Too late he saw what he had done. “I said that I did not believe it,”
he cried hastily. “What I thought at first in my bewilderment,—that
could not be called belief.” Now it was the present that he had
forgotten in the past, as he strove desperately to recapture the
phantoms and thrust them back into their graves.
But she did not seem to hear his explanation as she stood there gazing
at him, her mind leaping lightning-like from point to point. “It was
that which made you behave so strangely in the garden,” she said, and
she spoke each phrase with a kind of breathless finality. “You thought
that I—I was like those—those other women in the camp.” As he tried to
take her hand she drew farther away, and stood looking at him out of
eyes that were like purple shadows in her white face. It was with a
little movement of anger that she came to herself at last. “And what
are you thinking of me now? Do you dare to dream that the King—”
Turning, she confronted the old warrior fiercely. “Thorkel Jarl, I ask
you to tell the Lord of Ivarsdale as quick as you can what the King
wants with me.”
“That I will not do,” the Jarl said quickly. “You know no prudence,
maiden. The Lord of Ivarsdale is also English; a mishap might occur
if—”
She flung the words at him; “I care not if it lose Canute his crown! If
you will not risk it, I will tell him that the King settles to-night
with Edric of Mercia and his men, and that it is to witness the
punishment of my kinsmen’s murderer that he has sent for me. As for my
camp-life, ask Rothgar himself, or Elfgiva, or the King—or any soldier
of the host! Of them all, you alone have thought such thoughts of me.”
She flung up her hands against him in a kind of heart-broken rage.
“You! To whose high-mindedness I trusted everything I have!” Hiding her
face, she ran from them, sobbing, into the house.