The candlelight in London’s hall flickered against the stone walls, throwing shadows across Cnut’s face.
His council had gathered, but the air was heavy with unease. Messengers had returned not with clarity, but with contradictions, rumors carried on frightened tongues.
A Saxon reeve, trembling before the throne, stammered his report:
"My lord, the villages of Middleham and Whitford... they are empty. Entire households, gone. Some say they were dragged northward in chains. Others... others whisper they went willingly, following the wolves into the dark."
Another messenger, Dane-born, spat on the ground in disgust.
"Lies. They were sacrificed! The pagans take them for their gods, burning, bleeding, feeding their idols with Christian flesh. It is said the White Wolf dines on their hearts himself."
The hall erupted in anxious muttering. Some shouted in outrage, others crossed themselves in fear.
Cnut raised a hand, silencing them. His face was pale, his lips drawn tight.
"Sacrifice? Chains? Willing thralls?" he asked, his voice low. "Which is it?"
An older earl, grey at the temples, finally spoke with reluctant honesty:
"Sire, it may be all three. The wolf offers coin, land, and food to those who bend. To those who resist, he takes. To others, perhaps... darker rites are performed. The stories change with every survivor."
Cnut leaned back in his chair, burying his face in his hands.
"God help us," he muttered. "I cannot fight shadows. I cannot crush phantoms. Every tale grows taller in the telling, and each rumor corrodes the will of my people. Do you not see? The fear is worth more to him than the villages themselves."
His marshal shifted uneasily. "The men believe it, sire. That is enough. They whisper of the White Wolf as if he were not man at all, but a demon surfaced from Hell to feast on England’s soul."
Cnut’s hands clenched. He forced himself upright, his eyes blazing.
"He is no demon. He is a man. And men can be broken."
He scanned the faces of his jarls, his earls, his huskarls.
"But I warn you, if we let these rumors go unanswered, if we allow this fear to fester, then we lose not only villages, but the hearts of England itself."
The fire popped in the hearth. Outside, the winter wind rattled the shutters like a dying man’s breath.
Cnut’s voice dropped, low and grim.
"Find me truth, not ghosts. I will not watch my kingdom bleed away in the night, devoured not by steel, but by stories."
But even as he said it, he knew: stories had teeth. And the White Wolf had learned to bite with them.
The Scottish war camp sprawled across the damp fields of Mercia, lines of tents braced against the cold spring winds.
Fires smoked in shallow pits, their warmth barely holding against the chill.
Spears and shields leaned in racks, horses stamped their hooves in the mud, and the smell of sweat, leather, and pine pitch hung heavy.
King Duncan sat beneath a canvas pavilion striped with his banners, a makeshift throne of carved oak dragged south for his dignity.
The Pope’s letter lay unrolled across a small campaign table, its wax seal cracked and broken.
His captains stood nearby, mud still clinging to their boots from the march, their breath clouding in the air.
The bishops who rode with him muttered prayers, their hands trembling as they re-read the words.
"Cease your alliance with the heathens. Abandon your quarrels with England. Submit your grievances for the mediation of Rome, lest you bring ruin on your soul and your crown alike."
Duncan’s jaw was hard. He had seen enough burned villages in Northumbria, enough English earls fleeing before his host, to know what "mediation" from Rome meant.
One of his bishops crossed himself.
"Sire, if we ignore this, Rome will excommunicate us. Scotland has only lately entered the fold of Christ. Will you cast us back into darkness?"
A scarred thane barked a laugh.
"Darkness? Rome is far, and her priests farther. Was the Pope here when Cnut’s men crossed our borders? Did he stand when Northumbrian steel bit into our kin? Nay. We bled. Not Rome."
Another captain spat into the mud.
"The White Wolf’s riders bleed the land faster than we march. He brings us victories without even raising his own banner beside ours. Rome may call him heathen, but I call him ally."
Duncan rose, his cloak snapping in the cold air. He held the letter aloft.
"The Pope calls this war petty. Petty? Tell that to the widows of my northern marches. Tell that to the farmers whose fields were salted by Cnut’s raiders."
The letter fluttered in his hand before he flung it into the brazier at his side. The parchment curled, blackened, and burned to ash.
"Rome sends words. Vetrúlfr sends steel. Which do you think defends Scotland?"
He turned to his captains, voice sharp as drawn steel.
"We march with the wolves. If Rome wishes to curse me, let her priests come north and try to make it so."
Some men cheered. Others fell into uneasy silence, eyes on the bishops, who looked pale with dread.
But Duncan did not waver. He sat again, hands clenched on the arms of his chair, staring into the flames as the last of Rome’s message crumbled to smoke.
The royal camp south of London was still, its banners drooping in the damp evening air. Fires burned low, men hunched close, hungry and worn.
King Cnut sat beneath a timber-framed tent, the papal letter spread across his lap. His jarls hovered nearby, waiting for his command.
The words were clear: Rome demanded peace, demanded he cast aside vengeance and treat with Duncan and the wolves of the north.
Cnut’s hands trembled as he crushed the parchment into a ball. His jaw worked, teeth grinding.
"Peace," he muttered bitterly. "Rome asks peace of me, while Duncan marches through Mercia, and the White Wolf burns my land to ash."
A jarl dared speak. "Sire, will you heed the Pope?"
Cnut dropped the letter into the brazier. The fire hissed as the wax melted, the script curling into smoke.
"No," he said flatly. "Rome does not bleed for England. I do. And I will meet the wolves with fire and iron, Pope or no Pope."
The jarls bowed their heads, but the silence that lingered was heavy with doubt.