The seed had rooted so far that Elfgiva did not disclaim the intention; but
she hesitated a long time, pulling nervously at the embroidered top of her
riding glove. "In what direction lie the goldsmiths?" she asked at last.
"Straight ahead, lady. Nothing very pleasant is at the beginning; neither the
shambles which lie across the way, nor the wax chandler's which is opposite;
but when you get beyond Saint Martin's to the Commons, you will find--"
The lady's nose wrinkled disdainfully. "Which way lies the Palace?"
"Down the lane on your left, noble one. You can see where the wall of the
King's garden makes one side of Paternoster Row. You can reach the Cheapside
along the road also," he added, "if you do not turn in your way until you come
where the Churchyard joins the Folk --"
"Turn then to the left."
They obeyed her, but their gay chatter died on their lips. If the road bore
none of the repulsiveness of the shambles, it was still little more cheerful
than the graveyard. On their right, an ice-stiffened marsh reached to the
great City wall, while a remnant of the primeval beech forest lay along their
left, leafless, wind-lashed and groaning. Ahead, behind its walls and above
its gardens of clustering fruit-trees, rose the towers and gilded spires of
the King's Palace.
As they neared the arched gateway, red with the cloaks of the royal guards, it
seemed to Randalin that an icy hand had closed about her heart.
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