“It is not so easy to tell that, Jarl’s daughter, since it is unlikely that you have ever heard of Freya’s Tower. But it stands south of here, on an island which a bridge links to this—”
For the first time, one of the court-maidens drew near,—a slender spray of a girl, whose face was a pink bud peeping from a wood of brown hair.
“I have heard of it!” she cried, eagerly. “The skalds are not so bold as to sing songs about it; but no maiden but knows how the Swedish Viking Rolf stole King Hildebrand’s daughter out of her father’s court in Norway, and brought her to these shores and built her a bower and—”
Her impulse would have carried her still further if the Jarl’s daughter had not laid a light hand on her arm.
“I also know of the place,” Brynhild said. “Is it there you live? A band of Rolf’s comrades still live there, I have been told—Yet are you too young to have place among them! Will you tell me your name and kin?”
As he started to reply, the Songsmith’s glance fell upon the handsome little page who had refused to recognize him, and who had now taken advantage of the delay to approach Olaf the French and set about removing the débris of dead leaves from his gold fringes. The forester’s dark eyes gave out a glint of mischief.
“Willingly—and more than that—Jarl’s daughter,” he answered. “I will have one of your own train name me to you, so that you may know it is well done.” Stepping aside, he touched the boy on the shoulder. “Eric, look up here and tell your mistress my name and kin.”
In a panic the youngster whirled, denial trembling on his tongue. Then he met the unswerving gaze from under the level brows; his eyes fell and his color rose. Seemingly without his consent, his lips formed the words:
“Randvar is his name; and he is the son of Rolf and Freya, King Hildebrand’s daughter.”
Brynhild rose from her seat. “The son of King Hildebrand’s daughter!” she repeated, and all her gentlewomen breathed it after her.