The Royal Palace, Winchester (Capital of Wessex)
Princess Judith sat in her private solar, holding a letter sealed with blue wax.
She drummed her manicured fingers on the table. She knew who sent it. Gyda. The self-proclaimed "Prime Minister" of York. The woman Judith had once dismissed as a shield-maiden with delusions of grandeur.
Judith hesitated. Opening this letter felt like opening a door to a blizzard. The Church had just declared the Northmen anathema. To communicate with them was technically heresy.
But curiosity and a heavy dose of vanity won out. She broke the seal.
Inside, there was no parchment. Instead, there was a folded square of fabric. Judith unfolded it. It cascaded over her hands like water, shimmering in the candlelight. It was a deep, royal purple. It was softer than silk, warmer than wool, and heavier than linen.
Jernheim Velvet.
