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The Ward of King Canute

O >> Ottilie A Liljencrantz >> The Ward of King Canute




Once more, Lord Sebert, be exhorted to turn back," old Morcard spurred forward
to offer a last remonstrance as city gates yawned before them. "Even if the
message be genuine, you are putting your life in peril. If men speak rightly,
Gloucester Town is no better than a camp of carousing Danes. Is it likely that
they care enough about this peace to stick at so small a thing as man-
slaying?"

The Etheling replied without slackening his pace: "I do not think they are
liable to molest a peaceful traveller. I will take care that I upheave no
strife, and I will make all my inquiries of the monks."

"Go a little more slowly, lord, and consider the other side of it," the old
cniht entreated. "Suppose the message is false,--the black tress around it
proves nothing. Suppose the son of Lodbrok has spread a net for you?"

"Then should I keep on my way still more lustily," the Lord of Ivarsdale
answered, "for his making use of the boy's name to entice me would show that
he had discovered our friendship, in which case the youngling would be
suffering from his anger."

The old man plucked violently at his beard as the walls loomed clearer before
them. "Lord, you have already gone through some risk in leaving home. It is by
no means impossible that Edmund will fall upon the Tower during your absence."

"Edmund is too busy with big game at Oxford to have that trouble about such
quarry as I," the young man said lightly, "and the Gainer is not likely to
stir far from Edmund while land is being distributed." Then, sobering, he gave
the other a grave glance over his shoulder. "Even though the errand for danger
could not be accomplished, how could I do less than undertake it? Did not the
boy go through some risk for me when he betrayed his own countryman to get me
out of a hard place? Had they guessed his treason, they would have torn him in
pieces. I owe him a debt which it concerns my honor to pay. It lies not on
your shoulders, however,--" his gravity gave way to his gay smile,--"if it is
more pleasant for you not to enter the city, you may ride back to the hostelry
we passed, and await me in its shelter."

The old cniht's courage was too well approved to require any defence.
Contenting himself with an indignant grunt, he reined back to his place at the
head of the dozen armed servants who formed the Etheling's safeguard, and the
young lord galloped on between the bare fields, humming absently under his
breath.

"Poor bantling!" he was thinking compassionately. "I shall be right glad to
get sight of him again. I hope he will not betray himself in his joy when he
sees me. Anything like showing that one is fond of him is apt to turn him a
little soft."

None of these undercurrents was visible in his face however, when, having left
his escort in one of the outer courts, he stood at last in the parlor of the
Abbey guest-house.

"I am a traveller, reverend brother, journeying from London to Worcester," he
said with grave courtesy to the gaunt black-robed monk who admitted him. "And
my errand hither is to ask refreshment for myself and my men, as we have been
in the saddle since cockcrow."

"The brother whose duty it is to attend upon travellers is at this hour in the
Chapter House, with the rest of the household," the monk made answer. "When he
comes forth, I will acquaint him with your needs. Until then, bide here, and I
will bring you a morsel to stay your stomach."

Sebert smiled his satisfaction as the sandals pattered away. He had foreseen
this interval of waiting, indeed, he had timed his arrival to gain it,--and it
was his design to put it to good use. While he swallowed what he wanted of the
wafers and wine which were brought him, he took measure of the reverend
servitor, with the result that, as he set down the goblet, he ventured a
question.

"From the numbers and heaps of attendants I saw in the outer courts, holy
brother, it appears that this season of peace has in no way lessened the tax
on your generosity. Is rumor right in declaring the Danish King to be one of
the guests of your bounty?"

Either it was the agreeable presence of the young noble which relaxed the
Benedictine's austerity, or else the fact that Sebert had left half his wine
in his cup. The holy man answered with unwonted readiness.

"Rumor, which is the mother of lies, has given birth to one truth, noble
stranger. The King whom a chastening Providence has set over the northern half
of the Island, has been our guest for the space of four weeks,--together with
the gold-bought English woman who is known as his 'Danish wife.'" The monk's
watery eyes were rolled upward in pious disapproval, before he turned them
earthward with a sigh of resignation. "Nevertheless, it is the will of Heaven,
--and he is very open-handed with lands and gold when his meals please him."
He cast a thirsty glance toward the half-filled goblet which Sebert was
absently fingering. "If you have eagerness for a sight of him, you have but to
walk through the galleries until you come to the garden in which he is
fleeting his time with his women."

"Now I think I should like to take a look at him while I am waiting," the
Etheling assented, rising gravely. "Should Edmund be the first to pay the debt
of nature, which God avert! the Dane will become my King also. Is it this door
that commands the cloister?"

"The door on your left," the monk corrected; and shuffled away lest some
envious chance should snatch the cup from him before his thirsty throat could
close on the sweet remnant.

At the moment that he was making sure of his booty in the safe darkness of a
passage, the Lord of Ivarsdale was pursuing his object along the chill
enclosure of the gallery. The November sunlight that, unsoftened by any filter
of rich-tinted glass, fell coldly upon the worn stone, showed the carrels
beneath the windows to be one and all deserted by their monkish occupants, and
he strode along unhampered by curious eye or ear.

"After all this luck," he congratulated himself, "it will go hard with me if I
do not either stumble on the youngling himself, or someone who can give me
news of him."

He had no more than thought it, when the sound reached him of a door closing
somewhere along the next side of the square, followed by the clank of spurred
feet coming heavily toward him. As they drew nearer, the rattle of a sword
also became audible. Lifting his eyebrows dubiously, the Etheling grasped his
own weapon beneath his cloak.

When the feet had brought their owner around the corner into sight, he did not
feel that his motion had been a mistaken one, for the man who was advancing
was Rothgar Lodbroksson. It flashed through Sebert's mind that the old cniht's
forebodings had not been without cause, and that Ivarsdale was in danger of
changing masters by a process much quicker than a month's siege. He stared in
amazement when the Dane, instead of flashing out his blade, stopped short with
a burst of jeering laughter.

"Here is the Englishman arrived, and he looks small enough now!" he cried in
his thunderous voice. "Has it happened that I am to be the bower-thane who is
to fetch you in!"

Sebert's grasp tightened around his hilt. Apparently the son of Lodbrok was
expecting him! Yet even on a forlorn hope, he deemed it wise not to commit
himself. He said with what haughtiness he could muster, "What should a plain
traveller want with a bower-thane, Danishman? I stand in more need of the
cellarer who is to provide me with a meal."

Another jeering outburst interrupted him. "Now I say nothing against it if you
declare yourself looking for sweetmeats! Well, I will be the cellarer, and
lead you to them."

"I do not understand you," Sebert said slowly, and quite truthfully.

The Dane grinned at him. "I mean that I will fetch you in to the one who sent
you the summons."

"The one who sent you the summons?" Certainly that sounded as though he were
using the words to conceal a name. Neither the Etheling's patience nor his
temper was long enough to reach below the knee. He made a swift gesture of
throwing aside all reserve. "Enough of mystery, Danishman! If the message
which I have received was not sent by Fridtjof Frodesson, it was sent by you.
Be honest enough to admit it and say plainly what your intention is toward
me."

"Fridtjof Frodesson," the Jotun mocked, and his fiery eyes probed the
Englishman like knives. "Now since honesty is to your wish, I will go so far
as to confess that the word came neither from Frode's son nor from me."

Sebert's foot rang upon the ground. "Say then that the Devil sent it, and a
truce to this juggling! Since you know that I am the boy's friend, you
understand that any harm he has suffered is a harm to me, and that my sword is
equally ready to avenge it."

Much to his surprise, the Dane accorded this challenge no notice whatever. He
stood studying the Lord of Ivarsdale with eyes in which malicious amusement
was growing into open mirth. It came out in another laugh. "Now it would be
more unlikely than the wonder which has occurred, yet I begin to believe you!
I myself will guide you to your Fridtjof, only for the pleasure of watching
your face. The Fates are no such step-mothers after all!" He turned in the
direction from which he had come and made the other a sign. "This way, if you
dare to follow. I am not afraid to go first, so you need give no thought of
the chances of steel between your ribs."

The Etheling took his hand off his weapon with a twinge of shame; but he was
not without misgivings as he strode along at Rothgar's heels. Unless the
youngling had made a decided change for the worse, what satisfaction could the
Jotun expect to get from witnessing their meeting? Before his mind, there rose
again the tear-stained boyish face which had bidden him farewell that night at
the postern, and his pulses throbbed with a fierce pity.

"He took himself from the one person who was dear to him, poor little cub," he
murmured. "If they have maimed him, I swear I will tuck him under my arm and
cut my way out though there be a wall of the brutes around him."

His musings came to an end, as the man preceding him stopped suddenly where
one of the milky panes broken from the cloister window gave a view of the
cloister garden. With the cold November sunshine a hum of voices was coming
in, now brightened by peals of laughter, again blurred by the thud of falling
quoits. Over the Jotun's shoulder, he caught a glimpse of gorgeous nobles and
fair-haired women scattered in graceful groups about a sunny old garden, green
in the very face of winter, thanks to the protecting shelter of the gray
walls.

Only a glimpse,--for even as he looked, Rothgar caught his cloak and pulled
him ahead. "Yonder door is a better place to look through; already it is open,
and the shadow inside is thick enough to hide us."

Pricked as he was by a dozen spurs, Sebert offered no resistance. In a moment,
they stood just out of reach of the square of light which fell through the
open doorway. Framed in carved stone, the quaint old garden with its gravelled
paths, its weedless turfs and its background of ivy-hung walls, lay before
them like a picture.

In the longest of the oval spaces, a group of maidens and warriors were
gathered to watch a wonderful flower-faced woman play at quoits under the
instruction of a noble tutor. At every one of her graceful blunders her
laughter rang out in fairy music, which was sweetly echoed by her maids; but
the men appeared to see nothing but her beauty as she poised herself lightly
before them like some shining azure bird on tiptoe for flight. Sebert paid her
the tribute of a quickly drawn breath, even as he took his eyes from her to
scan the butterfly pages who ran to and fro, recovering the gilded rings.
Yellow hair and red hair and brown hair curled on their gaudy shoulders, but
no black. In all the picture there was but one figure crowned with such raven
locks as had distinguished Fridtjof the Bold, and that figure belonged to a
girl standing directly opposite by the mossy curb of the old well, which,
guarded by a circle of carefully tended trees, rose like an altar in the
centre of the inclosure. Four of the red-cloaked Danish nobles stood about
her,--and one of them wore a golden circlet upon the gold of his hair,--but
the Etheling's eyes passed them almost unheedingly to dwell upon the
black-tressed maiden.

Something about her, while it was entirely strange, was yet so absurdly
familiar. She was some very high-born lady, there could be no doubt of that,
for the delicate fabric of her trailing kirtle was flowered with gold, and
gold and coral were twined in the dusky softness of her hair and hung around
her neck in a costly chain, which the King was fingering idly as he talked
with her. Now she looked up to answer the jesting words, and the man in the
passage saw her smile and shake back her clustering curls with a gesture so
familiar... so familiar...

Rothgar's gloating eyes detected light breaking in his victim's face,
incredulity, amazement, consternation; and he began to jeer under his breath.
"A great joy is this that you see your Fridtjof again! Why do you not go in
boldly and rescue him? Does he not look to be in need of your help?" To stifle
his laughter, he muffled his head in his cloak and leaned, shaking, against
the wall.

Flushing a deeper and deeper red, the Lord of Ivarsdale stared at the smiling
maiden. Just so, a hundred times, she had lifted her sparkling face toward
him, and he--fool that he was!--where had been his eyes? Perhaps it is not
strange that after the surprise had faded from his look, the first feeling to
show was bitterest mortification. Turning, he forced a laugh between his
teeth.

"I do not deny you the right to be amused. You speak truly that she needs no
help from me. I will hinder you no longer."

Rothgar leaped forward to bar the passage, and the mantle that fell from his
face showed no laughter of mouth or eyes. "I have not as yet spoken harm, but
it is not sure that I do not mean it," he said. "If you take it in this manner
to see how you have been tricked, you may suppose how well I like it to
remember the lies she fed to me, who would have staked my life upon her
truthfulness. It is not allowed me to take revenge on her for her treachery,
but I think I need not spare you, as you got the profit of her falseness."

The Etheling's sword was out while the other was still speaking. "By Saint
Mary, do you imagine that I am fearful of you? Never in my life was I more
thirsty for fighting."

But Rothgar pushed the blade aside with his naked palm. "Not here, where she
could come between. Besides, the King wants a thrust at you first. Nor have
you yet greeted Randalin, Frode's daughter." His hand, which was itching for a
sword, began to tear the fur from his cloak, and his lips curved in a grin
that had in it little of mirth. "Certainly you would not rob the maiden of the
pleasure of seeing the one she has taken so much trouble for?" he mocked.

On the verge of an angry retort, Sebert paused to regard him, a suspicion
darting spark-like through his mind. Did the Jotun's words smack of jealousy?
It was true that it needed not that to explain their bitterness, and yet--
What more natural than that the King's foster-brother should love the King's
ward? If it was so, it was small wonder the girl had said that he would slay
her when he discovered her unfaithfulness. Unfaithfulness! Sebert started. Had
she not in that very word acknowledged a bond? Not only did he love her, but
she must have returned his affections. The spark of suspicion flared into a
flame. That would solve so many riddles. For one, her presence in the Danish
camp,--for surely, as a chieftain's daughter, she would have been sent on to
the care of the Lady of Northampton! Was it not thoroughly in accordance with
her elfish wildness to have chosen man's attire and the roughness of camp-life
in order to remain near her lover? Her lover! The young noble's lips curled as
he glanced at the warrior beside him, at the coarse face under the unkempt
locks, at the huge body in its trap-pings of stained gaudiness. Involuntarily,
he looked again at the group by the well. She was very winsome in her smiling,
and the graceful lines of her trailing robes, their delicacy and soft
richness, threw about her all the glamour of rank and state. He clenched his
hands at the thought of such treasures thrown down for brutal feet to trample
on; and his heart grew hot with anger against her, anger and scorn that were
almost loathing, that she who looked so fine should be so poor, so--But he did
not finish his thought, for on its heels came another, a recollection that
stayed his anger and changed his scorn to compunction. However dear Rothgar
might have been to her, he could be dear no longer, or she would never have
betrayed his trust and dared his hate to save Ivarsdale Tower--and its master.
Sebert winced and put up his hand to shut out the vision as he realized at
whose feet her heart lay now, like a pitiful bruised flower.

Meanwhile, the son of Lodbrok had been drawing heavily on his scant stock of
patience. Suddenly, he ran out completely. Seizing the Etheling by the
shoulders, before he could raise finger in resistance, he thrust him through
the open doorway into the garden, a target for every startled glance. After
which, he himself stalked grimly on to await him at the city gate.




Chapter XXII

How The Lord of Ivarsdale Paid His Debt


To his friend
A man should be a friend,
And gifts with gifts requite.
Ha'vama'l.

A moment, it was to Randalin, Frode's daughter, as if the heavens had let fall
a star at her feet. Then her wonder changed to exultation, as she realized
that it was not chance but because of her bidding that the man she loved stood
before her. Only because she had asked it, he had come through pitfalls and
death-traps, and now faced, alone, the gathered might of his foes. Glorying in
his deed, she stood shining sun-like upon him until the red cloaks of the
advancing warriors came between like scarlet clouds.

"Who are you? .... What is your errand? .... How came you here?" she heard
them demand. And, after a pause, in disbelieving chorus, "Rothgar Lodbroksson!
.... Does that sound likely? .... Where is he, then?" "You are trying to lie
out of something--" "You are an English spy! Seize him! Bind him!"

The scarlet cloaks drew together into a swaying mass; a dozen blades glittered
in the sun. With a gasp, she came out of her trance to catch at the royal
mantle.

"Lord King, you promised to give him safety!" The seriousness which had
darkened Canute's face at the intrusion vanished off it as breath-mist off a
mirror. "Is it only your Englishman?" he asked, between a laugh and a frown.

She grudged the time the words took. "Yes, yes! Pray be as quick as you can!"

He did not seem bitten by her haste, but he took a step forward, clanging his
gold-bound scabbard against the stone well-curbing to make himself heard.
"Unhand the Lord of Ivarsdale, my chiefs," he ordered. As they sent him
incredulous glances over their shoulders, he further explained his will by a
gesture; and they fell away, murmuring, the swords gliding like bright
serpents back to their holes. Then he made another sign, this time to the
stranger. "We will accept your greeting now, Englishman, even though you have
been hindered in the giving of it," he said politely.

Standing there, watching the young noble advance, it seemed to Randalin that
there was not room between her heart-beats for her breathing. How soon would
he look up and know her? How would his face change when he did? His color now
was a match for the warriors' cloaks, and there was none of his usual ease in
his manner when at last he bowed before the King. Presently it occurred to her
to suspect that he had already recognized her,--perhaps from the doorway,--and
in her rush of relief at the idea of the shock being over, she found even an
impulse of playfulness. Borrowing one of Elfgiva's graces, she swept back her
rustling draperies in a ceremonious courtesy before him.

Again he bent in his bow of stiff embarrassment; but he did not meet her
glance even then, returning his gaze, soldier-like, to the King. Suppose he
were going to treat her with the haughtiness she had seen him show Hildelitha
or the old monk when they had displeased him! At the mere thought of it, she
shrank and dropped her eyes to the coral chain that she was twining between
her fingers.

The awkwardness of the pause seemed to afford Canute a kind of mischievous
amusement, for all the courtesy in which he veiled it. His voice was almost
too cheerful as he addressed the Etheling. "Now as always it can be told about
my men that they stretch out their hands to greet strangers," he said, "but I
ask you not to judge all Danish hospitality from this reception, Lord of
Ivarsdale. Since Frode's daughter has told me who you are, I take it for
granted that they were wrong, and that you came here with no worse intention
than to obey her invitation."

His glance sharpened a little as he pronounced those last words, and the
girl's hands clasped each other more tightly as she perceived the snare in the
phrase. If the Etheling should answer unheedingly or obscurely, so that it
should not be made quite clear to the King--

But it appeared that the Etheling was equally anxious that Canute should not
believe him the lover of Frode's daughter. His reply was distinct to
bluntness: "Part of your guess is as wrong as part of it is right, King of the
Danes. Certainly I came here with no thought of evil toward you, but neither
had I any thought soever of the Lady Randalin, of whose existence I was
ignorant. I answered the call of Fridtjof Frodesson, to whom I owe and I pay
all the service which lies in my power,--as it is likely you know."

Did his voice soften as he recalled his debt? Randalin ventured to steal a
glance at his face,--then her own clouded with puzzlement. No haughtiness was
in it, but a kind of impatient pain, and now he winced under the smart and
stirred restlessly in his place. The lightness of the King's voice grated on
her ear.

"Then I think you must have got surprised, if this is true, which seems
impossible."

The Etheling answered almost impatiently, "If your mind feels doubt of it,
Lord Canute, you have but to ask your foster-brother, who conducted me
hither."

A while longer, Canute's keen eyes weighed him; then their sky was cleared of
the last cloud. The best expression of which his brilliant face was capable
was on it as he turned and held out his hand to the girl beside him.

"Shall we pledge our friendship anew, Frode's daughter?" was all he said; but
she knew from his look that he had taken her under his shield for all time to
come; and it was something to know, now when her world seemed falling about
her. For an instant, as she yielded her trembling fingers to his palm, her
groping spirit turned and clung to him, craving his sympathy.

It seemed that he divined the appeal, for with the hand that pressed hers he
drew her forward a step. "Is it not your wish to speak to the Lord of
Ivarsdale yourself and thank him for keeping his troth with Fridtjof?" he said
kindly; and without waiting for an answer, moved away and joined a group of
those who had been his companions before the interruption.

At last she stood face to face with the man she loved, face to face, and
alone. And still he neither spoke to her nor looked at her! So strange and
terrible was it all that it gave her resolution to speak and end it. Her
Viking blood could not color her cheeks, but her Viking courage found her a
whisper in which to offer her plea for the "sun-browned boy-bred wench."

"Lord, it is difficult to know whether or not to expect your friendship,
for--for I have heard what your mind feels toward most matters--and you see
now what I have done--"

Did he wince again? She paused in astonishment. It could not be that he was
surprised,--was it displeasure? Her words came a little more swiftly, a tremor
of passionate pleading thrilling through them.

"You need not think that I did it willingly, lord. Very roughly has fortune
handled me. The reason I first came into camp-life was that I trusted someone
too much, knowing no more of the world than my father's house. And after the
bonds were laid on me, it was not easy to rule matters. The helplessness of a
woman is before the eyes of all people--"

His words broke through hers: "No more, I beseech you!" His voice was broken
and unsteady as she had never known it. "Who am I that I should blame you? Do
not think me so--so despisable! If unknowingly I have done you any wrong when
I owe you--" He paused and she guessed that it had swept over him afresh how
much he did owe her. Perhaps also how much he had promised to pay?

"There will be no recompense that you can ask at my hands which I shall not be
glad to give," he had said; and she had checked him, bidding him wait to see
if he would have more than pity. If he should have no more! She dared not look
at him but she felt that he opened his lips to speak, then turned away,
stifling a groan. It seemed to her that her breath ceased while she waited,
and her hands tightened on the coral chain so that suddenly it burst and
scattered the beads like rosy symbols of her hopes. If he should have no more!

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