The Ward of King Canute | Page 9

on me and try to gather together your wits."
Slowly the man's wandering gaze focussed itself; a silly laugh welled
up in his throat. "It would be no strange wonder if I did not," he
chuckled. "Odin has changed you greatly; your face was never so
beautiful. But this once you cannot trick me, Fridtjof Frodesson."
There came a time when this mistake was a source of some comfort to
Randalin, Frode's daughter; but now she stirred impatiently.
"Look again, and try to command your tongue. Tell me the state of
your feelings. Can you live?"
The man shook with his foolish laughter. "You cub! Will not even
being killed cure you of your tricks? If you who have been in Valhalla

do not know what Odin intends about my life, how can I know, who
have stayed on earth?"
Sister Wynfreda's hand fell upon the girl's arm. "Disquiet yourself no
further," she whispered. "It is useless and to no end. If it please the
Lord to bless our labors, the wound will soon be healed. Come this way,
where he cannot hear our voices, and tell me what moves you to speak
of leaving. Is it not your intention to creep in with us?"
As she yielded reluctantly to the pressure, Randalin even showed
surprise at the question. "By no means. My errand hither was only to
ask for bread. I thought it unadvisable to venture into the castle kitchen,
yet it is needful that I keep up my strength. I go direct to the Danish
camp to get justice from King Canute."
The nun reached out and caught the gay cloak, gasping. "The Danish
camp? You speak in a raving fit! Better you thrust yourself into a den
of ravenous beasts. You know not what you say."
Offense stiffened the figure under the cloak. "It is you who do not
know. Now, as always, you think about Canute what lying English
mouths have told of him. I know him from my father's lips. No man on
the Island is so true as he, or so generous to those who ask of him.
Time and again have I heard my father bid Fridtjof to imitate him. He
is the highest-minded man in the world." Her voice as she ended was a
stone wall of defiance. Sister Wynfreda made a desperate dash down
another road.
"My daughter, I entreat that you will not despise my offer. The yoke is
not so heavy here. Here is no strict convent rule; how could there be?
We are but a handful of feeble old women left living after those who
led us are gone, to the end that heathen fog smother not utterly the light
which once was so bright. In truth, most dear child, you would have no
hard lot among us. A few hours' work in the garden,--surely that is a
pleasure, watching the fair green things spring and thrive under your
care. And when the tenderness of the birds and the content of the little
creeping creatures have filled your heart to bursting with a sense of
God's goodness, to come and stand before the Holy Table and pour out

your joys in sweet melody--"
But Randalin's head was shaking too decidedly, though she was not
ungentle in her answering. "I give you thanks, Sister Wynfreda, but
such a life is not for me. My nature is such that I do not like the gloomy
songs you sing; nor do I care for green things, except to wear in my
hair. And it seems to me that I should be spiritless and a coward if I
should like such a life. I am no English girl, to tremble and hide under a
mean kirtle. I am a Norse maiden, the kinswoman of warriors. I think I
should not show much honor to my father and my brother were I to
leave them unavenged and sit down here with you. No, I will go to my
King and get justice. When he has slain the murderer and given me the
castle again, I will come back; and you shall come and live with me,
and eat meat instead of herbs, and--"
In her desperation, Sister Wynfreda caught her by the wrists and held
her. "My daughter, my daughter, shake off this sleep of your wits, I
entreat you! The men you are trusting in are dreams which you have
dreamed in the safety of your father's arms. They among whom you are
going are barbarians,--yea, devils! It were even better had you married
the son of Leofwine. Think you I know nothing of the Pagans, that you
set my words at naught? Who but Danish-men laid low these walls, and
slaughtered the holy nuns as lambs are torn by wild beasts? Have I