“Then you go to the very cause of all this trouble,” she said.  “Truly the king’s name should be ‘the Unredy’, for rede he has none.  It is his ill counsel that has brought Swein the Dane on us.  We have to pay for the Hock-tide slayings {3}.”

“We had no share in that” I said.

“No, because half our folk are Danes, more or less, some of the men of Ingvar and Guthrum.  But Swein will not care for that—­they are all English to him.”

“What will you do, then?” I asked, growing half wild that she should stand there quietly and plan nought.

“These folk will side with Swein presently, when they find that he is the stronger, and then the old kinship will wake in them, and the Wessex king will be nought to their minds.  Then will be peace here, for the Danes will sweep on to Mercia and London.  Do you go to Ethelred the Unredy—­and I abiding here shall be the safer in the end, and Hertha with me.”

“But peace has not come yet” I said.

“I can hide until it does come,” she said.  And then, for my face must have shown all the doubt that I felt, she spoke very kindly to me.  “Trust the old witch who wishes you well, Redwald, my son; she who has nursed Hertha for so long will care for her till the last; safe she will be until you return to find her when the foolishness of Ethelred is paid for.”

“Where can you hide?” I asked, and urged her to tell me more, but she would not do so.

“No man would dream of the hiding place that I shall seek,” she said, “and I will tell it to none.  Then will it be the surer.”

“I know all this country,” I answered.  “There is no place.”

She smiled faintly, and paused a little, thinking.

“I will tell you this,” she said at last.  “You go to the king; well—­I go to the queen.  That is all you may know.  But maybe it will be enough to guide you someday.”

I could not understand what she meant; nor would she tell me more.  Only she said that all would be safe, and that I need fear nothing either for Hertha or for herself.

“My forbears were safe in that place to which I go,” she said; “and I alone know where it is.  When the time comes, Hertha shall tell you of it but that must wait for the days to be.”

“I fear they will be long.  Let me see Hertha before I go,” I said, “for I must needs be content.”

“How looked she when last you saw her?”

“Well, and bright, and happy,” I answered.

“Keep that memory of her therefore,” Gunnhild said.  “I would not have you see her in sickness, nor may she be waked without danger.  Tell your mother that surely if she could take Hertha with her it should be so, but it may not be.  She would be harmed by a long journey.”