London had begun to stir again, though the scars were fresh.
Charred beams still jutted from blackened houses; scaffolds still leaned against walls split by axe and fire.
In the squares, merchants tried to peddle what wares remained, their cries hollow and thin.
But banners now flew above the Tower, the red lion snapping in the wind where once Cnut's standard had hung.
Within the hall, Duncan of Alba sat on the throne he had claimed, the weight of two crowns pressing upon his brow.
Scots and Saxons alike crowded the chamber: aldermen of London, thegns from the shires, Gaelic captains fresh from the north.
It was a court born of necessity, stitched together by fire and ruin.
Every man present knew the wolf had left, but his shadow still stalked the walls.
The door burst open, and a rider staggered in, mud up to his knees, his face pale with exhaustion.
He fell to one knee, voice rasping like gravel.
