The halls of London were cold despite the summer sun.
The stones of the great hall still smelled faintly of smoke from the last sack, when Cnut's men had torn through its doors in fury, before the wolf from Iceland had shattered them and dragged their king to the blood-eagle.
The scars of that night lingered: black streaks on the timbers, gouges on the flagstones, whispers in every corner.
Now Duncan of Scotland sat on the English throne.
The crown felt heavy on his brow, and heavier still was the silence that filled the chamber.
Around him clustered lords of Wessex, Mercia, and Kent, men whose eyes were harder than their words.
Their cloaks shimmered with wealth, but beneath each fold Duncan felt sure there hid a blade.
They bent the knee to him because Cnut was gone and because the wolf had vanished north, but their hearts were not his.
"Reports from Kent, sire," said one, Earl Leofric of Mercia, his voice cool.
