Morcard answered as to words: “You will be one against many, lord.”
“You cannot mean that the Witan will comply with him!” the Etheling cried.
“How is it possible that they should do otherwise? The odal-born men could not prevent it when Ethelred took Alfric back. And to-night, few but thanes have resorted thither—men whom the Redeless took from ploughing his fields to gild with nobility. Is it likely that they will oppose the hand that can strip off their gilding?”
It appeared that the young man could find no answer to that, for he made none. “At least once, my lord, Ethelred’s wilfulness has shown in his son, when he set aside the King’s command to take possession of Sigeferth’s widow and her estates. And I think it was Ethelred’s temper that moved him to spend an energy, much better directed against the Pagans, in laying waste two of his own shires. Remember what happened when your father raised himself against Ethelred.”
Restive under the restraining hand, the young noble faced him desperately. “Morcard, in God’s name, what would you have me do? I will not bend to it, nor would you wish me to. Or sooner or later—”
“Let it be later, lord. After you have had time to marshal your wits, and when it is daylight, and you have your men at your back.”
After a while, the Etheling yielded and turned aside. “Let it be as you have said—though I cannot believe yet that it will happen.” Coming back where a fallen tree made a mossy seat, he dropped down upon it and sat staring at the ground in frowning abstraction.
The motion dropped him out of the range of Randalin’s vision, and her eyes wandered away discontentedly. If there was nothing more to look at, she might as well go to sleep. The fire was dying down so that the overhanging shadow was drooping lower, like a canopy that would fall and smother them when the spears of light that upheld it should sink at last in the ashes. The doors of darkness had moved far up the tree-corridors, and strange flickering shapes peered through. Her eyes followed them heavily. The forest was very still now; even the grating sound of the frogs was hushed, and the low hum of the voices around the fire was soothing as the sound of swarming bees.
She was just losing consciousness when the figure of a second yeoman-soldier moved across her vision, looming black against the fireglow. His whisper came sharply to her ears. “It is done, chief. May they have the wrath of the Almighty! Their hands have met, Edric’s and the King’s, and his thanes’ and Norman of Baddeby’s, who is with Edric. Now are they lying down in their man-ties, as it were to seal their pledge by sleeping within reach of each other’s knives.”
“Norman of Baddeby!” the name leaped out of the rest to bite at her like a dog, worrying deeper and deeper through the wrappings of her stupor. Her eyes widened in troubled questioning. She heard the angry voices rise, and she saw the Etheling leap to his feet and shake his clenched hand above his head. Then she lost sight of everything, for the fang had pierced her torpor and touched her.