"Now, by Saint Dunstan," he cried, "you take too much upon you, Lord of
Ivarsdale! The boy's life is forfeit to me, against whom his crime was
directed." A grim look squared his mouth as suddenly he stretched his hand
past Sebert and caught the red cloak.
It may have been this which the Etheling had foreseen, for he was not taken by
surprise. Jerking up his sword-arm, he knocked the thane's hand loose with
scant ceremony. "You forget the law of the battle-field, Norman of Baddeby,"
he said swiftly. "The life of my captive is mine, and I am the last man to
permit it to be taken because he sought a just revenge. I know too well how it
feels to hate a father's murderer." He shot a baleful glance toward a
half-seen figure that all this time had stood motionless in the shadow behind
the King.
Probably this figure and the Earl's thane were the only hearers he was
conscious of, but his tone left the words open to all ears. There was a sudden
indrawing of many breaths, followed by a frightened silence. The only sound
that disturbed it was a growing rustle in the bush around them, which was
explained when the old cniht Morcard and some two-score armed henchmen and
yeoman-soldiers, singly and in groups, filtered quietly through the shadows
and placed themselves at their chief's back.
But though the King's brows had met for an instant in a lowering arch, some
second thought controlled him.
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