“Nay; go not yet, Egwina. How fine the night is! Dost thou remember how chill and drear was the awful night that the Northmen fell upon us at Chippenham? How fair thou didst look that night when, child though thou wert, thou didst stand up in the hall and sing. Fair thou wert, Egwina, but not so fair as now. Thou mindest me of a fawn with thy shyness and grace. Tell me, hast thou kept the charm I gave thee?”
“Yes, Edward.” Egwina drew the chain from under the folds of her tunic. “See! The amulet is as thou didst fasten it.”
The Saxon clasped the amulet with the hand that held it in his own.
“Egwina, this night wilt thou exchange with me the true-lofa?”
“Edward, what meanest thou?” The maiden looked up at him in startled amazement.
“Thou art duller than thy wont, Egwina, if thou knowest not,” smiled Edward. “I mean our betrothal. Always have I intended to wed thee, if thou wert willing, when proper time should come. What then so fitting as that we plight our troth now when all rejoice in the happiness of Ethelred and Ethelfleda?”
“But, Edward,” faltered Egwina, “thou art the atheling, and I but a gleemaiden. Thou wilt be the cyning (king) one day, and then thou wilt know that such as I am not fit to be the Lady of the Saxons.”
“No other will I choose, if thou be not my mate,” returned Edward.
“But thy father, Edward; and thou art yet too young.” Egwina was troubled.
“I will go to my father now, Egwina. If he says that we are too young, then will I wait his pleasure. He will sanction our troth and bless it. And why should he not? He loves thee now as a daughter. Wilt thou not give me thy true-lofa, Egwina?”