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Updated: June 12, 2025
"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?
To motion back a man who was approaching him with a paper, he turned away for a moment; and Sebert was glad of the excuse to avoid meeting his glance. Not until now had he understood what the judgment in his favor had cost the judge, and his heart was suddenly athrob with many emotions. "In no way is it strange that I am hateful to him," he murmured.
"You know with certainty that she has never seen him since?" he demanded, "that Danes had naught to do with the last token Elfgiva sent through the scullion? You can swear to it?" "Certainly, if they speak the truth, I know it," she answered wonderingly. "How should Danes why, Sebert, what ails you?"
SEBERT, the King's nephew, built on a muddy marshy place near London, where there had been a temple to Apollo, a church dedicated to Saint Peter, which is now Westminster Abbey. And, in London itself, on the foundation of a temple to Diana, he built another little church which has risen up, since that old time, to be Saint Paul's.
"Certainly it would be best for you to come to them while they are in such a state of feasting that their good-humor is keenest and their wits dullest," Sebert assented. He spoke but with the matter-of-factness of a soldier reconnoitring a position, but on the girl in the page's dress the words fell like blows.
Your servants were eager in making a jest of me when they got the courage from your displeasure." But Lord Sebert reached out the wand and gave him a gentle stroke across the shoulders. "Take that for your foolishness," he said lightly. "What matters their babble when you know how safe you sit in my favor?" Through lowered lashes the boy stole him a glance, half mischievous, half coaxing.
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.
It was Sebert who brought the dragging pace finally to a halt, throwing himself upon a stone bench to hold his head in his hands. "We cannot drive them off; that needs no further proof. And I do not see how we can hold out till the time that chance entices them away, when but one meal stands between us and starvation, and already we are as weak as rabbits. Naught can profit us save craft."
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.
Shielded from the heat by his palm, Canute's face was in the shadow, and the giant shape of the son of Lodbrok was a blot against the flames, but the glare lay strong on Sebert of Ivarsdale, revealing a picture that caused one spectator to catch her breath in a sob.
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