The Etheling replied without slackening his pace: “I do not think they are liable to molest a peaceful traveller. I will take care that I upheave no strife, and I will make all my inquiries of the monks.”
“Go a little more slowly, lord, and consider the other side of it,” the old knight entreated. “Suppose the message is false,—the black tress around it proves nothing. Suppose the son of Lodbrok has spread a net for you?”
“Then should I keep on my way still more lustily,” the Lord of Ivarsdale answered, “for his making use of the boy’s name to entice me would show that he had discovered our friendship, in which case the youngling would be suffering from his anger.”
The old man plucked violently at his beard as the walls loomed clearer before them. “Lord, you have already gone through some risk in leaving home. It is by no means impossible that Edmund will fall upon the Tower during your absence.”
“Edmund is too busy with big game at Oxford to have that trouble about such quarry as I,” the young man said lightly, “and the Gainer is not likely to stir far from Edmund while land is being distributed.” Then, sobering, he gave the other a grave glance over his shoulder. “Even though the errand for danger could not be accomplished, how could I do less than undertake it? Did not the boy go through some risk for me when he betrayed his own countryman to get me out of a hard place? Had they guessed his treason, they would have torn him in pieces. I owe him a debt which it concerns my honor to pay. It lies not on your shoulders, however,—” his gravity gave way to his gay smile,—“if it is more pleasant for you not to enter the city, you may ride back to the hostelry we passed, and await me in its shelter.”
The old cniht’s courage was too well approved to require any defence. Contenting himself with an indignant grunt, he reined back to his place at the head of the dozen armed servants who formed the Etheling’s safeguard, and the young lord galloped on between the bare fields, humming absently under his breath.
“Poor bantling!” he was thinking compassionately. “I shall be right glad to get sight of him again. I hope he will not betray himself in his joy when he sees me. Anything like showing that one is fond of him is apt to turn him a little soft.”
None of these undercurrents was visible in his face however, when, having left his escort in one of the outer courts, he stood at last in the parlor of the Abbey guest-house.
“I am a traveller, reverend brother, journeying from London to Worcester,” he said with grave courtesy to the gaunt black-robed monk who admitted him. “And my errand hither is to ask refreshment for myself and my men, as we have been in the saddle since cockcrow.”
“The brother whose duty it is to attend upon travellers is at this hour in the Chapter House, with the rest of the household,” the monk made answer. “When he comes forth, I will acquaint him with your needs. Until then, bide here, and I will bring you a morsel to stay your stomach.”