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Updated: June 10, 2025
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.
A merry chorus mocked her: "Is it to watch the roses that you have put on the gown which matches your eyes, you sly one?"... "And the lilies in your hair, sweet? Is it to shelter them from the rain that you wear them?"... "Fie, Tata! Can you not fib yet without changing color?" But Elfgiva raised an impatient hand.
"She is a foolish woman," Randalin said impatiently, "and if she do not take care, she will feel it for speaking so. See how his fingers tap his belt for all that his face is so still." His face was curiously still as he regarded the beautiful Elfgiva, and stilly curious, as though he were examining some familiar object in a new light. "You believe then that I had him murdered?" he asked.
How they liked it was suggested by a bursting roar, and the scuffling of many feet as the English leaped forward to protect their new King and the Danes whirled to meet them, but the women in the gallery did not wait to see the outcome. In a frenzy of terror, Elfgiva dragged up the kneeling maids and herded them through the door. "Go, before they get into the ante-room!" she gasped.
Whirling, he flung out his bleeding hand toward Elfgiva, and his mouth was distorted with its bitterness. "Hear that, you who were so mad to have your lord the King of England that you could not spend a thought on the love of Canute of Denmark! You have got your wish, go back now to your Northamptonshire castle and think whether or not you are gladdened by it." "Go back!"
The seed had rooted so far that Elfgiva did not disclaim the intention; but she hesitated a long time, pulling nervously at the embroidered top of her riding glove. "In what direction lie the goldsmiths?" she asked at last. "Straight ahead, lady.
"It is the waste-place of ruins," Elfgiva said on the day of their arrival, when the monk who guided them proudly identified the brick portions as fragments of the old Roman Temple to Apollo, the wooden door-posts as beams from the Saxon Seberht's refectory, and the stone walls as contributions from Dunstan's chapel, which the Danes of the year one thousand and twelve had reduced to a crumbling pile.
Bending, she peered curiously under the branches. "I wonder if it has happened that the King has sent someone to meet us?" she exclaimed. "I see a gleam of scarlet, lady," the maiden of the riverbank came to tell her eagerly. But even as Elfgiva was turning to despatch a page for news, the throng of moving figures parted, and from it two horsemen emerged and rode toward them.
Voices and horns made a joyous uproar when the King led forth his lady and her fair following; and he smiled with pleasure at the welcome and the picturesque beauty of the gay throng between the gray old walls. "Now how could I come upon a better sight if I were the King of a hundred islands?" he demanded of Elfgiva.
One may know how a person is thought of by the way in which folk name them often enough, and though our king would have had his young wife called by her English name, Elfgiva, none ever did so. Her Norman, foreign name was all we used. If she had been loved, we should have rejoiced to name her in our own way.
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