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Updated: June 4, 2025
To-day, when the Lord of Ivarsdale came unnoticed into the dim light while the last strains of the vesper service were rising, there were no more than a score of worshippers scattered through the north aisle, a handful of women, wives of the Abbot's military tenants, a trader bound for the land beyond the ford, a couple of yeomen and a hollow-eyed pilgrim, drifting with the current of his unsteady mind.
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.
"Lord of Ivarsdale, you act in the thoughtless way of youth. I was bringing the matter gently " But the young man accomplished his purpose in spite of the elder. He did not address the King's wife indeed, he refrained even from looking at her but he spoke swiftly to the dark-haired girl who stood beside the seat.
Your life shall answer for any harm that comes to him." With one hand, he struck down the murmur that was rising; with the other he made an urgent gesture of haste, which Orvar seemed to understand. Even while he was returning to the Lord of Ivarsdale his sword, he seized him by the arm and hurried him down the room, the Etheling walking like a man in a dream.
"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.
For the Lord of Ivarsdale had suddenly grown very stiff and grave; there was something curiously haughty in the quiet distinctness of his words. "I have brought the boy home by reason of the King's command that he be held in safety and because it was my pleasure to succor him.
"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.
Answering a question from the King, Rothgar began to speak, his heavy voice seeming to fill all the space from floor to ceiling: "By all the laws of war, King Canute, the Odal of Ivarsdale should come to me. The first son of Lodbrok took the land before ever this Angle's kin had seen it. He built the tower that stands on it, and the name it bears to this day is the name of his giving.
In the midst of it, the Lord of Ivarsdale looked around and found that Fridtjof the page was crying as though his heart would break. "How! Tears, my Beowulf!" he said in amazement. She was far beyond words, the girl in the page's dress; she could only bury her face deeper in her slender hands and try to control the sobs that shook her from head to foot.
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