The pages, who had sped at the first alarm like a covey of gay birds, came
panting back, tumbling over one another in their efforts to impart the news.
"A messenger!" "A messenger from Oxford--" "From Edric--" "Edmund is--"
"--Edmund--" "A messenger!" one cancelled another in the wild excitement.
Elfgiva caught the nearest and shook him until his teeth chattered; and in the
lull, the swelling shout reached them for the first time unbroken: "Honor to
the King! Hail to the King of the Danes and the Angles!"
From the Lord of Ivarsdale came a cry, sharp as though a heart-string had
snapped in its utterance, the tie that for generations had bound those of his
blood to the house of Cerdic.
"Edmund?"
The mob of soldiers and servants that burst through the doorway answered his
question with exultant shouts: "Edmund is dead! Edmund is dead! Long live
Canute the King! King of the Danes and the Angles!"
Unbidden, memory raised before Randalin a picture of the English camp-fire in
the glade, with the English King standing in its light and the hooded figure
bending from the shadow behind him, its white taloned hand resting on his
sleeve. An instant she shivered at it; then again her foot stirred with
unendurable restlessness. If he was dead, he was dead, and there was no more
to be said. Was the Etheling always going to stand as though he were turned to
stone? Would he never
Ah, at last he was moving! As if the news had only just reached home to him,
she saw him draw himself together sharply and stride toward the door; and she
watched feverishly to see if anyone would think to stop him.
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