The Etheling’s sword was out while the other was still speaking. “By Saint Mary, do you imagine that I am fearful of you? Never in my life was I more thirsty for fighting.”
But Rothgar pushed the blade aside with his naked palm. “Not here, where she could come between. Besides, the King wants a thrust at you first. Nor have you yet greeted Randalin, Frode’s daughter.” His hand, which was itching for a sword, began to tear the fur from his cloak, and his lips curved in a grin that had in it little of mirth. “Certainly you would not rob the maiden of the pleasure of seeing the one she has taken so much trouble for?” he mocked.
On the verge of an angry retort, Sebert paused to regard him, a suspicion darting spark-like through his mind. Did the Jotun’s words smack of jealousy? It was true that it needed not that to explain their bitterness, and yet—What more natural than that the King’s foster-brother should love the King’s ward? If it was so, it was small wonder the girl had said that he would slay her when he discovered her unfaithfulness. Unfaithfulness! Sebert started. Had she not in that very word acknowledged a bond? Not only did he love her, but she must have returned his affections. The spark of suspicion flared into a flame. That would solve so many riddles. For one, her presence in the Danish camp,—for surely, as a chieftain’s daughter, she would have been sent on to the care of the Lady of Northampton! Was it not thoroughly in accordance with her elfish wildness to have chosen man’s attire and the roughness of camp-life in order to remain near her lover? Her lover! The young noble’s lips curled as he glanced at the warrior beside him, at the coarse face under the unkempt locks, at the huge body in its trap-pings of stained gaudiness. Involuntarily, he looked again at the group by the well. She was very winsome in her smiling, and the graceful lines of her trailing robes, their delicacy and soft richness, threw about her all the glamour of rank and state. He clenched his hands at the thought of such treasures thrown down for brutal feet to trample on; and his heart grew hot with anger against her, anger and scorn that were almost loathing, that she who looked so fine should be so poor, so—But he did not finish his thought, for on its heels came another, a recollection that stayed his anger and changed his scorn to compunction. However dear Rothgar might have been to her, he could be dear no longer, or she would never have betrayed his trust and dared his hate to save Ivarsdale Tower—and its master. Sebert winced and put up his hand to shut out the vision as he realized at whose feet her heart lay now, like a pitiful bruised flower.
Meanwhile, the son of Lodbrok had been drawing heavily on his scant stock of patience. Suddenly, he ran out completely. Seizing the Etheling by the shoulders, before he could raise finger in resistance, he thrust him through the open doorway into the garden, a target for every startled glance. After which, he himself stalked grimly on to await him at the city gate.
CHAPTER XXII. How The Lord of Ivarsdale Paid His Debt
To his friend
A man should be a friend,
And gifts with gifts requite.
Hávamál.
A moment, it was to Randalin, Frode’s daughter, as if the heavens had let fall a star at her feet. Then her wonder changed to exultation, as she realized that it was not chance but because of her bidding that the man she loved stood before her. Only because she had asked it, he had come through pitfalls and death-traps, and now faced, alone, the gathered might of his foes. Glorying in his deed, she stood shining sun-like upon him until the red cloaks of the advancing warriors came between like scarlet clouds.
“Who are you?.... What is your errand?.... How came you here?” she heard them demand. And, after a pause, in disbelieving chorus, “Rothgar Lodbroksson! .... Does that sound likely?.... Where is he, then?” “You are trying to lie out of something—” “You are an English spy! Seize him! Bind him!”
The scarlet cloaks drew together into a swaying mass; a dozen blades glittered in the sun. With a gasp, she came out of her trance to catch at the royal mantle.
“Lord King, you promised to give him safety!” The seriousness which had darkened Canute’s face at the intrusion vanished off it as breath-mist off a mirror. “Is it only your Englishman?” he asked, between a laugh and a frown.