The chill of early dawn seeped through the stones of Winchester's royal chapel.
King Cnut sat alone beneath a high arched window, the morning light casting a pale hue over the frost-laced floor.
Candles sputtered in their sconces. Incense clung to the air, the scent of myrrh and the fading echoes of last night's prayers. But no holy presence answered him now.
Only silence.
Before him on the table lay a half-finished letter. The ink froze in the quill's tip.
He stared at it.
His fingers trembled slightly as he dipped the quill again and wrote:
To His Holiness, Pope John XIX, Shepherd of the True Church, Servant of Servants of God,From Cnut, by the grace of God, King of England, Denmark, and Norway, Defender of Christendom in the North—
He paused.
A hollow, bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Defender of Christendom.
It felt like a lie.
He continued:
