The cart jolted over rutted earth, its wheels sinking deep into mud still black with blood.
Inside, bound hand and foot in iron, sat Cnut.
His cloak was gone, his crown stripped, his hands raw where the fetters bit.
Each jolt of the wheels made him wince, though he did not cry out.
His eyes were hollow, staring not at his captors but at the horizon, where the smoke of ruined villages still rose like funeral pyres.
Around him walked the wolves.
Vetrúlfr's warriors marched with shields on their backs and axes at their belts, their wolfskin cloaks fluttering in the cold wind.
They jeered as they passed, calling the English king thrall, dog, corpse-in-waiting.
Some spat in the mud at his feet; others tossed scraps of bread as one might feed a chained bear.
Cnut stirred at last, raising his shackled hands as far as the irons would allow. His voice cracked, hoarse with battle and smoke, yet it carried across the column.
"Dogs!" he spat.
