A cold wind cut through the bare stone walls, howling along the corridors and spiralling up the many steps that weaved in every direction throughout the keep. At the uppermost level, braced against the battlements, Edward looked out across the land towards the sea. Wrapped in an ermine-lined cloak of dark blue, almost black in hue, he closed his eyes against the elements and let his long hair whip across his face. He did not care. Events had troubled him, and he swallowed down the bile, trying to still his heart. They thought him pious, a man of God, so devout many believed him a priest. And yet, what he had done could never be called godly. The murder of a king. He shuddered at the thought.
Two months ago, Harthacanute lay stricken, as he had often done, and nobody asked why. The court,
