"
The Etheling's sword was out while the other was still speaking. "By Saint
Mary, do you imagine that I am fearful of you? Never in my life was I more
thirsty for fighting."
But Rothgar pushed the blade aside with his naked palm. "Not here, where she
could come between. Besides, the King wants a thrust at you first. Nor have
you yet greeted Randalin, Frode's daughter." His hand, which was itching for a
sword, began to tear the fur from his cloak, and his lips curved in a grin
that had in it little of mirth. "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?
It was true that it needed not that to explain their bitterness, and yet--
What more natural than that the King's foster-brother should love the King's
ward? If it was so, it was small wonder the girl had said that he would slay
her when he discovered her unfaithfulness. Unfaithfulness! Sebert started. Had
she not in that very word acknowledged a bond? Not only did he love her, but
she must have returned his affections. The spark of suspicion flared into a
flame. That would solve so many riddles. For one, her presence in the Danish
camp,--for surely, as a chieftain's daughter, she would have been sent on to
the care of the Lady of Northampton! Was it not thoroughly in accordance with
her elfish wildness to have chosen man's attire and the roughness of camp-life
in order to remain near her lover? Her lover! The young noble's lips curled as
he glanced at the warrior beside him, at the coarse face under the unkempt
locks, at the huge body in its trap-pings of stained gaudiness.
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