JAYDEN WOODS - Official Author Site
GODRIC THE KINGSLAYER
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Cover art by Del Melchionda
Godric is the bastard son of Eadric Streona, spurned by Eadric’s wife and promised nothing by society. At a young age his life is steeped with murder, loss, and betrayal. Godric seems destined for a life of exile and insignificance, but he grows determined to avenge his father’s death, no matter what the cost.
Living under the roof of Thorkell the Tall, he learns to become a Jomsviking. The life of a warrior brings him comfort, but his hunger for vengeance remains. He finds a new identity for himself and successfully reenters the royal court, where he initiates his plans of assassination.
As success grows closer, however, he finds himself hurting the people he loves more than the man that he hates. He watches himself become his own worst enemy, and can only hope to change his ways before he tears his own world apart.
“CANUTE: This
Is Eadric’s child, the little murderer,
Who did my deed of treason. Edmund, turn
Those trustful eyes from off me.”
—Canute the Great - The Cup of Water
Act III Scene II
Michael Fields, 1887
Is Eadric’s child, the little murderer,
Who did my deed of treason. Edmund, turn
Those trustful eyes from off me.”
—Canute the Great - The Cup of Water
Act III Scene II
Michael Fields, 1887
Clip from Chapter 8
1022. A.D.
The light orange glow over the horizon grew stronger, and Godric realized that it was sunlight. The sun was rising, and he had hardly noticed until its bright rays rose over the fortress and spilled onto the ocean beyond.
He looked once more to the sea, and his breath caught.
There, he saw a single ship.
“CANUTE!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
His blood roared in his ears as the echo of his own cry rang about him. He wondered if he’d spoken too soon. Who could say the ship approaching held Canute?
Yet Godric felt certain that it did.
Men came running in response to his shout. His instinct took over once more and he fled the scene. He did not want them to figure out that he sounded the alarm, for then they would question him as to why he thought the ship held Canute. Then they would tease him, and call him Godric the Gimp, and not take his warning seriously.
Besides, Godric wanted to hide.
He saw a discarded bow with arrows and grabbed it. No doubt its owner would be very upset with him later. Never mind. He kept his axe strapped tight to his back, slung the quiver around his shoulder, and carried the bow in his hands. He ran down to the ships and hid amongst them. No doubt the men in the tower could see him. Hopefully they understood what he was doing.
The cold salty water numbed his skin as he crouched amongst the boats. His wounds, a few days old now, burned with pain. He cared little. He cared for nothing but the ship sailing for the iron gates of Jomsborg.
Any remaining doubts dissolved as soon as he discerned the silhouette of a large black raven on the prow of the large vessel. A raven was Canute’s symbol. Then, the king stood up. He pulled off his black cloak and stood tall.
The sight of Canute’s approach was breathtaking. He had timed everything perfectly. The sun rose behind Jomsborg, shining directly into Canute’s face, bathing the king in golden light. His silvery blonde hair lashed in the wind like the crystalline waves breaking against his vessel. He wore a diamond about his neck, and several more jewels on his hands and belt, catching the light and sending a halo of rainbow shards around his form. He wore glittering chainmail and a soft, rippling tunic of solid white.
His vessel was large enough to hold fifty soldiers or more, but it was not full. A few dozen men, humble in appearance, were all that manned the boat other than Canute himself. They carried no visible weapons. Godric did not doubt that they were warriors—Canute was not stupid—but Canute made his point, nonetheless. He came in peace.
To Godric’s profound disappointment, the large iron gates creaked open for him, and Canute sailed freely into the harbor of Jomsborg.
Clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, Godric crouched lower in the water, waiting and watching as the king sailed closer.
As the boat drifted through the gates, Canute looked up, a wide grin on his long, slender face, and he lifted his hands. Palms upward, his arms rose into the air, as if to hold the sun on his fingertips.
“JOMSBORG,” he cried. His sturdy, crisp voice sent chills down Godric’s back. “I have come to speak to your chief, Thorkell the Tall.”
A long, daunting silence fell over the harbor. Despite himself, Godric shivered with cold and fear. He looked to the tower for signs of movement. He was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Thorkell’s haggard face appeared at a window.
“CANUTE,” boomed Thorkell. His voice did not carry the same cocky poignancy as Canute’s, but it shook the air like a drum. “Take your men and go away. You disgrace yourself by coming here.”
“I disgrace myself?” Canute released an uncertain laugh. “I come only to speak to you in peace, Thorkell.”
“You surround my burg with fire! Call them away, or we will kill them all.”
“I need not call them away. And you need not kill them.” Canute’s hands had long since lowered somewhat, but now he lifted them again, opening his chest wide. “If God wills that any blood be shed today, let it be mine. And if God wills to strike me down, let him do so now, before we waste any more useless words.”
Trembling through and through, Godric pulled an arrow from his quiver. He nocked it to his bow and pulled back the string. He looked down the shaft to the iron tip.
His breath came in heaving gasps from his chest. He could hardly hold the bow straight. How long had it been since he shot a bow? Years, at the least. And he had given it up because he was no longer good at aiming.
But this was his chance. His chance to kill Canute and become the Kingslayer. His chance to prove to Thorkell and everyone else that he was not Godric the Gimp. His chance to avenge himself, and his father.
He aimed the arrow for Canute’s heart. Then he loosed it.
Whether his poor sight was at fault, or whether a strong breeze was to blame, he would never know. The shot seemed true at first. The whistle of a sailing arrow sang through the air and Canute himself turned to look as the sharp metal flew towards him.
Then it whirled away, far from Canute’s body or even his soft white robes, its wooden shaft shuddering as it lost its momentum and fell with a plop into the ocean water.
A grin came over Canute’s face as he examined his own body and found it unscathed. Then he looked up again, eyes sweeping the boats for his attacker.
Godric dropped into the water to his chin, turning to press his back against the wooden planks. His eye remained wide open, seared with the image of Canute’s triumphant grin. Not only had Godric failed to kill him, but he had strengthened the king’s God-like visage. Canute had asked God to strike him down. Then God had missed.
“Well,” shouted Canute, “it looks as if my fate is a good one.”
Angry tears flooded Godric’s vision. He heard Thorkell and Canute exchanging more words. Thorkell reluctantly agreed to let him dock his vessel in peace.
Shamefully, Godric peered over the boat to which he clung, watching as Canute tied his boat to the harbor. He felt the weight of the axe on his back. With the axe, he would not miss. He would sink the blade into Canute’s neck and shower in his blood.
But if anything went wrong, and anyone tried to stop him, he would humiliate himself yet more.
He waited, not caring if he froze to death, until Canute and his men got off their ship and disappeared into the burg. Then he crawled back to land, weighed down by water and misery.
He cried out, not caring who heard him, as he smacked the bow against his knee and broke it in two.
*
