They were down to eating the dogs now in London, and the rats. The royal household was faring no better, for the sacks of grain were almost emptied; a thin and watery porridge, bolstered by the last of the stored root vegetables, was a diet Emma was beginning to detest. The start of a thaw had not made any difference; they were still hungry. The only consolation, those on the outside of London’s walls, Cnut’s men, were worse off. Londoners had the shelter of their houses; the Vikings had only their tents. Throughout most of the day the sun had been shining, although too weak to melt more than the tips of a few hanging icicles that would refreeze overnight. Emma, as she did every day, was up on the rampart wall, observing the comings and goings of the besieging army. How did one gauge misery? By men shuffling on frostbitten feet or huddled beneath damp, mouldering blankets? By the cries of dying children who could not suck milk from an empty breast? What more could they do?
