“The boy from Avalcomb! Certainly these Danes are as hard to kill as cats! I would have sworn to it that I had separated his life from his body not eight-and-forty hours ago.” A gleam of eagerness came into his face, and he bent over her again. “You shall serve my purpose by your obstinacy,” he said under his breath. “You shall tell me where your sister is. You know, for you escaped together. When I was restored to my senses, I found you both gone. Tell me where she lies hidden, and it may be that I will grant to you a longer life.”
Her stiff lips could not have spoken an answer had her paralyzed brain been able to frame one. She could only gaze back at him in helpless waiting. A second time he was bending toward her, when something stopped him midway so that he straightened and drew back with a bow. It came to her suddenly that they were all bowing, and that the hubbub had died in mid-air. Through the hush, a quiet voice spoke.
“You are eager in rising, my lords,” it said. From the shelter, half cave, half bower, which had been contrived amid the bushes, a warrior of mighty frame had emerged and stood examining the scene. Though with soldierly hardiness he had taken his rest in his war-harness, he was unhelmed, and the light that revealed the protruding chin had no need to pick out the jewelled diadem to mark him as Edmund Ironside. The irregularity was very slight—not large enough to give him a combative look or to mar the fine proportions of his face, but it did unquestionably add to his stately bearing an expression of complacency that was unforgettable.
He repeated his inquiry: “What is the amusement, my thanes? From the clamor which awakened me, I had some notion of an attack.”
Norman of Baddeby bent in a second reverence. “Your expectations are to this degree fulfilled, my royal lord,” he made answer. “Behold the enemy!” Stooping, he raised the red-cloaked figure by its collar and held it up in the firelight. As a murmur of laughter went around, he lowered it again and spoke more gravely. “A hand needs not be large to get a hilt under its gripe, however. The young wolf is of northern breed,—how he penetrated to the heart of an English camp, I cannot tell,—and there grows in his spirit a bloodthirsty disposition. He seeks my life because in a skirmish, a few days gone by, I had the good luck to kill his father. If it—”
He said more, but Randalin did not listen to him. All at once Sebert of Ivarsdale reached out, and taking her by her cloak, drew her gently to his side, interposing his sword-arm between her and the others. Though his hand manacled her slim wrists securely, the clasp was more one of protection than of restraint; and the warm human touch was like a talisman against the haunting shadows. Suddenly it came over her, in a burst of heavenly relief, that this hand had lifted the burden of vengeance forever. Even Fridtjof could not be so unreasonable as to ask more of her, so plainly was it Odin’s will that justice should be left for Canute. She had done her duty, and yet she was free of it free of it! Her heart burst out singing within her, and the eyes she raised toward her captor were adoring in their gratitude.
The look she met in return was the same look of mingled strength and gentleness which had come through the starlight to answer her question. Once again that calm of weary trustfulness settled over her. Since he had saved her from the dead, she had no doubt whatever of his ability to save her from the living. Her head drooped against his arm, and her hands, ceasing their struggles, rested in his grasp like folded wings.
It had not taken a moment; the instant Norman finished his explanation, the Etheling was speaking quietly: “As the Lord of Baddeby says, King Edmund, it was I who stayed the boy’s hand, and it was I also who fetched him into camp. I found him after the battle, bleeding his life out in the bushes, and I brought him in my arms, like a kitten, and dropped him down by my fire. Waking in the night and missing him, I traced him hither. As I have had all to do with him in the past, so, if you will grant that I may keep him, will I take his future upon me. With your consent, I will attend to it that he does no more mischief.”
A momentary cordiality came into the King’s manner; as though recognizing it for the first time, he turned to the figure across the fire with a courteous gesture. “My lord of Ivarsdale! I am much beholden to you. Had any chance wrought evil to the Lord of Baddeby while under my safeguard, my honor would have been as deeply wounded as my feelings.”
As he bowed in acknowledgment, some embarrassment was visible in Sebert’s manner; but he was spared a reply, for after a moment’s rubbing of his chin, the King continued,—