Cormac’s seat at the banquet had been placed at some distance from Ethne. This he thought strange, for Ethne, so anxious to identify herself with him, generally insisted on sitting beside him; it was her custom to lavish attention upon him, but now she showed herself indifferent to his presence.
He could not overhear her conversation with Ethelbert, had he wished—he had no desire to do so. He trusted to her to make all necessary arrangements—his whole mind for the time was given to love and Elgiva. It had been a disappointment when Ethne, meeting him at the entrance to the hall, had told him that Elgiva would not appear at the feast. He marvelled greatly why she had absented herself and why the old hound Gelert had not stayed with her.
The time wore on slowly. The Anglo-Saxon minstrels broke into coarse, jigging tunes; their fellows feasted more heartily when thus accompanied; beating time with wagging heads and shouting between their mouthfuls to the jerky numbers. The Celtic pipers joined in—the wild Hibernians adding their piercing note; the hounds followed with dismal howls. The smell of sheep-skin clothing was strangely mingled with the steam of the coarse feast.
The great Bretwalda addressed Ethne suddenly.
“And your warriors lady, I hope are ready to march with me at this week’s end?”
In a moment she was upright, smiling.
“Ah!” said she, “it is time we spent a minute in these troublesome matters. Our aid is ready at any moment against this villain, Ceawlin of Wessex. And the conditions I ask will not, I think, be hard!”
The Bretwalda paused with his whittle in a mass of goats’ flesh.
“The conditions!” he repeated. “The conditions!”
“Yes, the conditions, my liege,” she said, still smiling. “Is it strange we ask aught in return?”
“Aught in return!” again he repeated her words, “aught in return!”—half in contempt, half in anger. What right, he wondered, had women to do anything but stitch trews and bake bread, and lend a hand occasionally in battle? He went on eating his goats’ flesh.
Ethne felt sick at heart. She took a draught of her favourite Greek wine. Then turned on him a smiling face.
“You remember, O King, my conditions?”
He said nothing—only looked, far off, through an arched opening past the dusk and blue of the low-lying forest to where the cattle strayed upon the hills; the hills that separated them from mountainous Cambria.
Then he pointed silently to the heights with one hand, and with the other grasped his long rune-covered sword.
“My lord?” she questioned, with paling lips but with an attempt at mirth. “Your gestures, I doubt not, are deemed most eloquent, but I would fain have speech as well!”
“Those hills, lady,” he said, looking at her steadfastly, “are the chain wherewith you and your warriors are bound to me—this sword is the fate that awaits those who refuse to ally with me against Ceawlin of Wessex!”
Ethne half rose to her feet. A fit of rage seized her which she could scarcely repress but she kept silent, although two vivid spots of colour suddenly showed on her white cheeks, and her eyes glittered strangely.
Ethelbert helped himself to some virgin-honey from the board; and as he ate it continued to gaze on Ethne.
With these strange glittering eyes the Celtic woman was dangerously akin to sprite and elf. The fear came upon him that she might beguile him. Such haunting fears were Ethelbert’s throughout his life—in his meeting with Saint Augustine he bargained that it should take place in the open air, for he believed the danger from incantation was greater within four walls. He recalled the scene in which he had seen her on the battle-field; in the din and heat of the fight with men falling like leaves around her, her charioteer had rushed upon the dying Cutha whilst she stood upright, uttering incantations in a piercing, unknown tongue.
Again Ethelbert muttered a charm; and this time, as a further precaution he made the sign of the cross, as he had seen his Christian Bertha do.
“I must remind you, noble Ethelbert,” said Ethne, with forced calmness, “of the terms of our agreement. To begin—it is not necessary to tell you of the value you set upon the services of Ceawlin’s former thane, Redwald; nor of Redwald’s great desire to obtain possession of my companion, the Saxon maid, Elgiva! And can you deny that the compact between you and me was that you should cede my former possessions in Damnonia to me for our services against Ceawlin, and the restoration of Elgiva to her Saxon kinsmen?”
Ethelbert turned with some dignity to his companion.
“You forget one thing, lady,” he said, “of great importance—and that is that your negotiations were not with me at all, but with Redwald. He is my best soldier, but I cannot recognise any wild promises he may have made to you even should Damnonia fall into my hands. I am willing enough that he should obtain the maid and thank you, queen, for your kindly gift to him.” Ethne here bit her lip until the blood appeared. “But it seemed to me you were over-anxious to part with the fair Saxon. So anxious that you could not wait for the reply of my emissaries. Ha, ha! Wit you have, in plenty, and fine speech—but you are hot and hasty like all Welsh—and heat and haste err oft!”
Ethne continued to control her wrath. She tried to smile.
“I cannot tell you all the difficulties that beset me,” she said, “but I ask you to think of me as less witless than I seem. My plans concerning the maid demanded the greatest secrecy even from my own councillors!”
“Tut, tut,” said the blunt Saxon. “What care I for your plans and your councillors—and I come not here to bandy words over maids and their quarrels with their kinsfolk! I come here to direct you, and yonder stripling-chieftain about our plans for our next week’s campaign!”
Ethne became as pale as death in her effort to control herself.
“You are over-sure of your claims upon us,” she said, in a slow, trembling voice. “What of Ceawlin? He may, perhaps, offer fairer conditions for our aid against you.”
Ethelbert laughed shortly, and swore scornfully.
“By Thor and Odin and the tail of the mare of Hengist—these Welsh outfool themselves. Know you not that I lie betwixt your host and Ceawlin?”
Ethne laughed also—a weak, forced laugh.
“A jest—a jest, Sir King! Pardonable, surely, at least and merry-making!”
“A jest!” repeated Ethelbert. “And if one be pardonable, likewise a second. What then of Ceawlin! He also might find my terms easier if I ask his aid against you.”
“Well said, King Ethelbert! Your jest hath given mine its death-blow. Men do belie you Saxons when they call you witless. A very subtle wit, indeed, you seem to me to have.”
She laughed—again the same forced laughter.
Then suddenly she broke down—she burst into one of her paroxysms of rage, as some women burst into tears. The pent-up wrath escaped.
“You Jutish churl!” she shrieked. “Do you treat us like slaves—to be used and then cast off like clouts? Fight we will—but against you, not with you. I will not rest till your bloody head be brought me and I have hacked out your sneering tongue myself.”
Her angry voice rang through the hall. She could be plainly seen, as she stood upright in her glittering robes. She drew her sword from her girdle and it flashed above her head.
She had feared a bloody break-up to the banquet—and now she herself had brought it about.
The brawl spread, quick as lightning. Within three minutes after Ethne’s voice had rung through the hall, ten men were slain and thirty wounded. The alarm was sounded on both sides—and within an hour a desperate battle between the Kymry and Saxons was in full course. Before nightfall Ethne and Cormac had been taken prisoners.