Through the many holes and gaps, the wind cut like a knife into the flesh of the men huddled together in the high-vaulted hall. A sound like a demented banshee, whistled through the wooden walls whilst without, the cold heralded another harsh, unforgiving winter.
Strewn over the long tables the detritus of the previous night"s feast mingled with pools of vomit from those who had partaken too much of rich wine, their slumbering bodies hyphenating the scene. Threading his way through these inert clumps, Yaroslav, king of the Rus, went to the head of the room, lifted up a goblet of wine and drained it. Swathed in a sheepskin-lined robe, the cold still bit hard, and he rubbed himself with trembling hands, crammed some goat"s cheese into his mouth and washed it down with more wine.
He looked
