Ethne felt sick at heart. She took a draught of her favourite Greek wine. Then turned on him a smiling face.
“You remember, O King, my conditions?”
He said nothing—only looked, far off, through an arched opening past the dusk and blue of the low-lying forest to where the cattle strayed upon the hills; the hills that separated them from mountainous Cambria.
Then he pointed silently to the heights with one hand, and with the other grasped his long rune-covered sword.
“My lord?” she questioned, with paling lips but with an attempt at mirth. “Your gestures, I doubt not, are deemed most eloquent, but I would fain have speech as well!”
“Those hills, lady,” he said, looking at her steadfastly, “are the chain wherewith you and your warriors are bound to me—this sword is the fate that awaits those who refuse to ally with me against Ceawlin of Wessex!”
Ethne half rose to her feet. A fit of rage seized her which she could scarcely repress but she kept silent, although two vivid spots of colour suddenly showed on her white cheeks, and her eyes glittered strangely.
Ethelbert helped himself to some virgin-honey from the board; and as he ate it continued to gaze on Ethne.
With these strange glittering eyes the Celtic woman was dangerously akin to sprite and elf. The fear came upon him that she might beguile him. Such haunting fears were Ethelbert’s throughout his life—in his meeting with Saint Augustine he bargained that it should take place in the open air, for he believed the danger from incantation was greater within four walls. He recalled the scene in which he had seen her on the battle-field; in the din and heat of the fight with men falling like leaves around her, her charioteer had rushed upon the dying Cutha whilst she stood upright, uttering incantations in a piercing, unknown tongue.
Again Ethelbert muttered a charm; and this time, as a further precaution he made the sign of the cross, as he had seen his Christian Bertha do.