The Ward of King Canute | Page 5

patience was not yet ripe to perfect
mellowness. She was but little past the prime of her rich womanhood,
and still bore the traces of a great beauty. She bore in addition, upon
cheek and forehead, the scars of three frightful burns.
"The peace of the grave can never be mine while my heart is open to

the sorrows of others," she answered with sadness. "Sister Sexberga,
that was an English band which passed last night. I made out English
words in their song. I am in utmost fear for the Danes of Avalcomb."
"'They that take the sword shall perish with the sword,'" the old nun
quoted, a little sternly. "An Englishman was despoiled of his lands
when Frode the Dane took Avalcomb. If now Frode's turn has come--"
Her companion made a gesture of entreaty. "It is not for Frode that I am
timorous, dear sister, nor for the boy, Fridtjof; it is for Randalin, his
daughter."
Sister Sexberga was some time silent. When at last she spoke, it was
but to repeat slowly, "Randalin, his daughter. God pity her!"
Sister Wynfreda was no longer listening. She had quitted her hold upon
the gate and taken a step forward, straining her eyes. They had not
deceived her. Out of a tall mass of golden bloom at the farther end of
the lane, an arm clad in brown homespun had tossed itself for one
delirious instant. Trailing her robes over the daisied grass, the nun
came upon a wounded man lying face downward in the tangle.
There was little in that to awaken surprise; it would have been stranger
had warriors passed without leaving some such mute token in their
wake. Yet when the united strength of the four arms had turned the
limp weight upon its back, a cry of astonishment rose from each throat.
"The woodward of Avalcomb!"
"The hand of the Lord hath fallen!"
After a moment the younger woman said in a trembling voice, "The
whisper in my heart spoke truly. Dearest sister, put your arm under here,
and we will get him to his feet and bring him in, and he will tell us
what has happened. See! he is shaking off his swoon. After he has
swallowed some of your wine, he will be able to speak and tell us."
It was muscle-breaking work for women's backs, for though he tried

instinctively to obey their directions, the man was scarcely conscious;
his arms were like lead yokes upon his supporters' shoulders. Just
within the gate their strength gave out, and they were forced to put him
down among the spicy herbs. There, as one was pulling off her
threadbare cloak to make him a pillow, and the other was starting after
her cordial, he opened his eyes.
"Master!" he muttered. "Master? Have they gone?"
In an instant Sister Wynfreda was on her knees beside him. "Is it the
English you mean? Did they beset the castle?"
Slowly the man's clouded eyes cleared. "The Sisters--" he murmured. "I
had the intention--to get to you--but I fell--" His words died away in a
whisper, and his eyelids drooped. Sister Sexberga turned again to seek
her restorative. Sister Wynfreda leaned over and shook him.
"Answer me, first. Where is your master? And young Fridtjof? And
your mistress?"
He shrank from her touch with a gasp of pain. "Dead," he muttered.
"Dead-- At the gate-- Frode and the boy-- The raven-starvers cut them
down like saplings."
"And Randalin?"
"I heard her scream as the Englishman seized her--Leofwinesson had
her round the waist--they knocked me on the head, then--I--I--" Again
his voice died away.
Sister Wynfreda made no attempt to recall him. Mechanically she held
his head so that her companion might pour the liquid down his throat.
That done, she brought water and bandages, and stood by, absent-eyed
and in silence, while Sexberga found his wounds and dressed them. It
was the older woman who spoke first.
"The fate of this maiden lies heavy on your mind, beloved," she said
tenderly; "and I would have you know that my heart also is sorrowful.

For all that she is the fruit of darkness, it was permitted by the Lord that
Randalin, Frode's daughter, should be born with a light in her soul. It
was in my prayers that we might be enabled to feed that light as it were
a sacred lamp, to the end that in God's good time the spreading glory of
its brightness might deliver her from the shadows forever."
Staring before her with unseeing eyes, Sister Wynfreda nodded an
absent assent. "To me also it seemed that the Lord had led her to us... I
keep in mind how she looked when she came that first morning... a bit
of silk was in her hand, which Frode