From a Foreign Shore

By Andrew Knighton

What if someone had conquered the Vikings, someone claiming to be their gods?

What if King Arthur's knights met a very different metal-clad warrior?

What if you were ordered to execute a statue, and hanging just didn't seem to work?

These short stories explore different aspects of history, some of them grounded in reality, some alternative takes on the past as we know it. Stories of daring and defiance; of love and of loss; of noble lords and exasperated peasants.

This short collection contains five stories:
Holy Water – a pair of medieval peasants struggle with faith and futility as they try to execute a statue.
Farewell to a Foreign Shore – a Viking sets sail from the raiding lands.
Odin’s Mirror – Vikings face the image of the divine in an alternative Dark Ages.
From the Sea – a messenger is plagued by visions on his run from Marathon.
Sir Cai, the Shining Knight – an Arthurian warrior proves to be more than he appears.

From reviews of the author's other short stories:

"Andrew Knighton paints a vivid picture and sweeps you up in the story from the very start."

"I found myself drawn in to the world of this story right from the first page."

"Highly entertaining!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Knighton
• Release date: Feb 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386443889

Andrew Knighton

Andrew Knighton is a freelance writer and an author of science fiction, fantasy, and steampunk stories. He lives in Yorkshire with his cat, his computer, and a big pile of books.

Book preview

HOLY WATER

Lady Hunwold’s knees ached from days kneeling before the brightly painted statue.  The Virgin Mary beamed down placidly upon her through the heat haze and dry, blurry eyes.  She felt turned inside out.  Her mouth and throat were dry and yet her skin was wet, dress clinging heavy and stagnant with sweat.  Mind wandering she glanced down to be certain that her soft, damp insides had not been pulled forth for examination in the nave, then gazed up again, guiltily, at the focus of her devotion.

‘Holy Mother,’ she whispered through parched lips, ‘please preserve us.  We have weathered the storm of the Danes; let us not now die of drought.  Our crops are failing, animals running mad from sun and heat.  Men turn upon each other in rage and frustration.  We have raised many churches in your Son’s name.  Let our faith not be in vain.’

A cool answering breeze touched the bare backs of her hands. Turning to peer through the chapel door she saw dark clouds racing towards her from the west.  There was a low, loud rumble, followed by the patter of raindrops falling on tiles.  Lightning crashed down upon the surrounding hills, fierce winds shaking the church from floor to ceiling.  She sobbed and heaved with joy, and Mary seemed, through eyes misty with tears and exhaustion, to be shaking too.

Lady Hunwold swept the water from her eyes and looked up. The Holy Mother leaned forward to embrace her with open arms.

By the time Lord Hunwold found his poor, crushed wife she had long ceased breathing.

The statue swung slowly from the gibbet, blue and white paint flaking away around the noose.  Oak and rope creaked from the strain.  Despite her predicament, Mother Mary smiled softly down on Huw through the tumbling rain.

‘I still don’t see how God’s mother can be a murderer,’ he said.

Oswine looked down on the balding, curly head of the shepherd, grimacing as he watched a thick, gnarly finger plunge into a nostril and rummage vigorously for treasure.

‘Our Lady is not convicted of murder, her statue is,’ Oswine explained with a frown.  ‘Though I admit, this work sits ill with me.’

‘Why are you here then?’ Huw asked.

‘Because as Lord Hunwold’s clerk I have been instructed to oversee the correct conduct of the execution.  And to keep you from evading your sentence.’

‘Just because I farted in church, I’m burdened with this nonsense,’ Huw grumbled.

‘No.  Because you hurled the miller in the duck pond.’

‘Aye, but no-one would have cared if I hadn’t farted in church.’

They stood for a while without speaking, the silence broken only by drumming raindrops and Huw chewing noisily on an apple.

‘King Edgar is at Farndon,’ Oswine said, staring at the hills as though he could see through them to the royal palace.  ‘They say he is planning a great coronation with kings from all over Britain. Most of the lords of Cheshire have taken their clerks there, with gifts and oaths of allegiance.  Mine has sent me to desecrate an image of our Holy Mother.’

Huw picked up a short branch that lay on the hillside, torn from its tree by the storm.  Approaching the statue, he reached forward and prodded the dangling legs with increasing vigour.

‘Is it dead yet?’ he asked.

‘No more than it was a week ago,’ Oswine answered with a sigh.  ‘I think we need to try something else.’

HUW PUSHED HIS WAY out of the tree-line, wet branches slapping at him as he emerged into a forest clearing.  A lone rabbit watched from beneath the shelter of a clump of ferns as he trudged across the open space