"When Fridtjof Frodesson comes again into your presence, I
give you leave to take whatever revenge you like. Lash him with your tongue or
your belt, as you will; and I promise that I will not lift finger to hinder
you from it."
"And not hold it against me?" Rothgar demanded incredulously.
"And not hold it against you," Canute agreed. Then he tilted his head back to
laugh openly in the other's face. "Will you wager a finger-ring against my
knife that your mind will not change when my ward stands again before you?"
The Jotun smiled grimly. "Is that the expectation you are stringing your bow
with? It will fail you as surely as the hair of Hother's wife failed him. The
wager shall be as you have made it; and may I lack strength if I do not deal
with him--" He paused, blinking like a startled owl, as his royal
foster-brother leaped to his feet and fronted him with shouts of laughter.
"You dolt, you!" Canute cried. "Do you not see it yet? Frode's child is a
woman!"
Rothgar's jaw dropped and his bulging eyes seemed in danger of following.
"What!" he gasped; and then his voice rose to a roar. "And the Englishman is
her lover?"
"You are wiser than I expected," the King laughed. "I intend to call you Thrym
after this, for it is unlikely that Loke made a greater fool of the Giant.
Your enemies will make derisive songs about it.
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