Even had the likeness never occurred to her before, it would not have been strange if she had thought of it to-day as, followed by the Marshal and preceded by their fair usher, the old warrior came across the grass to the little court under the apple tree. The keenness of the hooded eyes that looked out at her from his grizzled locks, the gleam of the white teeth between his bearded lips as he greeted her, was unmistakably wolfish. She relapsed into a kind of lamb-like tremor as she invited them to be seated and commanded the attendance of her cup-bearer. When she caught sight of the misery of discomfort in Sebert’s frank face, she lost her voice entirely and waited in utter silence while they drank their wine.
Yet Thorkel’s manner was unwontedly genial when at last he broached his errand. “You lack the eagerness that is to be expected, lady,” he said as he gave his mouth a last polish with the delicate napkin. “How comes it that you have not guessed I bring you a message from the King?”
She answered doubtfully that the King had not behaved to her so that his messages were apt to be anticipated with much pleasure.
“But it has never occurred that I brought you this kind of news before,” he tempted her. “Will it not interest you to hear that at last the Palace is ready for a Queen?”
That startled her a little out of her wariness, crying the last two words after him with an eagerness of inflection that was as pathetic as though her heart were concerned.
His lips gave out a flash as he nodded. “A Queen. Canute is going to give the Angles a ‘gift of the elves.’”
For an instant, she was betrayed into believing him, and bent forward, her flushing face transfigured with delight. She was starting to speak when the Etheling rose abruptly from his seat.
“Lord Thorkel,” he said angrily, “this cat-play would bring you little thanks from your King, nor will I longer endure it. I pray you to explain without delay that the name of ‘Elfgiva’ is borne also by Emma of Normandy.”
Then the old man snarled as a wolf does whose bone has been seized. “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.”