“Then he—he does not blame me for this?” Elfgiva quavered at last.
“He does not blame you,” the Marshal hastened to reassure her. “And in token thereof he sends you your heart’s desire.”
Plainly, the elves had endowed their “gift” with a wit to match her soul. Her beautiful eyes were simple as an injured child’s as she raised them to his, “can that be, lord, when Emma of Normandy is to get the crown of England? A woman ten years older than he, to put the best face on it! Who can expect me to bear with this insult?” Her scorn went so far toward reviving her that for the first time she drew herself away from the support of her women, and even made one of them a sign to rearrange the locks she had disturbed.
Lest it revive her beyond the point of docility, Sebert spoke the rest of his message in some haste. “It is true, noble one, that for state reasons the King has consented to this union with Emma of Normandy, who will bring him the friendship of Duke Richard besides causing pleasure to the English. But the crown of Denmark is also at his disposal, lady, and this he purposes to bestow upon your son Sven, for whom he has much love. And it is his will and pleasure that you accompany the boy across the sea and, together with the earls of his guardianship, hold the power for him until his hands shall be big enough to grasp it alone. For this he gives you the name of ‘queen’ and all the honor you shall desire.” He paused, more at the wonder of watching her face than because he had finished.
It was as though a rainbow had been set in her showery eyes. “He purposes this?” she murmured; and rose out of her seat in a kind of ecstasy,—then caught at its back, glooming with doubt. “I cannot believe it,—it is too beautiful. Swear that you are not mocking me.”
“I swear it,” he said gravely, but his lips curled a little as he watched her delight bring back her color, her smiles, her every fairy charm.
Throwing her arms about Dearwyn, who chanced to be nearest, she kissed her repeatedly. “Think, mouse,—a queen! a queen! It was not for naught that I dreamed an eagle flew over my head. Ah, how I shall cherish the dear little one who has brought me this!” With her pleasure overflowing as of old in rippling laughter, she turned to greet the King’s foster-father who came stalking toward her. “Now your ill humor no longer appears strange to me, noble wolf, than which no better proof could be had that I have come into good fortune! I pray you tell me when I am to leave, and who goes with me, and every word of the plan, for I could eat them like sweets.”
“Ulf Jarl will feed your ears later,” Thorkel said gruffly. “Your safety on the road is the charge of this battle-sapling.” He jerked his head toward the young Marshal. “You will leave for Northampton this afternoon, to get the boy—and to get rid of you before the Lady of Normandy arrives.”
The shaft fell pointless as she turned her sparkling face toward her women. “You hear that, my lambs? This afternoon,—not one more night in this prison! You cannot apply yourselves too soon to the packing, Candida, Leonorine. And I must see if Teboen’s wits have come back to her. If she should not be restored to them, that would be one bee in the honey. Randalin, learn what disposal is to be made of you, and that, quickly. Nobles, if I am not yet enough queen to dismiss you, still am I queen enough to depart without your leave. I desire you will thank your King as is becoming; and tell him that I am right glad he was not poisoned,—and I trust he will not wish he had been, after he has seen his ancient bride.” Chiming the sweet bells of her laughter, she glided away among her excited attendants, the silver mockery reaching them after she had vanished into the house.
Randalin awoke to a sense of bewilderment. “It is true that I do not know where to go, now that this place is upset.”