The hall at Nidaros stood dim and cold, its long hearths guttering with low flames. Smoke curled beneath the rafters like uneasy spirits, unable to escape the heavy timbers overhead.
King Cnut sat upon the high seat, draped in a mantle of dark sable. Rings heavy with Danish gold glittered on his broad hands as they gripped the arms of the carved chair.
Beside him stood Eiríkr Hákonarson, aging but still hard-eyed, his mail shirt dulled from many campaigns.
Before them gathered what remained of Norway's great men: petty jarls, landholders, bishops with thin faces and hands clutched tight over their crosses.
They had come at his summons, some with meager bands of huscarls at their backs, most with only worried household guards.
Their voices were low, eyes flicking always to the Danish axes that lined the walls, to the mailed warriors who lounged with easy contempt by the doorways.
