He could not overhear her conversation with Ethelbert, had he wished—he had no desire to do so. He trusted to her to make all necessary arrangements—his whole mind for the time was given to love and Elgiva. It had been a disappointment when Ethne, meeting him at the entrance to the hall, had told him that Elgiva would not appear at the feast. He marvelled greatly why she had absented herself and why the old hound Gelert had not stayed with her.
The time wore on slowly. The Anglo-Saxon minstrels broke into coarse, jigging tunes; their fellows feasted more heartily when thus accompanied; beating time with wagging heads and shouting between their mouthfuls to the jerky numbers. The Celtic pipers joined in—the wild Hibernians adding their piercing note; the hounds followed with dismal howls. The smell of sheep-skin clothing was strangely mingled with the steam of the coarse feast.
The great Bretwalda addressed Ethne suddenly.
“And your warriors lady, I hope are ready to march with me at this week’s end?”
In a moment she was upright, smiling.
“Ah!” said she, “it is time we spent a minute in these troublesome matters. Our aid is ready at any moment against this villain, Ceawlin of Wessex. And the conditions I ask will not, I think, be hard!”
The Bretwalda paused with his whittle in a mass of goats’ flesh.
“The conditions!” he repeated. “The conditions!”
“Yes, the conditions, my liege,” she said, still smiling. “Is it strange we ask aught in return?”
“Aught in return!” again he repeated her words, “aught in return!”—half in contempt, half in anger. What right, he wondered, had women to do anything but stitch trews and bake bread, and lend a hand occasionally in battle? He went on eating his goats’ flesh.