The wind off the Channel rattled the shutters of Rouen’s keep. Below, the courtyards rang with the clatter of smiths at their forges, men hammering out helms and spearheads for a war not yet declared. The great hall was half-lit, tapestries stirring in the draft as Willia of Normandy stood over a map spread across the long oak table. England lay across the sea, so close, and yet a world away.

Her husband, beside her, his arms folded, saying little. He knew her silence well, it was the stillness before a storm.

Willia’s hand traced the coastlines of England. “Edward promised me the crown. Harold swore it before the saints. Now he wears it as though my word means nothing.” She looked up at him then, eyes glinting in the firelight. “If I let that stand, what sort of ruler am I?"