“I hold to it with both hands,” the lady returned with a gayety which had in it a touch of defiance. “Nor will I consent to do anything except that alone. We will partake in the excitement of your sport, and each of these brave heroes of yours shall answer for the safety of one of us.” A gesture of her hand included Thorkel the Tall, the two Northern jarls, and the King’s foster-brother.
“And is it your belief that a man can at the same time chase a boar and talk fine words to a woman?” Canute demanded between amusement and impatience. “Call it a ride, if you will, but leave the boar out for reason’s sake, as he would leave us out ere we were so much as on his track.”
She gave him a sidelong glimpse of her wonderful eyes, and drooped her head like a lily grown heavy on its stem. “Would that be so great a misfortune then?” she murmured. “Do you think it unpleasant to be passing your time at my side?”
Smiling, he watched the play of her long silken lashes, yet shook his head. “Nay, when I hunt, I hunt,” he said. “I would have idled in your bower if you had chosen it, but you urged me to this, and now if it happens that you cannot keep up, you must bear your deed.”
As one casts aside an ill-fitting glove, she threw aside her pouts, looking up at him with a flash of dainty mimicry. “Hear the fiery Thor! Take notice that I shall bear all down before me like a man mowing ripe corn. You cannot guess how much warlikeness I have caught from my Valkyria.” She glanced back where the girl in the short tunic stood drawing on her gloves, a picture of stormy beauty.
Amused, the King’s eyes followed hers, then lighted with sudden purpose. “As you will,” he laughed, “and I will give your Valkyria a steed that shall match her appearance.” Advancing again, he spoke to a groom; and the signal set the whole party in motion.
Randalin heard his words, but at the moment she was too deep in angry embarrassment to heed them. It seemed to her that every eye in the throng was fastened upon her as she walked forward, that every mouth buzzed comment behind her. It was not until she was in the saddle that his intention reached her understanding.
The powerful black charger, which a groom led toward her, had been pawing and arching his glossy neck impatiently since the first horn set his blood-drops dancing; at the touch of her foot upon the stirrup, he snorted satisfaction through his wide-flaring nostrils and would have leaped forward like a stone from a sling, if the man had not hung himself upon the bit. The girl awoke to surprise as she barely managed to reach her seat by the most agile of springs.
“This is not the horse I ride, Dudda! He must belong to one of the nobles.”
“He is—the horse—that King Canute said—you should take,” the man panted, as he struggled to keep his footing. “He said to fetch—Praise Odin!” For at that moment, Canute’s silver horn gave the signal, and he was free to leap aside.