The halls of London were cold despite the summer sun.
The stones of the great hall still smelled faintly of smoke from the last sack, when Cnut’s men had torn through its doors in fury, before the wolf from Iceland had shattered them and dragged their king to the blood-eagle.
The scars of that night lingered: black streaks on the timbers, gouges on the flagstones, whispers in every corner.
Now Duncan of Scotland sat on the English throne.
The crown felt heavy on his brow, and heavier still was the silence that filled the chamber.
Around him clustered lords of Wessex, Mercia, and Kent, men whose eyes were harder than their words.
Their cloaks shimmered with wealth, but beneath each fold Duncan felt sure there hid a blade.
They bent the knee to him because Cnut was gone and because the wolf had vanished north, but their hearts were not his.
"Reports from Kent, sire," said one, Earl Leofric of Mercia, his voice cool.
"Svein’s host has withdrawn inland, licking its wounds. Yet they do not break. They hold the coast and the ports. If he draws more men from Norway, Kent will be his gate."
Duncan’s jaw tightened.
He had ridden hard to strike Svein on the beaches, hoping to cut the Danish prince before his feet were firm on English soil.
But Svein had come with more men than expected, hardened Norse still loyal to Cnut’s line.
The clash had been bloody, too bloody.
His own Scottish spears had driven them back, but not broken them.
Losses gnawed at his strength.
"I will not yield Kent to a foreign pup," Duncan growled, his hands curling into fists on the throne’s arms.
"If Svein bleeds, I will bleed him more. We march again."
The English lords glanced at one another, weighing his words like merchants at market.
They did not love him. To them he was still a foreigner, a Scot upon the throne of England, a stranger wearing their crown.
One spoke, his tone oily, a thane of Kent who had bent knee after Cnut’s fall.
"To march, sire, we must levy more men. England is weary of war. Harvests call, fields need hands. Press too hard and the people may turn against you."
Duncan’s eyes flashed. "And if I do not press, Svein will take your fields and burn them. Would you rather sow ashes?"
The thane bowed low, lips tight.
Too much of England had burn and bled in Cnut’s war.
Still, they muttered approval, but Duncan saw their doubt as plain as sunlight. For more chapters visıt NoveI-Fire.ɴet
They did not believe in him. Not yet.
He rose from the throne and strode to the great map spread on the table.
His hand came down hard on London’s mark, then traced the road south to the Channel.
"We move before Svein can call Norway to him. Scotland stands ready to send more men; I have already sent word north. If I march swift, I can reach Kent with reinforcements before winter. Svein cannot. His supply runs across the sea. Every day I hold, he weakens. Every mile he marches inland, he starves."
Silence met him again. He looked up, fury in his chest.
"Do you not hear me? The Norwegian is beaten once, he will be beaten again. But not by cowards who whisper behind cloaks. I need men, and I need them now."
The lords shifted, eyes sliding away.
Some nodded reluctantly, but their voices were low, their agreement grudging.
Duncan knew what they did not say aloud.
He had not won the crown by their gift.
He had taken it by chance, by standing alongside the wolf when Cnut fell.
The Norse had vanished back into the mist, leaving him on the throne. But England remembered.
The wolf’s shadow still lay across the land.
Even here, in London’s hall, Duncan felt it. He could almost hear the echo of Vetrulfr’s laughter as Cnut screamed beneath the eagle.
To the people, he was no liberator, no chosen king.
He was merely the man left standing when the wolves departed.
Behind every nod, he felt the thought unsaid: Better a Dane than a Scot. Better even a wolf than a foreign crown.
He clenched his teeth and forced the thought away.
Later, in his private chamber, he let the mask slip.
His captains sat close: Scots loyal to his banner, men who had marched with him since before England. To them he spoke plainly.
"I cannot trust these English lords," he said, pouring wine with a heavy hand.
"They smile, but their eyes weigh me like cattle. They do not see me as king... only as usurper...."
One of his captains, a broad-shouldered Gael with scarred cheeks, leaned close.
"Then let them choke on it, lord. The wolf spilled Cnut’s blood, aye, but it was his fear of your spear that drove him and his pack to the sea. You sit upon the chair, you wear the crown. Their choice is kneel or die."
Duncan shook his head. "If I rule only by fear, I am no better than the Norse. England must be made mine, not merely held. If I cannot bind them, I will be bled to death by daggers in the dark."
Another captain grunted. "Svein will do that for them, if you do not move fast."
Duncan stared into the cup, wine dark as blood.
He thought of Scotland’s hills, of men who would follow him south, of the fragile grip he held here.
He thought of Svein, wounded but unbroken, snarling in Kent.
He thought of Conrad’s empire to the east, bleeding against Wends and Danes alike.
The world was fire and fracture, and he stood in its center, holding a crown that cut as much as it shone.
Duncan could not help but silently curse Vetrulfr’s name beneath his breath.
If not for the white wolf, and the lies he spun, he and all of Scotland would not be in this position.
In fact, Duncan was starting to suspect that the English attacks on his borders were actually all part of Vetrulfr’s schemes from the start.