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Updated: June 29, 2025
"I should expect it would be told me that I am a prisoner, whereat I should weep for rage." Another flash of daring lighted Randalin's eyes, though her mouth remained quiet. "A good way to keep them from thinking you a prisoner, lady, is to act like a free woman," she said. "I shall tell them that you are going to the Palace to see your husband."
"I am desirous to to tell him something," Red Cloak faltered. His grin vanishing, the man leaned forward alertly. "Is it war news? Of Edric Jarl's men?" Before her tongue could move, Randalin's surprised face had answered. The warrior smote his thigh resoundingly. "You will be able to tell us tidings we wish to know.
Bending forward, with strained ears and starting eyes, the spectators saw that the Northern King was speaking, eagerly, with now and then an impulsive gesture, while the English King listened motionless. "Has he got out of his wits?" the Scar-Cheek roared, fairly dancing with impatience. In Randalin's face a flash of memory was struggling with bewilderment.
But Randalin's head was shaking too decidedly, though she was not ungentle in her answering. "I give you thanks, Sister Wynfreda, but such a life is not for me. My nature is such that I do not like the gloomy songs you sing; nor do I care for green things, except to wear in my hair. And it seems to me that I should be spiritless and a coward if I should like such a life.
Catching Randalin's arm in fear, not anger, she began to gasp over and over the name of Teboen the nurse. Those whose glance had not followed hers, thought her mad and shrank farther; but the eyes of those who saw what she did reflected her look.
"If you want to know my belief, it is that he carries trouble in his breast about you," Dearwyn interrupted. "About me?" So much hurt surprise was in Randalin's manner that the little maid begged forgiveness with caresses of the swaying clover.
Without doubt your kin have already taught you to call me thrall-bred and witless. Little more can be said." That from the warrior whose foot was already planted on the neck of England! In her surprise, Randalin's eyes met his squarely. "By no means, King Canute; my father called you the highest-minded man in the world."
A roar of hideous sound a confusion of overturned lights, of screeching servants, of writhing struggling bodies above it all, the vision of that glittering axe poised in the air then flashing downward, Randalin's recollections blurred, ran together, and faded out in broken snatches.
But Randalin's attention had gone back to the King, who had turned where the son of Lodbrok waited regarding him over sternly-folded arms. "Brother," he was saying gravely, "your opinion is powerful with me, so I will openly tell you that you are wrong in your belief. I was satisfied with the crown of an under-king, satisfied to pass the time as I had been doing.
"Not so; it is God's wisdom," she said, "else would the world be so beautiful that we would never hunger after heaven." Mechanically, Randalin's hands followed hers through the holy sign; then she clasped them before her to wring them in impatient pain. "That is so long to go hungry, Sister! I shall be past my appetite."
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