Ethne laughed also—a weak, forced laugh.
“A jest—a jest, Sir King! Pardonable, surely, at least and merry-making!”
“A jest!” repeated Ethelbert. “And if one be pardonable, likewise a second. What then of Ceawlin! He also might find my terms easier if I ask his aid against you.”
“Well said, King Ethelbert! Your jest hath given mine its death-blow. Men do belie you Saxons when they call you witless. A very subtle wit, indeed, you seem to me to have.”
She laughed—again the same forced laughter.
Then suddenly she broke down—she burst into one of her paroxysms of rage, as some women burst into tears. The pent-up wrath escaped.
“You Jutish churl!” she shrieked. “Do you treat us like slaves—to be used and then cast off like clouts? Fight we will—but against you, not with you. I will not rest till your bloody head be brought me and I have hacked out your sneering tongue myself.”
Her angry voice rang through the hall. She could be plainly seen, as she stood upright in her glittering robes. She drew her sword from her girdle and it flashed above her head.
She had feared a bloody break-up to the banquet—and now she herself had brought it about.
The brawl spread, quick as lightning. Within three minutes after Ethne’s voice had rung through the hall, ten men were slain and thirty wounded. The alarm was sounded on both sides—and within an hour a desperate battle between the Kymry and Saxons was in full course. Before nightfall Ethne and Cormac had been taken prisoners.