There were some fifty or more who sat with the kings on the high place at the end of the hall opposite the great door, thanes and their ladies, of rank from earl to sheriff.  They set me at one end of the high table also, as a stranger of the court of Carl, asking me nothing of my own rank, but most willing to honour the great king through his man.  And that was all the more pleasant because next above me was the Lady Hilda, so that I was more than content.  She had found that she was indeed to ride home with the new-made bride, and had spoken with her already.

“See,” she said, “the omens have come to naught.  We were most foolish to be troubled by them.  Saw you ever a fairer face than Etheldrida’s?”

And that was the thought of all of us who so much as remembered that such a thing as a portent of ill had ever crossed the path of the king on his way hither.

So the business of eating was ended at last, and then the servants cleared the long boards which ran lengthwise down the hall for the folk of lesser rank, and there was a great shifting of places as all turned toward the high seats to hear what Offa had to say to his guests.  And when that little bustle was ended he welcomed Ethelbert kindly and frankly, and so would drink to him in all ceremony.

Then Quendritha rose from her seat and took a beaker from the steward, and filled the king’s golden horn from it.  As she did so I saw Offa look at her with a little questioning smile, as if asking her somewhat; but she did not answer in words.  She passed him, and filled the cup of the young king who was her guest, and so sat down again.  Then Offa and Ethelbert pledged each other, and the cheers of all the great company rose to hail them.

Not long after that the queen and the ladies went their way, and we were left to end the evening with song and tale, after the old fashion.  Those gleemen of Offa’s court were skilful, and he had both Welsh and English harpers, who harped in rivalry.  Soon Ethelbert left the hall, and men smiled to one another, for they deemed that he was seeking some quiet with the princess.  But he was only following his own custom, and I knew that he would most likely be in the little chapel for the last service of the day.

Offa sat on, and it seemed to me that his face grew flushed, and his voice somewhat loud, as the time passed.  His courtiers noted it also.

“Our king is merry,” one said to me.  “It is not often that he will drink the red wine which your Frankish lord sent him.”

“Ay,” said another Mercian.  “I saw him lift his brows when the queen filled his horn with it awhile ago.  But he has kept to it ever since.”

I did not heed this much, but there was more in it than one would think.  What the drinking of that potent wine might lead to was to be seen.  I hold that Offa was not himself thereafter, though none might say that he was aught but as a king should be—­not, like the housecarls at the end of the hail, careless of how the unwonted plenty of that feast blinded them and stole their wits.