Another flash of daring lighted Randalin’s eyes, though her mouth remained quiet. “A good way to keep them from thinking you a prisoner, lady, is to act like a free woman,” she said. “I shall tell them that you are going to the Palace to see your husband.” Sowing her seed, she left it to take root, and went away to convince the head of the grooms. As she had foretold, he was too uncertain regarding their position to dare contest their order, little as he liked it. In something less than an hour, the five women, fur-wrapped and flanked by pages and soldiers, were riding across the little stone bridge and up the wooded slope of the Tot Hill. In something more than an hour after that, they were passing under the deep arch of the New Gate into the great City itself. “Do you purpose to visit the Palace first, noble one?” the leader of the guards inquired with a respectful if uneasy salute. The seed had rooted so far that Elfgiva did not disclaim the intention; but she hesitated a long time, pulling nervously at the embroidered top of her riding glove. “In what direction lie the goldsmiths?” she asked at last. “Straight ahead, lady. Nothing very pleasant is at the beginning; neither the shambles which lie across the way, nor the wax chandler’s which is opposite; but when you get beyond Saint Martin’s to the Commons, you will find—” The lady’s nose wrinkled disdainfully. “Which way lies the Palace?” “Down the lane on your left, noble one. You can see where the wall of the King’s garden makes one side of Paternoster Row. You can reach the Cheapside along the road also,” he added, “if you do not turn in your way until you come where the Churchyard joins the Folk—” “Turn then to the left.” They obeyed her, but their gay chatter died on their lips. If the road bore none of the repulsiveness of the shambles, it was still little more cheerful than the graveyard. On their right, an ice-stiffened marsh reached to the great City wall, while a remnant of the primeval beech forest lay along their left, leafless, wind-lashed and groaning. Ahead, behind its walls and above its gardens of clustering fruit-trees, rose the towers and gilded spires of the King’s Palace. As they neared the arched gateway, red with the cloaks of the royal guards, it seemed to Randalin that an icy hand had closed about her heart. The blood was ebbing from Elfgiva’s face, and it could be seen that she was forced to keep moistening her lips with her tongue. Nearer—now they were in front of the entrance—All at once, the lady thrust a spur into her horse as he was slackening his pace in obedience to her tightened rein. “To the goldsmiths’ first,” she ordered. “On our way back—” Her words were lost on the frosty wind.