Part 8 (2/2)

”Such things are best forgotten as soon as may be. I do not wish to hear more of them.”

”Nevertheless,” I answered, ”there are some who will not forget them, and I fear that you must needs be ready to hear of your part in them pretty often.”

”Ay,” she said somewhat bitterly, ”I suppose that I am the talk of the whole place now.”

”If so, there would be many who would be glad to be spoken of as you must needs be. There is nought but praise for you.”

Then she turned on me, and the trouble was plain enough in a moment.

”But for yourself, Thane, there would have been nought that I could not have put up with. But little thought for me was there when you made me the jest of your idle comrades over that foolish cup of the king's.”

That was a new way of looking at the matter, in all truth. I supposed that a vow of fealty to any lady would have been taken by her as somewhat on which to pride herself maybe, from whomsoever it came. Which seemed to be foolishness in this fresh light. Still, it came to me that her anger was not altogether fair, for I was the one who had to stand the jesting, and not one of my honest comrades so much as mentioned her name lightly in any wise.

”That was no jest of mine, Elfrida,” I said gravely enough. ”If there is any jest at all that will come from my oath, it will be that I have been foolish enough to vow fealty to one who despises me. The last thing that I would do is anything that might hurt you.

And my vow stands fast, whether you scorn me or not, for if it was made in a moment, it is not as if I had not had long years to think on in which we have been good friends enough.”

”Ay,” she said, turning from me and reaching some apples that yet hung on a sheltered bough, ”I have heard the terms of that vow from my father, more than once. You can keep it without trouble.”

”Have I your leave to try to keep it?”

”You have had full leave to be a good friend of ours all these years, as you say, and I do not see that the vow binds you to more.

No one thinks that you are likely to forget last night, or any one who took part in that cruel business. And if a friend will not help to guard a lady--well, he would be just nidring, no more or less.”

Then she took up her basket, which was pretty full and no burden for a lady, for she had picked fast and heedlessly as she spoke to me, and so turned away.

”Nay, but surely you know that there was more than that meant,” I said lamely.

”No need to have haled my name into the matter at all,” she said.

And then, seeing that my eyes went to the basket, she smiled a little, and held it to me with both hands.

”Well, if you meant some new sort of service, you can begin by carrying this for me. I am going to the queen's bower.”

I took it without a word, and we went silently together to the door that led to the queen's end of the hall. There she stayed for a moment with her hand on the latch.

But she had only a question to ask me:

”Do you go with your father to the Welsh king's court, as it is said that he will go shortly?”

”We start together in an hour's time or thereabout,” I answered, wondering.

”Well then, take this to mind you of your vow,” she said, and threw a little bronze brooch, gilt and set with bright enamel, into the basket, and so fled into the house, leaving me on the doorstep with the apples.

I set them down there, and had a mind to leave the brooch also.

However, on second thoughts I took it, and went my way in a puzzled state of mind. It certainly seemed that Elfrida was desperately angry with me for reasons which were not easy to fathom, and yet she had given me this--that is, if to have a thing thrown at one is to have it given. But I was not going to quarrel with the manner of a gift from Elfrida, and so I went on with it in my hand, and as I turned the corner into a fresh path I also ran into the abbot of the new minster, who was on his way to speak with Owen before he set out. He had been a great friend of Bishop Aldhelm's, and I had known him well since the old days of Malmesbury.

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