The hall of King Cnut in London was heavy with the damp breath of early autumn. Fires burned low in broad hearths, struggling against the chill that coiled along the stone floors.
Rich tapestries did little to warm the air. Their intricate scenes of saints and martyrs now seemed to leer down with thin smiles, as if amused by the hushed urgency of the men gathered below.
Cnut sat upon his oaken throne, a massive thing carved with writhing beasts whose jaws devoured each other in endless hunger.
He leaned one elbow on its arm, fingers drumming against the polished wood.
A golden circlet pressed down his unruly hair, though it did little to disguise the roughness of his bearing. Even crowned, Cnut looked more wolf than king.
A hush settled as Godwin of Wessex stepped forward, cloak damp from his hurried ride, mud caked along the edges of his boots.
