Chapter 71: Strangling the North Sea, As the Emerald Isle Burned
The hall of King Cnut in London was heavy with the damp breath of early autumn. Fires burned low in broad hearths, struggling against the chill that coiled along the stone floors.
Rich tapestries did little to warm the air. Their intricate scenes of saints and martyrs now seemed to leer down with thin smiles, as if amused by the hushed urgency of the men gathered below.
Cnut sat upon his oaken throne, a massive thing carved with writhing beasts whose jaws devoured each other in endless hunger.
He leaned one elbow on its arm, fingers drumming against the polished wood.
A golden circlet pressed down his unruly hair, though it did little to disguise the roughness of his bearing. Even crowned, Cnut looked more wolf than king.
A hush settled as Godwin of Wessex stepped forward, cloak damp from his hurried ride, mud caked along the edges of his boots.
“My lord,” Godwin began, voice low but steady. “Word has come by ship from Dyflin. Traders, mostly Norse-Gael, who fled ahead of a firestorm.”
Cnut raised a brow. “Firestorm?”
“Aye, sire. The White Wolf of Iceland has struck Connacht. Not in single blow, but as plague. Half his fleet broke away from that siege at Dún Ailline; they’ve put every village along the river to the torch, stolen cattle, silver, and by the witness of these merchants, hundreds of women.”
Godwin hesitated, swallowing. “They say even the fields are salted behind them, so nothing might grow again for seasons. The petty kings of Ériu are broken. Though they still encircle Dún Ailline, hoping to crush the Norsemen penned there.”
Cnut’s fingers stilled. His eyes narrowed to pale chips of ice. “Hope, is it? Have they so easily convinced themselves these wolves are caught in a trap, and not merely baiting one?”
Godwin gave a thin, strained smile. “Men see what comforts them, my king.”
Cnut’s gaze drifted past his advisor, settling on the dark stained-glass windows that let only sullen light into the chamber. “Fools then. Better to lose a finger by one’s own knife, than wait to see if the blade will turn on the throat. Still… it serves us.”
He pushed himself upright. His chain of heavy gold links clinked against the wolf-pelt draped over his shoulders. “Let these Gaels spend themselves tearing at shadows. Meanwhile, who watches Norway?”
A murmur swept through the gathered nobles. Cnut turned his sharp eyes upon them, and it fell silent at once.
“Olaf is dead. The rumors that his fleet burned upon the waters of Jomsborg, his bones lost to the waves have been confirmed. My own spies have reported that they saw the pyres, counted the black hulls adrift and smoldering.”
Godwin inclined his head. “And Norway lies raw with grief, without a hand to hold the reins. Your Jarls whisper of it already.”
“Aye.” Cnut’s teeth showed in a wolfish grin. “Better that my blades harvest there than waste themselves on bog kings playing at war with this White Wolf of the far North. Let Conchobar drain his coffers, lose his best men for the Pope’s pleasure.”
He paced a step, then two, boots echoing against the rushes strewn on the floor. “We shall send a fresh levy north. My ships wait at Roskilde and Hedeby. Let them sail at once for Nidaros, under banners of alliance. We come as friends; until their council declares otherwise.”
One of the lesser thegns cleared his throat. “And should these Norse in Ériu survive, my lord? Should they break the siege and return to their ships with new hunger?”
Cnut’s gaze cut to him, cold and amused all at once. “Then they shall find their kinsmen already paid homage to me in Norway.
Their raids will serve only to gild my treasury with Irish silver. And if they refuse my claim, they will soon face steel.”
A dry laugh slipped through the hall, though none dared it too loudly.
Godwin ventured closer, lowering his voice. “The Pope still watches, my king. Rome has sent letters demanding we tighten the leash on these heathens. They would have us spill blood for Christ’s sake, not merely for our own gain.”
Cnut waved that off with a scornful flick of his hand. “Let Rome prattle. The Pope sits on his throne of gold and parchment, far from these northern seas. He does not feed my ships, nor arm my housecarls.”
He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “And yet… send a gift all the same. A reliquary, perhaps. Something glittering to keep his priests whispering of my piety. Tell them I have ordered new churches in Denmark, that my wife prays nightly for Rome’s blessing.”
He straightened, voice rising again for all to hear. “Meanwhile, let us do what the Danes have ever done best. Gather steel and sail north. When we are done in Norway, the world shall see that Cnut’s hand alone steers the prow of the North Sea.”
A roar of approval swept through the chamber; hollow, perhaps, but loud enough to please a king.
Godwin hesitated a breath longer. Then said quietly, “And the White Wolf, my king? Should these tales of his cunning prove true… should he survive Ériu and turn his sails east?”
Cnut’s expression darkened, though not with fear. Almost with anticipation.
“Then let him come,” he said softly. “Let him carve his runes on these shores if he dares. The last men who tried to burn my lands now rot beneath cairns that even their ravens have forgotten.”
He turned back toward the throne, voice like iron grinding against ice.
“But first, let us feast. Tonight we drink to Olaf’s passing; and tomorrow, to the rising of new sails over Norway.”
With Olaf’s passing confirmed, Cnut turned his attention northbound, but not in the direction of Vetrúlfr’s pagan kingdom, but rather towards those in Norway who had yet knelt beneath his throne.
His calculations were wise, that is, if he were dealing with any ordinary Norseman. But he was mistaken to believe that the White Wolf was of the same stock as those who had come before.
This wolf did not consider the broken strays of Norway to be kin.
While the Danish king’s eyes were turned north, Vetrúlfr would slip in from the shadowed west; and take from Cnut all that he prized, before the he even knew it was gone.