Chapter 11

This I thee counsel tenthly; That thou never trust A foe’s kinsman’s promises, Whose brother thou hast slain, Or sire laid low; There is a wolf In a young son, Though he with gold be gladdened. Sigrdrífumál.

It was a long way to the King’s fire, but at last it lay before her; before and below her, for it had been built in a depression of the little open. The last charred log had fallen apart, spreading a swarm of golden glow-worms over the black earth, there was still enough light to reveal a ring of muffled forms sprawling around the sloping sides of the hollow, with their feet toward the fire and their heads lost in darkness. Pausing in the tree-shadow, the girl thrilled with sudden hope. Since their faces were all hidden, how was she to distinguish her victim? Even the dead must see that it would be impossible. If the burden could only be lifted from her!

Fate was inexorable. At that moment, the warrior directly in front of her stirred in his sleep and flung a jewelled hand over his face. Those broad gold rings with the green stones that sparkled like serpents’ eyes as they caught the light! They were fixed indelibly in her memory, for she had seen them on the rapacious hand that had seized upon her while it was still red with her father’s blood. Only from them, she could reconstruct every hard line of the hidden face. Suddenly, in the rage that rose in her at the recollection, she found determination for the deed.

The sentinel nearest her was snoring at his post; the further one would not be able to reach her in time, even should he see her. Somewhere, far away, a cock was crowing; and it came to her suddenly that the breathlessness about her was the hush that precedes the dawn. There was no time to lose, she told herself feverishly, and moved forward with snake-like stillness. Between the sheltering arm and the neck of the steel shirt there was a space of naked throat. Setting her teeth, she raised her knife and struck down at it with a strong hand.

The point never reached its mark. For an instant she could not tell what had happened. Fingers closed like iron bands around her wrist, pulling her backwards so that the pain of her twisted wound wrung a cry from her lips. They were not Norman’s fingers, yet he also was stirring; while darting flashes from the dusk about them told that the other sleepers were drawing their weapons. Then some one threw a branch-ful of dead leaves upon the fire.

The flame that flared up showed her arm to be in the grasp of the Lord of Ivarsdale.

“You mad young one!” he gasped, as he wrenched the blade from her hold.

Voices rose in angry questioning, but Randalin was too fear-benumbed to understand what they said. Norman’s keen eyes were turned upon her, and recognition was dawning in their gaze.

Suddenly, he snatched her from Sebert’s grasp and held her down to the firelight. Could she have seen the mask which dust and blood had made for her, she would have been spared the terror-swoon that left her limp in his grasp. But it only bewildered her when, after an instant’s scrutiny, he let her fall with an angry laugh.

“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,—

“As regards the boy, however, there is something besides his knife to be taken into consideration. I think we run more risk from his tongue.”

The words of the Earl’s thane fairly grazed the heels of the King’s words: “The imp can do no otherwise than harm, my sovereign. Should he bring his tongue to Danish ears, he could cause the utmost evil. For the safety of the Earl of Mercia,—ay, for your own need,—I entreat you to deliver the boy up to my keeping.”

“I am no less able than the Lord of Baddeby to restrain him,” the Etheling said with some warmth. “If it be your pleasure, King Edmund, I will keep him under my hand until the end of the war, and answer for his silence with my life.”

Then Norman’s eagerness got the better of his discretion.

“Now, by Saint Dunstan,” he cried, “you take too much upon you, Lord of Ivarsdale! The boy’s life is forfeit to me, against whom his crime was directed.” A grim look squared his mouth as suddenly he stretched his hand past Sebert and caught the red cloak.

It may have been this which the Etheling had foreseen, for he was not taken by surprise. Jerking up his sword-arm, he knocked the thane’s hand loose with scant ceremony. “You forget the law of the battle-field, Norman of Baddeby,” he said swiftly. “The life of my captive is mine, and I am the last man to permit it to be taken because he sought a just revenge. I know too well how it feels to hate a father’s murderer.” He shot a baleful glance toward a half-seen figure that all this time had stood motionless in the shadow behind the King.

Probably this figure and the Earl’s thane were the only hearers he was conscious of, but his tone left the words open to all ears. There was a sudden indrawing of many breaths, followed by a frightened silence. The only sound that disturbed it was a growing rustle in the bush around them, which was explained when the old cniht Morcard and some two-score armed henchmen and yeoman-soldiers, singly and in groups, filtered quietly through the shadows and placed themselves at their chief’s back.

But though the King’s brows had met for an instant in a lowering arch, some second thought controlled him. When he spoke, his words were even gracious:

“I think the Lord of Ivarsdale has the right of it. The crime the boy purposed was not carried out; and in each case, Lord Sebert was his captor. I am content to trust to his wardership.”

Sebert’s frank face betrayed his surprise at the complaisance, but he gave his pledge and his thanks with what courtliness he could muster, and releasing his passive prisoner, pushed her gently into the safe-keeping of the old cniht. Yet he was not so obtuse as to step back, as though the incident were closed; he read the King’s inflection more correctly than that. Holding himself somewhat stiff in the tenseness of his feelings, he stood his ground in silent alertness.

A rustle of uneasiness crept the round of the assembled nobles. Only the monarch’s bland composure remained unruffled. Advancing with the deliberate grace that so well became his mighty person, he seated himself upon a convenient boulder and signed the figure in the shadow to draw nearer.

As it obeyed, every one of the yeomen-soldiers strained his eyes in that direction, as though hoping to surprise in the great traitor’s face some secret of his power, the power that had made three kings as wax between his fingers! But just short of the fire-glow the Gainer paused, and the hooded cloak which shrouded him merged him hopelessly into the shadow. Only the hand that rested on his sword-hilt protruded into the light. It was a broad hand, and thick-fingered as a butcher’s, but it was milk-white and weighted with massive rings.

Meanwhile, the King was speaking affably: “As you did not favor us with your presence among the Wise Men, my lord, it is likely that you do not know of the good luck which has befallen our cause. This prudent Earl, who before the battle had concluded with himself that England had so little to hope for from our reign that he was willing to throw his weight against us, has found his victory so without relish that he has become our sworn ally.”

As he paused,—perhaps to leave space for an answer,—the complacency of his face was heightened by a smile, faintly shrewd, touching the corners of his mouth. But when Sebert limited his reply to a respectful inclination of his head, the smile vanished abruptly. Under the affability there became evident a certain stern insistence.

“In former days, I think there was some hostile temper between the Earl and you. But I expect you will see that under the stress of a foreign war all lesser strife must give way. So I desire that you will repeat in my presence the troth already plighted by these others.”

He made a slight gesture, and the Gainer took a step forward. The light that fell back from his hooded face played curiously about his jewelled hand; as it rose from the gilded hilt, it could be seen that to remedy the bluntness of the thick fingers the nails had been allowed to grow very long, which gave it now, in its half-curve, the look of a claw, upon which the red gems shone like blood-drops.

Hesitating, the Etheling went from red to white. Then, with a swift motion, he unsheathed his sword and stretched it out, point-foremost.

“King Edmund,” he said, “in no other way does my hand go forth toward a traitor.”

This time there was no sound of breaths drawn in; it was as though the whole world had ceased breathing. The sternness that had underlain the King’s manner rose slowly and spread over the whole surface of his person, as he drew himself up in towering offence.

“Lord of Ivarsdale, bethink yourself to whom you speak!”

He was royally imposing in his displeasure; the Etheling flushed like a boy before his master; but he had his answer ready, and his head was steadily erect as he gave it.

“King of the Angles, the right of open speech has belonged to my race as long as the right to the crown has belonged to yours. So my father’s fathers spoke to yours under the council-tree, and so I shall speak to you while I live.”

Back in the shadow, each yeoman laid one hand upon his weapon, and with the other, thrust an exulting thumb into his neighbor’s ribs. But they did not turn to look at each other; every eye was fastened upon the two by the fire. Freeman and his leader, or feudal lord and his dependant? For the moment they stood forth as representatives of a mighty conflict, and every breath hung upon their motions.

After a time the King made a slight movement with his shoulders.

“I should have remembered,” he said, “that your father was ruined by rebellion.”

In a flash the rebel’s son had forgotten boyish embarrassment. “Whoso told you that, royal lord, told you lies. My father stood upon his right. Steel to turn against the Danes, Ethelred had a right to require; and steel my father was ready to pay. But Ethelred demanded gold, and the Lord of Ivarsdale would not stoop to bribe. Nor has it been proven that his policy was wrong,” he added under his breath.

Then there was no longer any doubt concerning the position of Ethelred’s son. He said with deliberate emphasis, “The only policy which concerns those of your station is obedience.”

If there was enough of the old free blood left in the King’s thanes to redden their cheeks, that was all there was. But while they stood in silence, a mutter ran like a growl through the ranks of yeomen; the gaze they bent upon their leader had in it almost the force of a command.

He was young, their chief, too young for impassivity. Despite himself, his hands trembled with excitement. But there was no tremor in his words.

“We of Ivarsdale do not profess such obedience, King Edmund. That is for thanes and for the unfree, who owe their all to your generosity. Our land we hold as our fathers held it—from God’s bounty and the might of our swords. When we have paid the three taxes of fort-building and bridge-building and field-service, we have paid all that we owe to the State.”

At last they stood defined, the first of the feudal lords and the last of the odal-born men. Even through the King’s loftiness it was suddenly borne in that, behind the insignificance of the revolt, loomed a mighty principle, mighty enough to merit force. For the first time he stooped to a threat, though still it was tinged with scorn.

“I observe that the men of your race have not been of great importance in the land. It appears that Ethelred was able to do without the rebel Lord of Ivarsdale.”

“I admit that he was able to lose his crown without him,” the rebel’s son retorted swiftly.

The King’s wounded dignity bled in his cheeks; he was stung into a movement that brought him to his feet.

“This is insufferable!” he cried. It was evident that the crisis had come. While the Etheling faced him with a defiance that in its utter abandon was a little mad, a sensation as of bracing muscles and setting teeth went around the group. Several of the thanes laid their hands upon their swords. And the half-dozen ealdormen present bent toward one another in hasty consultation. At an almost imperceptible sign from the old cniht, the henchmen made a noiseless step nearer their master. There were not more than a dozen of them, but behind them loomed some two-score yeomen-soldiers, with a score more in the brush at their back; and the faces of all told more plainly than words what it would mean to attack them.

But the blood of Cerdic, once fired, burned too rapidly for policy. Edmund’s jaw was set in savage menace as he turned and beckoned to his guard. Had he spoken the words on his lips, there is little doubt what his order would have been.

Interruption came from an unexpected quarter. Even as his lips were opening, that white taloned hand reached out of the shadow and touched his arm.

“Most royal lord! If it may be permitted me?” Earl Edric said swiftly.

His voice was very low, and every roughness had been filed away until it flowed like oil. Upon the King’s wounded temper it appeared to fall as softly as drops of healing balm. With his mouth still set, he paused and bent his ear. There was a murmur of whispered words.

What they were no one ever knew, and each man had a different theory; but their result was plain to all. Slowly Edmund’s knitted brows unravelled; slowly his mouth relaxed into its wonted curves. At last he had regained all his lofty composure and turned back.

“Lord of Ivarsdale, I am not rich of time, and my present need is too great to spare any of it to the chastising of rebellious boys. Go back to your toy kingdom, and lord it over your serfs until I find leisure to teach you who is master.” Making a disdainful gesture of dismissal, he turned with deliberate grace and entered into conversation with the Mercian.

At the moment, it is likely that the young noble would have preferred arrest. The utter scorn of word and act lashed the blood to his cheeks and the tears to his eyes. With boyish passion, he snatched the sword from its sheath, and breaking it in pieces across his knee, flung the fragments clinking into the dead embers.

But if he had hoped to provoke an answer, it was in vain; the King deigned him no further notice. Resuming his seat, Edmund continued to talk quietly with the Earl, a half-smile playing about his complacent chin.

The old cniht bent forward and whispered in his chief’s ear: “Make haste, Lord Sebert; they will be cheering in a moment, the churls; so pleased are they at the thought of going home. Hasten with your retiring.”

It was a clever appeal. Forgetting, for the moment, humiliation in responsibility, the young leader whirled to his men. A gesture, a muttered order, and they were drawing back among the trees in silent retreat. A few steps more, and the bushes had blotted out the Ironside and his thanes.