The hall in London was thick with the smell of wet wool and woodsmoke. The hearth blazed, but the damp of spring clung to the air, seeping into the bones of those gathered.
Cnut sat on his high seat, the weight of his crown feeling heavier than ever. Messengers knelt before him, their cloaks still stiff with salt spray and frost.
Between them lay a table strewn with crude maps, marked in charcoal where the smoke of burned towns had been sighted.
"The north is gone, my lord," one rider said, voice hollow. "Hexham, Durham, Lindisfarne… all stripped bare. The monasteries are ash, the villages empty. They move inland with the rivers."
Another messenger added, "And they came from the sea, but not where we watched. They landed far to the north, past where even our scouts roam in winter. We… we thought there was nothing there to take."
Cnut's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair.
"Nothing of worth? Then why bleed it so?"
