The hearth fire snapped and spat in the longhouse, its warmth doing little to drive the frost from the air.
Cnut sat hunched over a broad oak table strewn with maps and half-finished letters, his crown pushed back upon his brow as if it weighed too much to wear properly.
A messenger from the south knelt before him, breath still ragged from the ride.
"Your Grace… word from the continent. The Pope's call has reached Paris and Rouen, but France sends only a token force, and Normandy none at all."
Cnut's jaw tightened. "Damn them both. They'll let the wolves run until they smell their own blood on the wind."
The Earl of Wessex leaned in, voice low. "We can't hold the rivers and the roads without more men. Even now, Vetrulfr's riders are in Kent, his ships on the Thames. The levies tire before they even see him."
Cnut slammed his fist on the table, rattling inkpots and sending a pawn from the map skittering. "Then we must bring our own from across the sea."
