"You believe then that I had him murdered?" he asked. "And you find
pleasure in believing it?"
"Now it is not murder!" she protested. "When a king kills--in war--"
"But this is not war," he said slowly. Lifting one of the jewelled braids from
her shoulder, he played with it as he studied her. "This is not war, for I had
reconciled myself to him. I had plighted faith with Edmund Ethelredsson and
vowed to avenge his death like a brother."
Her white forehead drew itself into a puzzled frown. "But you were not so
foolish as to swear it on the holy ring were you?" When he did not answer, she
raised her shoulders lightly. "What should I know about such matters? Have you
not told me, many times and oft, that it behooves a woman to shun meddling
with great affairs?"
He gave a short laugh, "And when were you ever before content to follow that
advice?" Letting the braid slip from his fingers, he stood looking her up and
down, his lips curling with scorn. "Yet this was not needful to show me that
the elves felt they had done their full day's work when they had made you a
body," he said. And whether he did not see her bridling displeasure, or
whether he saw and no longer cared to appease it, the result was the same.
Randalin spoke abruptly to her companion. "Dearwyn, I can tell you something.
Elfgiva will never get the queenship over England.
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