"Lord of
Ivarsdale, you act in the thoughtless way of youth. I was bringing the matter
gently--"
But the young man accomplished his purpose in spite of the elder. He did not
address the King's wife--indeed, he refrained even from looking at her--but he
spoke swiftly to the dark-haired girl who stood beside the seat. "Randalin, I
beg you to tell your lady that Elfgiva Emma, who is Ethelred's widow and the
Lady of Normandy, arrives at Dover to-morrow to be made Queen of the English."
As all expected, the Lady of Northampton started up shrieking defiance,
screaming that it should not be so, that the King was her husband and the
soldiers would support her if the monks would not, that he was hers, hers,-
and more to that effect, until the plunging words ran into each other and
tears and laughter blotted out the last semblance of speech. That she would
end by swooning or attacking them with her hands those who knew her best felt
sure, and maids and pages crept out of her reach as hunters stand off from a
wounded boar. But at the point where her voice gave out and she whirled to do
one or perhaps both of these, her eyes fell on the house-door, and her
expression changed from rage to amazement and from amazement to horror.
Catching Randalin's arm in fear, not anger, she began to gasp over and over
the name of Teboen the nurse.
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