Snowmelt streaked black through London's streets, carrying with it the filth and rot of a long winter.
Cnut strode down the muddy thoroughfare, cloak pulled tight against the damp wind.
All around him, the city was feverish with motion, levy men stumbling from their homes clutching spears still smelling of fresh-cut ash.
Boys no older than fourteen shoving armfuls of arrow shafts toward the fletchers, smiths hammering out helm plates and shield bosses while sparks hissed in the wet air.
A rider came hard from the north, hooves striking sparks on the cobbles before rearing to a halt.
The man slid from the saddle, knees trembling from the days-long ride, and pressed his fist to his chest.
"My king! a Saxon scout has returned from Northumbria. He claims… Vetrúlfr landed far to the north, near the old kingdom's shore. A hundred ships at least. The Jomsvikings are with him... another fifty."
Cnut stopped dead in the street. "North?"
