The messenger stumbled into Duncan's hall at Scone, mud caked to his boots, breath ragged from hard riding.
He fell to one knee, his hands trembling as he thrust forward the sealed letter.
"My king," he gasped, "word from London… it is not ransom alone the Northmen seek."
Duncan broke the seal with impatient fingers.
His eyes scanned the lines once, then again, his brow furrowing deeper with every word.
By the time he lowered the parchment, his hand shook.
"What madness is this?" he whispered.
The lords and captains at his table looked on in silence until at last one spoke. "My king?"
Duncan's voice was hoarse when he answered. "Vetrúlfr has no intention of releasing Cnut. Rome's silver was but a prelude. He prepares a sacrifice, a blood-offering to his gods. He will carve the English king open beneath the sky like a lamb on the altar."
