Blurb:
In the eleventh century, Cnute, the Viking king of Engla-lond
and Scandinavia, sails with his son, Harald, and his shield brothers to Rome.
Thrown off course by a storm, they follow the route up the Rhine. When Harald
stays to assist Selia, a beautiful Frisian woman, his path turns perilous.
Newfound enemies, retainers of Robert the Devil, Duke of Normandy, pursue them.
Harald, Selia, and their companions fail to rendezvous with King Cnute, and are
forced to travel cross-country on horseback. If Duke Robert's plan to
assassinate Cnute succeeds, an invasion of Engla-lond will follow. Can Harald
and Selia reach Rome in time to warn the King?
The Swan's Road is Book #1 in
The Atheling Chronicles. It is available along with Book #2, The Dane Law,
through the following links:
http://www.tirpub.com/
http://www.garthpettersen.com/
Author Bio:
Garth
Pettersen's short stories have appeared in a number of anthologies, and in
journals such as Blank Spaces, The Spadina Literary Review, and The
Opening Line Literary 'Zine. His story River's Rising was
awarded an Honourable Mention for the Short Story America 2017 Prize, and his
fantasy novella, River Born, was one of two runners-up in the
Wundor Editions (UK) Short Fiction Prize. The Swan's Road is
his debut novel. He is a Canadian writer who lives with his wife on a farm in
the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, British Columbia. When he's not writing or
working, he's riding horses.
Read his blogs on writing at www.garthpettersen.com/ or follow him on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/
Read his blogs on writing at www.garthpettersen.com/ or follow him on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/
Excerpt from Chapter 1
The prow
of our longship broke the waves, the salt spray stinging my eyes. My legs bent,
and my feet shifted naturally at the rise and fall of the sea. Always, it was
the same, when the unfurling sail caught the wind and the ship surged forward.
Like when you put heels to horse and she runs. The same. My spirits rising. The
sun glistening off the surface of the sea.
This was
more to my liking than learning the ways of the realm, for surely my royal
Danish blood was many parts seawater.
I turned
and watched my father, King Cnute, standing with his back to the mast. At forty
years, Cnute was past his prime now, though he still maintained the strength of
his sword arm, and the force of his will could not be broken. With his red
cloak wrapped around him and the bronze circlet on his brow, my father looked
out toward the other longships as if his gaze alone was enough to gather them
in, to keep the wolf pack together. Four drakkars or longships, sixty men, and
a string of horses, an adequate force for a raid, but a mere fighting band in a
battle.
At that
moment, he saw me watching him.
“Harald,
my son,” he called. A broad smile lit up his face. I could tell the wind and
waves had ripped the weight of kingship from him. “It’s a fine day to be a
Dane.” He laughed in that way of his, tossing his head back, so his long mane
of gray-blond hair blew in the wind.
I left the
prow and walked the pitching deck to join him.
“We’ll
make the Norman shore by nightfall." His voice rose above the sound of the
wind. “The weather will hold so the ships can return with the morning tide.”
“I wish we
were sailing all the way to Rome,” I said. “I am more at home on a deck than a
horse.”
“As am I.
But I have need to see the kingdoms of the Holy Roman Empire. There is much to
learn—for both of us.”
I tried to
discern if my father alluded to some of my past lapses of judgment: fits of
childish anger directed at him, a fondness for ale beyond my ability to control
my behavior, and a tendency to be overwhelmed with love for a pretty face. This
time, as at others, I could not read what lay behind his words.
My father continued. “This system the Normans and
Franks use—fee or fief they call it—I would see how it functions, whether it
enslaves those who work the land, or secures them.”
“Your
subjects prosper, Father. Is there need for change?”
He looked
at me shrewdly, wiping seaspray from his face. “Perhaps not. Let us say we
shall borrow that which we deem to be good and make note of the rest. A king
should always know about his friends, for one day they may be his enemies.”
“May God
will all your days be lived in peace,” said a voice behind me. “Your Eminence,”
said the king. I had not seen Archbishop Lyfing approach. He was a short, thin
man, and his bishop’s robes only made him look smaller. “The Duke of Normandy’s
representative will be watching for us,” the prelate
said. “He will not want to miss collecting the passage
toll.” “I bear a letter from the Holy Father,” the king replied, “that will
serve as a pass through the toll collectors in any Catholic lands.”
Lyfing was
caught off guard, but replied, “I wasn’t aware of this arrangement.”“You are my
Archbishop of Canterbury and my confessor, but you are not privy to all matters
of state, Father Lyfing.”
For a
moment, the archbishop’s arrogance faded from his countenance, though he
recovered quickly, making a slight bow to the king. Whenever Cnute addressed
Lyfing as “Father,” he was reminding the man of his humble priestly beginnings,
a role he could be reduced to if he displeased his King.
Not able to keep the smile from my face, I asked to be
excused. My father nodded and continued his conversation with the churchman. I
made my way toward the stern where my two best friends, Torsten and Gwyn,
fished with hand lines ahead of the steersman.
I said,
“It looks to me the crew will be eating salt pork for supper tonight, not sea
bass.”
“The
passage is not yet over, young princeling,” Torsten replied. “Chide me at the
day’s end.”
Gwyn
grinned. “If we land something spiny and full of worms, we’ll save it for your
highness’ supper.”
We shared
the laugh. Torsten, Gwyn, and I had grown up together. Our fathers had fought
as shield brothers in the taking of our English kingdom. To be included in this
journey was an honor for their families.
The company of our friend, Gwyn, could not be equaled.
He loved to jest or tell a tale around a campfire or over horns of ale. Like
most Welshmen, Gwyn was dark and short in stature, a wild barbarian in a fight.
Torsten
had a different nature. With a Danish father and an English mother, he stood
tall and blond like a Northman. The impression he gave to strangers was of a
quiet shyness. But those who sought to take advantage of that lack of brashness
suffered for their mistake, for although Torsten was gifted with patience and
forbearance, the embers of injustice could be quickly fanned when the need
arose. In our world, the need did most often arise.
Of the three of us, I would have to admit to being the
most hotheaded and impulsive. I had once chosen like-minded companions, but our
antics many times reached the ears of the king. It is one thing to be
reprimanded by one’s father; it is quite another when one’s father is the king
of the realm. Cnute made it a clear choice: either pursue a royal path or be on
my way to the devil. My former companions found themselves shipped off to
rustic and unknown relatives in different parts of my father’s vast kingdoms. I
found better friends.
“Look, Harald,” said Gwyn, checking his fishline,
“what’s all this Holy Roman whatnot we’re off to?”
“Aye,”
said Torsten, “the king’s not one to give his rowers lessons in statecraft.”
“That’s because you’re better at rowing than listening.” Torsten reached over
to cuff his friend on the head, but Gwyn ducked the blow. “Both of you listen,
and I’ll explain it to you,” I said. “You know Cnute rules the
northern lands of Engla-lond, Danmark, Nordvegr, and
parts of Sverige? Well, the kingdoms directly south, in central Europe, are
tied together as the Holy Roman Empire. This is not the Empire of the old Roman
legions, but a Christian alliance of kingdoms under a monarch who is appointed
by the Pope in Rome. A new emperor is to be crowned in Rome, and this voyage
from Engla-lond, across the Narrow Sea, is the first leg of our journey. Once
we get to Normandy, we go overland. I don’t know the whole route, but we keep
heading south, all the way to Rome.”
“And
that’s why the archbishop’s crawled out from ’neath his rock, isn’t it?” said
Gwyn. “So he can sample the Pope’s wine.”
“I’m sure
there are many reasons for Lyfing to be with us. One is to make our King appear
to be more than a northern barbarian. Another is to strengthen our ties with
the Holy See. Does this all make sense?”
“Clear
enough,” Torsten replied, peering down at the sea.
“Perfectly clear, Harald,” said Gwyn. “Except the part
about the Holy See. I thought we were going overland, didn’t I?”
Just then Gwyn’s line jerked taut, and he struggled to
keep hold of it. “Now if you’ve finished preaching to the ignorant, could you
help me pull in your supper?”
***
The wind
held throughout the day, and by evening, the crying of gulls greeted us as we
approached the Frankish shore, now held by our Norman cousins. As we neared the
beach, we hauled up the sail. It was then an odd thing happened. My actions
would cause me to later wonder what the outcome would have been had I acted
differently.
The horses
had been tied to ropes stretched across the gunwales. Whether the cause was the
smell of land or the nip of a dominant mare, there was a sudden flurry of
kicking and biting. At one point, a number of horses shifted to the port side,
and the ship tipped. As I steadied my stance, Archbishop Lyfing hit the
gunwale, and before the ship could right itself, the priest’s momentum cartwheeled
him over the side.
“Deus!” he
cried, before splashing into the sea.
As other crewmen secured the horses, those of us on
the port side looked to the bishop’s plight. Encumbered by his heavy bishop’s
robe, the man thrashed frantically. To any seafaring man, it was obvious this
priest could not swim. I untied my sword, dropped it to the deck, climbed upon
the gunwale, and dove into the sea.
After the
first spirit-cleansing shock of the cold seawater, I bobbed to the surface and
struck out toward the flailing priest. A drowning man gave in to his panic,
which quickly drove him to exhaustion then to sinking.
Our longship had passed us by, though the crew would
be fixing the oars at this moment. The distance between Lyfing and me shrank
rapidly. My strokes cut through the water with the strength and determination
of youth.
The bishop's head submerged and failed to rise again.
I tucked and dove. The darkness of the sea had me blind, but my hand touched a
swirl of cloak, and I grabbed hold, then turned and kicked upward, hauling up
the would-be martyr.
Breaking the surface, I laughed. Perhaps it was the
exuberance of my young manhood or the joy of using my strength, but I believe
it was amusement at the thought of Archbishop Lyfing gaining entrance to heaven
because he drowned while on a pilgrimage to Rome.
Muscled
arms took the archbishop’s limp form from me and plucked him from the sea. A
moment later I was hauled over the rail in like manner. Standing with the
seawater dripping from my body, I observed the efforts being made to revive the
churchman.
Lyfing lay
on the deck chest down, face turned to the side. Alric, my father’s friend and
shield brother, thrust straight-armed at the blades of the priest’s shoulders.
The king and crew stood round, watching. Water gushed from Lyfing’s mouth, and
the soggy-cloaked mass that was our archbishop gasped in a breath. Cheers and
laughter broke out from the seamen. The priest drew his knees up under him and
proceeded to purge the sea and his last meal onto the planking.
“It would
appear, I won’t be needing a new archbishop,” Cnute said with a smile.
Meet Garth--
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