The square stank of blood and smoke.
When it was done, the silence that followed was worse than the chanting that had come before.
The crowd of Anglo-Saxons pressed against the ruined walls of London stood frozen, their faces pale and wet with tears.
Some clutched wooden crosses to their breasts; others sank to their knees in the mud, whispering prayers through trembling lips.
Mothers covered their children's eyes, but the little ones had already seen too much.
The priests wept openly, their voices hoarse from chanting prayers that had gone unanswered.
Rome's emissaries knelt still in their bonds, their eyes hollow with disbelief, unable to reconcile what they had witnessed:
The anointed king of England, carved open like a beast beneath the sky, while the old gods were invoked in place of Christ.
The silence broke only with the cawing of ravens wheeling overhead, their black wings dipping low over the scaffold.
