The doors of
darkness had moved far up the tree-corridors, and strange flickering shapes
peered through. Her eyes followed them heavily. The forest was very still now;
even the grating sound of the frogs was hushed, and the low hum of the voices
around the fire was soothing as the sound of swarming bees.
She was just losing consciousness when the figure of a second yeoman-soldier
moved across her vision, looming black against the fireglow. His whisper came
sharply to her ears. "It is done, chief. May they have the wrath of the
Almighty! Their hands have met, Edric's and the King's, and his thanes' and
Norman of Baddeby's, who is with Edric. Now are they lying down in their
man-ties, as it were to seal their pledge by sleeping within reach of each
other's knives."
"Norman of Baddeby!" the name leaped out of the rest to bite at her like a
dog, worrying deeper and deeper through the wrappings of her stupor. Her eyes
widened in troubled questioning. She heard the angry voices rise, and she saw
the Etheling leap to his feet and shake his clenched hand above his head. Then
she lost sight of everything, for the fang had pierced her torpor and touched
her.
"Norman of Baddeby"--her father's slayer! Memory entered like poison to spread
burning through every vein. Her father--Fridtjof--the Jotun--the battle-- Her
ears were dinned with terrible noises; her eyes were seared by terrible
pictures.
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