King Cnut sat in quiet contemplation beneath the arched rafters of his hall in London. The hearth at his feet burning low, its embers casting shadows like creeping fingers across the iron-bound floorstones.
The wind from the north still howled against the slanted slate rooftops of the keep, though spring was near. And yet, even with warmer days promised, Denmark and Norway remained famished.
The winter of 1029 had been a cruel one.
Snow fell early and lingered long. The harvest before it had been poor, and now the silos once brimming with barley and rye lay bare.
Oxen had been slaughtered for meat. Peasants boiled bark to make soup. Mothers sold their sons into service for sacks of frozen grain.
And the Pope's promised aid, whether in silver or sanctified support, had yet to arrive.
Around the king, the council murmured like crows above a battlefield.
