Winter came early to Rome that year.
A cold wind crawled down from the Alps, stirring the olive trees of the Papal estates into murmurs and bending the black-robed silhouettes of cardinals moving through the courtyards of the Lateran Palace.
Pope John XIX stood beside a high-arched window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out across the grey dome of the Lateran Palace, its stones slick with evening drizzle.
The air inside his chamber smelled of wax, vellum, and old incense, but outside, it smelled of rain and iron. A smell that reminded him unpleasantly of northern steel.
He frowned.
There had been no smoke on the horizon this year. No charred monasteries in Connacht.
No shattered harbors along the Norman coast. No reports of earthen-sailed ships prowling the trade routes. For the first time in four summers, the North was silent.
Too silent.
John turned toward the great oaken table behind him, cluttered with letters and scrolls.
