I suppose these Welsh princes had hoards which
had been carried from out of the way of us Saxons and Angles long
ago.
"Ay, you have," Mordred said grimly. "One day it shall be what the
worth of a British prince is in good cold steel, maybe. Now let me
have a messenger who shall take word to my people and bring back
what is needed."
He scowled when I mentioned Thorgils, but he knew him by repute at
least, and was willing to trust him, as I would do so. In the end,
therefore, it was he who took the signet ring and the letter the
prince had written and brought back the gold. Some of the coins
were of the days of Cunobelin, but the most of it was in bars and
rings and chains, wrought for traffic by weight.
Now I will say at once that neither of my comrades would share in
this ransom, though I thought that it was a matter between the
three of us, as leaders of the force that day.
"Not I," quoth Thorgils--"the man was your own private captive, for
you sent him down yourself. What do I want with that pile of gold?
I have enough and to spare already, and I should only hoard it. Or
else I should just give it back to you for a wedding present by and
by. What? Shaking your head? Well, what becomes of all my songs if
they end not in a wedding? Have a care, Oswald, and see that you
make up your mind in time.
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