Chapter 67: The Shadow of Rome
The sky above London was a pewter vault, low and sodden with the promise of rain.
In Westminster’s great hall, King Cnút sat alone at his long table, fingers drumming upon the heavy oaken boards.
The hall was nearly silent. No bards, no raucous laughter of huscarls; only the cautious shuffling of servants who dared not meet his eye.
A scroll lay unrolled before him. Its seal bore the crossed keys of Saint Peter, broken to reveal the stern Latin script within.
The Pope’s legate had written with all the icy courtesy of Rome; the kind that could strip a king of sleep more surely than threats.
The message was plain: the Vatican was displeased. Displeased that the White Wolf; the Varangian Captain who had sacked Bobbio, desecrated altars, and left half the Tiber Valley bristling with corpses yet walked free.
More than that; he walked free somewhere under Cnút’s own broad dominions, or so they suspected.
And worse still, Aachen had taken up the cry. The Emperor’s court was rife with murmurs that Cnút “shielded” the Viking, that England under its Danish king was a soft harbor for men who plundered the shrines of saints.
Cnút’s teeth ground together. His jaw ached from it.
A lesser man might have protested. Might have sent lavish gifts to Rome, or blustering envoys to Aachen. But Cnút was not a lesser man.
He had ruled the Danes with an iron hand since his youth, seized England by the throat, and bent Norway into reluctant submission. He knew well enough how the world truly worked.
At last, he pushed the scroll away. His gaze settled on the great standard that hung at the end of the hall; the Raven of Denmark, wings outstretched, cloth faded by years of smoke and prayer.
Once, it had been a terror to monks and kings alike. Now it was little more than a relic. A symbol that might do him more harm than good, with Rome’s eyes glaring down his back.
A door creaked. Earl Godwin stepped inside, helm tucked beneath his arm. His fair hair was damp, rain sluicing from his cloak. When he bowed, water dripped upon the flagstones.
“My lord King. Word from the northern ports. Traders out of Dublin and the Isle of Man carry tales that the Norse wolves have landed in Ériu again. They say… they have burned Athenry, and taken Dún Ailline for their camp.”
Cnút’s eyes narrowed to knife-slits.
“And still none can say for certain this is the same White Wolf who made mock of Christ in Italy?”
“No, my king. But all the tales match; the cold discipline of his men, the banners marked with a strange magic stave, the black ships that take not only gold, but women by the hundreds. If it is not him, it is his echo.”
Godwin hesitated then, glancing at the papal scroll. “And… Rome will not be placated by whispers that we hunt him still.”
Cnút’s laugh was a hollow thing. It scraped out of his throat like rusted iron.
“Rome.” He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his broad chest. “They forget easily enough how it was their own lands he ravaged. Their cardinals fattened on tithes even as the Wolf’s men slaughtered monks at Bobbio. Now they would hang this disgrace around my neck, because it suits them. Because to them, I am still only a Dane with a stolen crown.”
A brooding silence. Then Cnút stood, heavy rings flashing on his hands as he paced toward the arrow-slit windows.
Beyond, London sprawled under rain, its streets a maze of mud and misery. Ships rocked at the wharfs, their masts ghostly in the gray.
He spoke again, softer, more to himself.
“I have spent years turning the English church to my favor. Filling its bishoprics with men loyal to me, forging my image as a king humble before Christ. And now… one northern marauder threatens it all.”
Godwin cleared his throat. “What will you do, lord? Call a council? Offer Rome a new pilgrimage tax to pay for more altars rebuilt in Italy’s honor?”
Cnút snorted. “No. I will send word to my Earls. Let them hunt the coastlines of Ériu, harry every Norse band that does not bend knee to me. And if they find this White Wolf; they will drag him back to London in chains.”
He paused, a cruel light kindling behind his eyes.
“Or his head, tarred and spiked upon a gate. That might please Rome more.”
Godwin inclined his head. But in his gut, he wondered if it would ever be enough. For a wolf that had eluded every net so far was not likely to be caught by Danish spears alone.
Cnút turned back to the table, resting a hand upon the papal letter. His thumb smudged the careful ink.
“Send for more scribes. I will write Aachen myself. Remind them who guards the North Sea from greater threats. And if they still doubt my loyalty to Rome…”
He let the thought trail off into a grim silence. Outside, thunder muttered over London, low and sullen.
Godwin paused at the heavy oak doors, knuckles whitening on the latch. Then, almost against his better judgment, he turned back toward Cnút’s long throne, words fighting past the tightness in his throat.
“My king… there is one more matter. News from the Baltic. It came through merchants out of Hedeby; wild tales, perhaps, but…” His voice trailed off at the look in Cnút’s eyes.
“Out with it, Godwin. Don’t let your tongue fail you now.”
“It’s Olaf, sire. King Olaf of Norway. They say he is dead. Slain outside Jomsborg, where he led his fleet to break the Jomsvikings once and for all. But the siege went poorly; and then… they say the seas themselves burned.”
The hall fell silent. Even the distant clatter of servants and hounds seemed to hush, the weight of those words drawing every eye.
Cnút slowly rose, his heavy cloak pooling like dark water around his boots. His face was unreadable; then a slow exhale escaped him, as if from deep within his chest.
“Dead. Olaf dead before he ever truly ruled all Norway in peace?”
He looked to Godwin sharply. “And Jomsborg still stands?”
“Aye, by all the accounts we’ve had. Badly scorched perhaps, but not taken. It’s said some cunning art or trickery turned the tide; fires upon the water itself, swallowing ships whole.”
Cnút’s jaw worked. A flicker of both wariness and savage delight crossed his face.
“Olaf was a blade at my back, dreaming of turning all the Northern lords against my rule in Denmark and beyond. If he is truly gone, then Norway grieves; and a grieving kingdom is ripe for another’s hand.”
Godwin nodded warily. “Shall I send riders to your jarls in Jutland? Quietly prepare the fleets?”
“Yes.” Cnút’s hand curled into a fist on the arm of his throne. “No proclamations yet. Let the mourning fill Norway’s longhalls first. Then we shall come; not as plunderers, but as the hand to steady a shattered crown.”
He stepped down from the dais, looming over Godwin. His eyes still burned with calculation.
“And find me the truth of it. I want more than gossip from salt-slick traders. Send gold if you must, to learn whether Olaf’s bones truly lie at the bottom of the Baltic. I will not set my course on rumors alone.”
Godwin bowed, already moving, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him.
For a long moment, Cnút stood alone by the carved pillars of his hall. Then he exhaled, almost a laugh’ though there was no humor in it.
“Olaf dead… Norway leaderless… and still these damn whispers of the White Wolf stirring all the North.” His fingers drummed the hilt of his belt knife. “Then let us see who is quickest to feast on a corpse.”
Outside, London lay under a thin veil of mist, ships creaking on the Thames, unaware of how quickly the fate of kingdoms could change on the breath of a single rumor.