The halls of Senlis were bright with banners and tapestries, yet the court of King Henry I of France hummed with unease.
Summer light spilled through the arched windows, catching the dust motes that drifted above the heads of courtiers.
Knights lounged in polished mail, priests muttered in corners, and the king's advisors bent low at his ear.
Henry was young still, scarcely into his third decade, but already the lines of strain had etched themselves at the corners of his mouth.
To the east, the Holy Roman Emperor Conrad bled on two fronts.
To the north, England smoldered, its crown torn between Duncan of Scotland and Cnut's son Svein.
Frankia, by contrast, lay unburnt, its fields thick with grain, its markets bustling, its castles quiet.
Yet Henry did not smile at fortune.
His hand tightened on the arm of his throne as the whispers came again.
"Robert of Normandy builds," hissed Count Fulk, his beard forked and sharp.
