The Ward of King Canute Part 24

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 ma.s.s; 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 n.o.ble 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 embarra.s.sment; 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 pa.s.sionate 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!

At last he turned and came a step nearer her, courtly and n.o.ble as he had always been. "I owe to you everything I have, even life itself," he said, "and I offer them all in payment of the debt. May I ask the King to give you to me for my wife?"

In its infinite gentleness, his voice was almost tender. For as long as the s.p.a.ce between one breath and the next, her spirit leaped up and stretched out its arms to its joy; but she stayed it on the threshold of utterance to look fearfully into his face, whose every shade was open to her as the day. Looking into his eyes, she knew that it was no more than pity. He guessed that she loved him and he pitied her; but he could not forgive her unmaidenliness, he could not love her.

Slowly and quite easily she felt her heart die in her breast, leaving only the sh.e.l.l, the husk, of what had been Randalin, Frode's daughter.

Her first thought Was a vague wonder that after it she could breathe and move as if she were still alive. Her next, a piteous desire to escape from him while she had this strength, before the end should really come. Clutching the broken chain, she drew herself up bravely, her words coming in uneven breathfuls. "I want not that recompense, lord. I want--nothing you have to give. Little shall you think of the debt,--or think that in helping you, I repaid you for your hospitality, your--"

Her voice broke as the memory of that time pa.s.sed over her like bitter waters, and she was obliged to stand silent before him, steadying her lip with her teeth, until the waters had fallen. She had a faint consciousness that he was speaking to her, but she did not understand what he said, she did not care. Her only wish was for words that should send him away so that she might be free to sink down beside the old well and press her burning face against its smooth coldness and finish dying there.

"It was the King who sent for you, that he might know whether I had spoken the truth concerning my disguise--" she said when at last her voice returned. "Now, by coming, you have helped me against his anger,--let that settle all debt between us. I thank you much and--and I bid you farewell." Again Elfgiva's schooling came to her mind and she swayed before him in a courtesy. She even bent her lips into a little smile so that he should not be sorry for her and stay to tell her so.

She did not know that her cheeks were as white as her kerchief, that her eyes were dark wells of unshed tears. She knew only that at last he was bowing, he was turning, in a moment more he would be gone--But just short of that point he stopped, and all motion around her appeared to stop, as a noise down the corridor blotted out every sound in the garden,--the noise of a great body of people rousing the echoes with jubilant shouting.

"The King! The King!" could be heard again and again, and after it a burst of deafening cheers that drowned the rest.

Elfgiva dropped the gilded quoits to wring her hands. "Is it the English, my lord?" she implored of Eric of Norway. "Is it the English attacking us? Shall we be killed?"

"Think you that Danes cheer like that when they are expecting death?"

the Norseman rea.s.sured her with a hearty laugh. "It is good news,--great news since the whole mob has thought it safe to bring it. Hark! Can you hear what it is that they add after the King's name?"

Listening, everyone stood motionless as the babel came nearer with a swiftness which spoke much for the speed of the shouters. Only Randalin's little red shoe began to tap the earth impatiently. What did it matter what they said?

"Hail to Canute of Denmark!" "Hail to the King of the Danes and--" Again cheers drowned the rest.

The pages, who had sped at the first alarm like a covey of gay birds, came panting back, tumbling over one another in their efforts to impart the news.

"A messenger!" "A messenger from Oxford--" "From Edric--" "Edmund is--" "--Edmund--" "A messenger!" one cancelled another in the wild excitement.

Elfgiva caught the nearest and shook him until his teeth chattered; and in the lull, the swelling shout reached them for the first time unbroken: "Honor to the King! Hail to the King of the Danes and the Angles!"

From the Lord of Ivarsdale came a cry, sharp as though a heart-string had snapped in its utterance, the tie that for generations had bound those of his blood to the house of Cerdic.

"Edmund?"

The mob of soldiers and servants that burst through the doorway answered his question with exultant shouts: "Edmund is dead! Edmund is dead! Long live Canute the King! King of the Danes and the Angles!"

Unbidden, memory raised before Randalin a picture of the English camp-fire in the glade, with the English King standing in its light and the hooded figure bending from the shadow behind him, its white taloned hand resting on his sleeve. An instant she shivered at it; then again her foot stirred with unendurable restlessness. If he was dead, he was dead, and there was no more to be said. Was the Etheling always going to stand as though he were turned to stone? Would he never----

Ah, at last he was moving! As if the news had only just reached home to him, she saw him draw himself together sharply and stride toward the door; and she watched feverishly to see if anyone would think to stop him. One group he pa.s.sed--and another--and another--now he was on the threshold. Her pulses leaped as she recognized Rothgar, in the throng pouring into the garden with the messenger, but quieted again when she saw that the two pa.s.sed shoulder to shoulder without a look, without a thought, for each other. Now he was out of sight.

She let her suspended breath go from her in a long sigh. "It is good that everyone is too excited to notice what I do," she said to herself.

And even as she said it she realized that her limbs were shaking under her, that she was sick unto faintness. "I am going to finish dying now, and I welcome it," she murmured. Staggering to a little bench under one of the old oaks, she sank down upon it and leaned her head against the tree trunk and waited.