"Tending by five hairs to the sword-side, Lord Sebert," one of them was
offering quizzical criticism over his drinking-horn.
"The Etheling must needs have extraordinary respect for the endurance of
Harald Fairhair, for it is said that to accomplish a vow he went three years
without barbering himself," another said gravely. While a third became slyly
reminiscent, as he chewed his venison.
"These are soft days, comrades. The last time I followed the old chief, of
honored memory, we held our war-council standing knee-deep in a fen. We had
neither eaten nor drunk for two days, and three days' blood was on our hands."
The young chief took it all with careless good-humor.
"When you leave off eating, in memory of that brave time, I will leave off
washing," he returned. "Would you have me go into a royal council looking as
though birds had nested in my hair?" With a parting scrutiny of his smooth
locks, he motioned the shield-bearer aside and turned back to them his comely
face, rosy from his recent ablutions and alight with a momentary enthusiasm.
"I tell you, nothing but a warrior's life becomes ethel-born men," he said as
he straightened himself with a gallant gesture. "Nor sluggishness nor
junketings, but days under fire and nights among the Wise Men of the council;
that, in truth, becomes their station. By Saint Mary, I feel that I have never
lived before! One week at the heels of Edmund Ironside is worth a lifetime
under the banner of any other king.
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