The winds had not yet frozen, but the air bore the bite of oncoming frost. Snow flecked the cliffs that ringed the harbor, and the sea beyond churned as though resentful of the ships that crossed its belly.
From the prow of their longship, the envoys of King Cnut tightened their cloaks against the salt spray.
The banners of their realm, cross-marked and pale gold, snapped weakly in the wind.
Their ship bore no weapons, only trade goods and the royal seal. Still, they were met with spears.
Armed men stood waiting at the docks.
Hard-faced, wolf-eyed men. Men clad in leather lamellar and fur-trimmed mail, shields painted in ochre and earth, swords at their sides even in peace.
One stepped forward. His beard was silver at the edge and bound in a cord of braided seal-hide.
"You will come with us," he said. No flourish. No courtesy.
"To Jarl Gunnarr, I presume?" asked the elder of the envoys, a Dane named Eirikr who had served Cnut since the conquest of England.
