Arthurian Fiction.

[svalbard]

Does this work as a beginning? Is it too close to the original legend? Any comments would be welcome.


PROLOGUE AUTUMN 468 A.D.

The clamour in the hall was deafening and Ambrosius unable to bare it any longer, pushed his way through the shouting mass of men, to gain the relative peace of the open courtyard outside. His mind was in turmoil and his eyes glinted with rage. The fool, he thought, the bloody fool. He would lose all for a vainglorious dream, a dream of empire. Damn the bastard to hell, for he would not be following him to Gaul.

That province was all but lost and no army from Britain was ever going to win it back. But the attempt could well lose them Britain and their hard won freedom. Long had he argued against the venture and its inherent dangers? But Riothamus would not be gainsaid, not when he saw himself as the new Magnus Maximus. And what had that man gained, nothing but an early grave and the hastened ruin of the empire.

Walking swiftly across the crowded grounds of the caer, Ambrosius made for the strong lofty wooden walls, that stood atop a ten foot high earthen ditch. Once there he leaned against the palisade and gazed across the peaceful countryside, his eyes drawn to a number of horsemen making their way to the caer. He recognized the flowing red hair of the lead rider and could sense the man’s temper as he drove his mount on. His half-brother, Uthyr the Pendragon, was a man of volatile moods and was no friend of Riothamus. It could be said with some truth that Uthyr despised the High- King and all that he stood for. Some even said that the Pendragon should have taken the High-Kingship on the death of Vortigern, but he had refused all entreaties from the nobles.

‘I like the thought of a long life,’ Uthyr had said to Ambrosius when broached on the subject. It was a response that his brother could not argue against. Their own father had been cut down by Vortigern for the crown of Britain and he himself had spent his whole reign fighting off other claimants, until his own miserable end on the field of battle.Uthyr and his companions came clattering into the caer and seeing Ambrosius on the battlements hailed him.

‘How goes the counsel,’ he shouted.
‘Can you not hear the exultant cries from the great hall? The king will sail for Gaul and glory come the spring,’ Ambrosius said, coming down from his vantage point.
Uthyr cursed and turned to his men. ‘Feed the horses and prepare to leave. We will not tarry here long.’
‘You will not try to dissuade the king?’ Ambrosius asked.
‘The man is a fool. I will return to Gwent and counsel the western kings not to send men to Riothamus. If he is set on this course then he will do it with what men he can muster from the south. And you?’ Uthyr replied.
‘I will go home to Corinium and hold my own men there. Come the spring when the king leaves for Gaul, the Saxons will try to take advantage of his absence. It is then that we will need all the strength that we can muster just to hold the Saxons off, let alone press any victory,’ Ambrosius said.

Although brothers, Uthyr and Ambrosius could not have been more different in looks or temperament. Dark haired and sallow skinned, Ambrosius showed the Roman blood of both his parents, whereas Uthyr had inherited none of his sire’s features but bore the open, fierce look of his mother’s people, the Silurian tribe of the Britons. Uthyr’s temper was quick to match his looks, although it served him well in his position as Pendragon to the fractious Briton kings. Except with his overlord the High-King. More than once Uthyr had brow beaten the kings in to accepting his will on the war trail, but this Riothamus was different.

Proud and intelligent, the High- King had little use for Uthyr or his brother Ambrosius Aurelianus and for good reason. Their family name made them contenders for the Kingship and when the old king Vortigern was slain, a strong body of lords had urged Uthyr and then Ambrosius to claim the kingship, both had refused but for different reasons. Riothamus, third choice had taken on the mantle and all the woes it brought with it.

Men were beginning to stream from the hall, their voices loud and excited as they discussed the forthcoming campaign and the rich plunder they would take on the war trail. Others like Ambrosius were mute and sullen and one of these now made his way to the brothers.
‘Couldn’t stay and stomach the fool’s words,’ he said by way of greeting.
‘If the man had the brains to match his courage we would have driven the Saxons from our shores years ago,’ Uthyr answered.
The newcomer grunted at Uthyr’s words and spat in the direction of the hall.
‘I give that to his courage. A wolf is brave when backed by his pack and that is all those idiots who support him are, a pack of curs,’ he said vehemently.
‘O come now Gorlois, there is no need for you to mince your words,’ Ambrosius said with a smile.
Gorlois, king of Kernow, suddenly smiled, the eyes in his battle ravaged face lighting up.
“Anyhow I have a new woman at home that needs bedding,” Gorlois said.
That peaked Uthyr’s interest and he positively leered at the king when he spoke.

“A beauty I hear, tall and shapely,” he said winking at Ambrosius but he did not draw his brother in to the jest. Ambrosius was considered a serious man who cared little for small talk and gossip, a trait that endeared him to few and the reason his younger brother was preferred by the lords of Britain and honoured as the Pendragon.
“Well I will be keeping her far from your lecherous eye. Ygrene is for my bed alone,” and with that Gorlois bade the brothers farewell as he went in search of his men for the long journey home.
“A good man and one to court for the future,” Ambrosius remarked.
“Aye, he’s a bonny fighter and a mighty man to share a cup with,” Uthyr replied, staring intently at the hall.
“If we did less carousing and put more effort in to governing our lands then we would not have to worry about the Saxon,” Ambrosius growled.
“Brother, a man can only stomach so much before he succumbs to dark moods. A little light entertainment now and again never did anyone any harm,” Uthyr said, suddenly striking off towards the hall.

Caught by surprise, Ambrosius watched Uthyr stride off and wondered at his sudden actions. Men stumbled out of the way of the Pendragon, avoiding his glowering gaze and swinging arms as he cleared a path through the now sizable crowd. Ambrosius followed the direction of his brother’s march, his eyes finally alighting on the considerable bulk of Twdfwlch, the indolent king of Gwent. He was as surprised as Uthyr to see the king here and it struck Ambrosius as strange that he had not noticed the king earlier on at the council.

He set to follow his brother and greeted those who crossed his path distractedly. Twdfwlch was an enigmatic figure and he relied heavily on Uthyr to lead the Gwent warband as his own weight and inherent laziness did not make for the ideal attributes of a war leader. That said he was no coward and in his youth Ambrosius had witnessed the man break a shield wall of Irish raiders and turn the tide of battle in favour of the Britons. But that was nigh on a score of years in the past and Twdfwlch rarely left the comfortable surrounds of his palace at Isca Siluram these days. The tasks of leading embassies normally fell to king’s son or Uthyr.

As he neared the two men, Ambrosius could hear their loud angry voices and he noted the cluster of men gathered about them listening intently to the debate, a number of them belonging to the High-King’s teulu. This was not good, thought Ambrosius, not good at all.
“And who are you to question me on where I go and who I meet?” roared Twdfwlch, his voice full of fury.
Uthyr, not one to back down or take kindly too been shouted at, squared off to his king.
“You fat fool! Do you not see what Riothamus is trying to do?” Uthyr growled back.
Twdfwlch his face now an unhealthy red looked about him and gestured wildly with his arms.
“Is this the proper way for a servant to speak to his king. Where is the respect due to me? I tell you Uthyr map Custennin that you think too highly of yourself. Now be gone from my sight before I have you beaten for the dog you are!” Twdfwlch snarled turning his back on the Pendragon and waddling back to the hall.

Uthyr made to follow but Ambrosius reached him then and grabbing his brother by the arm, he hauled him back. Glancing about at the crowd of men who were staring open mouthed at them and some with wide smirks on their faces; Ambrosius dragged Uthyr away and beckoned for the Pendragon’s men to fetch their mounts. Time to leave, thought Ambrosius, thinking this whole episode was a cleverly worked set up.

“Easy brother, easy. Now we are going to leave and cool that temper of yours,” he said to Uthyr as he walked him back to the gates.
“The bastard, the stupid bastard. How much gold has the High-King given him for his support in this venture,” Uthyr said angrily.
To that Ambrosius gave no reply as there was more than gold to this. Riothamus had worked this out well and knew that he would drive a wedge between the Pendragon and his most powerful king in the doing. Twdfwlch for his part must have decided that the services of Uthyr were no longer required or else why be here at the counsel.

“Twdfwlch will pay for this I tell you. I will rouse the other kingdoms against him and burn his hall down around his head,” Uthyr said.
“That is what they will be expecting. If I was you, I would go to Dumnonia and lie low for a while. I noticed that Marcus is not here and surely he will welcome your sword and the men you bring. Trust me, brother, before long Twdfwlch and the other kings of the west will miss your martial skills, when the Gaels begin to raid in the spring,” Ambrosius said.
Uthyr gave his brother a long searching look before replying.
“You are right. Let the bastard scream for me in his need and then maybe I will answer his call but I think I will be too busy leading the men of Dumnonia in defending their borders against the Saxon. So let the ingrate rot for all I care,” Uthyr remarked taking in a deep breath and waving his waiting men forward.

Mounting his steed the Pendragon looked about at the open grounds of the caer and gestured to the on looking crowd.
“Fare thee well warriors of Britain! Take heart on your venture to Gaul that your homes shall be defended by the Pendragon and his teulu,” he called out to them and only Ambrosius who knew his brother well, could hear the bitterness in his voice.
“Look for me at Lindinis in the spring,” Uthyr said to him as he cantered from the fortress.

Ambrosius sighed as he watched his brother depart. For all his skills in battle, Uthyr was sadly lacking in the qualities required to carry out the diplomatic duties of his title. A strong Pendragon should always act as a mediator between the High-King and the lords of the British kingdoms. In this, Uthyr’s failings were many and the man’s temper tended to sow discord where ever he went. Ambrosius had long given up on lecturing his brother on the finer points of diplomacy.

It was Ambrosius who would travel to the differing kingdoms to soothe their ire at Uthyr’s actions in the past, but this time it would be different. His brother had publicly insulted one of the most powerful kings in the land and for that there would be a reckoning. More men were coming out of the hall now and most avoided Ambrosius as they passed him. They were all men that he knew and he had fought with side by side with them against the Saxons not so long ago. Cynyr Farfog, the proud lord of Penllyn, approached Ambrosius with a crooked smile on his face.

“He has done it now,” the man remarked by way of greeting.
Ambrosius took the man’s extended arm and smiled back at him.
“For sure he has. What is the word from the hall?” he asked.
Cynyr raised a bushy eyebrow.
“About Gaul or Uthyr?” he queried.
“Uthyr.”
“Twdfwlch is spitting murder and Riothamus has given him his ear. Some others are still there listening to the tale,” Cynyr replied.
“Who?” Ambrosius asked. Cynyr cast a quick look back at the hall before answering.
“My own lord and Owen of Powys,” Cynyr replied.

Ambrosius whistled in surprise. For the kings of Gwent, Gwynedd and Powys to hold a private counsel with the High-King and put aside their normal aversion to each other spoke volumes.
“They plot against my brother,” Ambrosius said.
“Maybe but they could also be speaking of the campaign in Gaul,” Cynyr answered.
“Have any of them pledged support to Riothamus for the war,” Ambrosius said pointedly.
Gaul was too far away to interest the western kings and their presence at the counsel had surprised him.
“No and before you continue with your suspicions, I must tell you that my loyalties are to Cadwallon of Gwynedd and not to the Pendragon. I hold lands from Cadwallon and I will not dispute with him in favour of Uthyr,” Cynyr said.

Ambrosius pressed his lips at Cynyr’s words. He could not fault the man in his loyalty to Cadwallon. The King of Gwynedd had a terrible reputation and held his kingdom with an iron grip. But Cynyr had ridden in Uthyr’s teulu for many years before he had accepted service with Cadwallon and had shown himself to be a good friend to the Pendragon in the past.
“Tell Uthyr to stay away from the west for a time. I believe the kings of the Gododdin are in need of aid in their struggle against the Picts and would welcome the Pendragon,” Cynyr said, before speaking his farewell.

Ambrosius stood there stunned at the warrior’s words. Cynyr had just confirmed the growing suspicion in Ambrosius’s mind that his brother was in danger. He thanked Cynyr for the warning and went about gathering his own men to leave the fortress. The days that followed were busy ones for Ambrosius as he sought to build up enough support to continue the campaign against the Saxon invaders and urge Uthyr into not going west but north were he would find a safe haven from the western kings. He heeded Ambrosius’s advice but instead of going north, Uthyr decided to winter with his old battle companion, Gorlois of Kernow.


CHAPTER 1

SPRING 469 AD


The storm when it broke, came roaring in from the sea and up over the cliffs, catching the riders on the barren moor. There headlong charge was momentarily checked and the men crouched over their mounts against the ferocious tempest. Gorlois looked about at his men with wild staring eyes and cursed them for cowards.

“It is madness to continue in this,” one of his men said. The light was fading quickly adding to the menace of the storm.
“We do not rest until we reach Tintagel,” Gorlois said kicking his frightened mount onwards.
He must know the truth. The whispers he had heard in Lindinis had turned to open mockery at Isca. That bastard king Marcus had a loud mouth and a skill at causing discord. Gorlois had listened in silent anger as the young king of Dumnonia had told him of Uthyr’s secret visits to his wife. His initial disbelief and anger had turned to blind rage as he realized Marcus was but repeating common gossip. A quick glance at his own men seated at the tables in Marcus’s hall had confirmed that. They all failed to meet his eyes and bore the sheepish looks of youths caught out at some mischief.

Was he so blind that he did not notice Uthyr cuckolding him in his own fortress? And Ygrene, the bitch, it all became so clear now. Her illnesses that kept Gorlois from her bed were now shown to be ruses. She had being lying with that bastard all this time. Woe that he had allowed Uthyr to winter at Tintagel. But still, maybe it was all a sickening jest from Marcus. It was known that he delighted in sowing seeds of mischief and watching them blossom. If he lied then the young fool would regret it but if he told the truth then……

The rain soon followed the winds and the riders became drenched to the bone. Against his will the pace began to slow and Gorlois settled in to a sullen, brooding silence as they navigated the treacherous route. There were no Roman roads here to ease their passage, just thick gorse and wet slippery rocks.
“We need to make camp.”
“No,” Gorlois replied to the demand.

He had ten men with him, all of them hardened veteran warriors who had fought with him through countless fights over the years. Cloaks were drawn close about their bodies, as rivulets of water ran from their hair down on to their faces. Gorlois’s hands were turning blue with the cold as they clenched the reins of his mount. The spear that killed him was well cast and he dropped from the saddle with an audible groan, dead before he hit the ground. There was a moment of shocked silence which was broken by a loud keening scream as more spears flew through the air. Men rushed from the darkness, wild eyed and fierce. The few men of Gorlois’s not slain in the barrage of spears, were quickly dragged from their mounts and slaughtered. It was over in moments and the attackers stood in silence to look at their handy work.

“Gather the weapons and disperse. We will meet at Ebrauc in the spring,” one of the men said. The men nodded their heads and set about the task of looting the slain. The warrior who had spoken stood over the body of Gorlois and smiled grimly. His master had told him the route the dead king would take and the warrior had only to choose the site of the ambush. He had done so with care, ensuring that none had witnessed them enter the lands of Kernow. This area of the route to Tintagel was the most remote from human habitation. Only the god’s would have witnessed this day’s fell deeds. The warrior’s smile grew wider as he contemplated the fat bag of gold awaiting him with the trader in Ebrauc. He was rich and the gold would allow him to buy a wife and settle down.
“Leave the bodies for the wolves and go. It will not be long before we are hunted,” he called out before he walked away in to the blackness of the night.


The storm raged about the fortress of Tintagel. It shook the wooden palisade, causing the guards to hunker down and curse the weather. Hounds howled from their kennels in terror at the wind. Lightning streaked the sky and giant waves crashed against the cliffs upon which Tintagel was built. Secluded in her bower, Ygrene shuddered and glanced quickly at the bed, her eyes fearful. She was standing in the middle of the room, feeling isolated and afraid. It felt like they were under assault, as if the gods were passing judgment on them.

“Come to bed, love,” the large hulking figure on the bed called to her. He was eyeing her naked form with undisguised hunger.
She wrapped her arms around her shoulders in an attempt to stop her body from shaking. What had she done? The horror of it was only beginning to dawn on her. Her husband lay dead somewhere out on the moors and all because of the man in her bed and her lust for him. They would need to flee. When word broke of Gorlois’s death, the people would tear them limb from limb.

Gorlois was of the old blood. His father and his father before him, had ruled Kernow and the bards could trace Gorlois’s ancestry back to Bran the Blessed. She looked to her bed again and wondered was he worth it. This man who had been a stranger to her not two moons past, a figure of legend and storytellers. Uthyr rose from the mass of pelts that covered the bed revealing a broad hairy chest.

“There is no need to fear. Come the morning we will be gone. I have arranged it so that it will be believed that we are going hunting for the day. Twenty of my men shall go with us and the others will follow later in the day. By the week’s end we shall be at Corinium and the safety of my brother’s court,” Uthyr said, trying to allay Ygrene’s fears.
The woman stared at Uthyr blankly and then flew at him arms raised in anger. Uthyr caught her deftly and held her tight to his body.
“He is dead, Gorlois is dead!” she cried in to his shoulder.
“All men die,” he replied coldly.
“He was your friend,” she said, ignoring the fact that she had also betrayed Gorlois.
“Even so he is dead and that is it. We must now live with the consequences. I am the Pendragon and I dare any man to challenge me,” Uthyr said with finality. It chilled her to the bone, this grimness of Uthyr’s.

“I am with child,” Ygrene whispered.
Uthyr pushed her head back and looked intently into sea green eyes.
“Is it mine,” he breathed.
There were tears in Ygrene’s eyes now and they began to flow freely.
“Yes, I have not lain with Gorlois since you first took me,” she said.
Uthyr lifted her up and smiled fiercely.
“Good. A son you shall have, a fine son to carry on my name,” he said, carrying her to the bed.

[Nik]

I like it.

It has the flavour, the feel.

I'll need to read it several times more. IMHO, it would benefit from some light editing, as some of the sentences feel too long.

The clamour in the hall was deafening and Ambrosius unable to bare it any longer, pushed his way through the shouting mass of men, to gain the relative peace of the open courtyard outside.

The clamour in the hall was deafening. Unable to bear it any longer, Ambrosius pushed his way through the shouting mass of men. Gladly, he gained the relative peace of the open courtyard outside.

etc

Think of it being re-told by a bard...

[svalbard]

Thanks Nik. Sentence structure is definitely something that I will have to look at. I am glad you enjoyed it and got a feel for the time from the excerpt.

Thanks again.

[Peter Graham]

Hello Svalbard,

I'll leave the grammar crit (the extract is pretty long). A few historical points of order, if I may:-

It could be said with some truth that Uthyr despised the High- King and all that he stood for. Some even said that the Pendragon should have taken the High-Kingship on the death of Vortigern, but he had refused all entreaties from the nobles.

"Uther Pendragon" is probably a title. It means "Terrible (as in terrifying) Head Dragon". It wouldn't therefore be Uther the Pendragon (unless his parents had christened him "Terrible"!)

By the same token, "Vortigern" just means "High King".

Their own father had been cut down by Vortigern for the crown of Britain

Probably just Powys (based on Viroconium/Wroxeter). Dark Age notions of kingship relied heavily on tribute - you wouldn't be the king of all Britain, just the toughest of all the kings and therefore able to demand loyalty, tribute and subservience from the others.

The king will sail for Gaul and glory come the spring,’

You might be right here, but wasn't it Armorica?

‘If the man had the brains to match his courage we would have driven the Saxons from our shores years ago,’ Uthyr answered.

Don't forget that the Saxons were originally invited here and settled as foederati, in keeping with the best principles of late Roman military diplomacy. There's plenty of evidence that the Saxon rebellion was confined to the south east - the archaeological records of Lincoln, for example, show very early Saxon settlement, but none of it within five to ten miles of Lincoln itself, suggesting that the city remained under British control and that the Saxons were settled in the hinterland, probably by agreement, if not invitation.

Gorlois, king of Kernow,

It was all Dumnonia at this point. Cornwall (I think it translates as "land of the West Welsh") only became worthy of separate definition after Wessex encroached into Devon.

Twdfwlch rarely left the comfortable surrounds of his palace at Isca Siluram these days.

Again, I might be wrong (can't remember exactly where Gwent is), but isn't Isca Silurium Caerleon by this time?

“Look for me at Lindinis in the spring,”

Linnuis, if you're referring to Lindsey here.

“Tell Uthyr to stay away from the west for a time. I believe the kings of the Gododdin are in need of aid in their struggle against the Picts and would welcome the Pendragon,” Cynyr said, before speaking his farewell.

Cadwallon of Gwynedd was probably from Gododdin himself - brought in to try and stem Irish raids.

“We do not rest until we reach Tintagel,”

At best, Tintagel was an early monastic site at this point. If Gorlois is to live in Cornwall, stick him down in Fowey, where the Tristan Stone is located.

Regards,

Peter

[svalbard]

Hi Peter,

I tend to agree with most of your points. I have intentionally decided to mix and mash some of the elements of fifth and sixth century history. Please forgive any inaccuracies.

Riothamus initially went to Armorica(Brittany) but he campaigned into France and was defeated at a place called Autun.

Isca Silurium was still called that at this stage but I stand to be corrected on this. Gwent, in my telling, is the old kingdom of Glywysing, the same geography.

Lindinis is Ilchester. Cadwallon's ancestor was Cunneda who did come from the Godiddon to settle Gwynedd. I have just changed time lines for Cadwallon.

I agree with you about the ideals of dark age kingship. A high-king, if ever there was one would more than likely only have controlled a small part of Britain. That said, it is thought that Riothamus brought 12,000 men to Gaul. If this is true then it says something of his power as a ruler. An army of that size in dark age Britain was extremely unusual.


The whole Saxon thing is just a tool to tell a story. I will have characters telling the story from the Saxon POV.

Thanks for the response Peter, I always enjoy them and find them very informative.

Regards,

Svalbard.

[ysabara]

I liked it a lot ~ Like Nik, I agree that some of your sentences need pruning and i won't even begin to venture an opinion on historical accuracy ~ being an Aussie

Speaking strictly from the point of view of a reader I thoroughly enjoyed it. It contains elements of the tried and true tale but you have invested it with enough variation to give it a fresh appeal.

[timelord4]

Hi Svalbard.

As usual, I get tied up in your stories, they tend to hook me and I enjoy them thoroughly. Agree with Nik and Ysbara but not too bad IMO. Slightly need pruning.

One minor quibble
Although brothers, Uthyr and Ambrosius could not have been more different in looks or temperament. Dark haired and sallow skinned, Ambrosius showed the Roman blood of both his parents, whereas Uthyr had inherited none of his sire’s features but bore the open, fierce look of his mother’s people, the Silurian tribe of the Britons. Uthyr’s temper was quick to match his looks, although it served him well in his position as Pendragon to the fractious Briton kings. Except with his overlord the High-King. More than once Uthyr had brow beaten the kings in to accepting his will on the war trail, but this Riothamus was different.

This came when you had spent just enough time on perspective, so it came through like an info dump, IMO. You could just as easily show this during dialogue, therefore have more impact and less tell. I have to say, it was well written though, but I'm sure with your ability, you can do the same by showing it.

That's my 2c worth, and I'll look forwards to the next post

[svalbard]

Thanks for the feedback, Timelord. I will look at your points during my second draft. It is good to know as a writer, that people enjoy reading your material. It also drives us on to improve. Thanks again.

Regards,
Svalbard.

[Jack7]

They were all men that he knew and he had fought with side by side with them against the Saxons not so long ago.

Take a careful look at this sentence and you will see why you need to do some editing.

However, that being said I will also say that you write professionally and well. I like your phrasing, don't find it too long or verbose, and that your pacing seems good.

As for historical accuracy, as a professional writer of non-fiction, I can tell you that you will never get everything right, and that history and anthropology and archaeology being what they are (with new theories and discoveries arising all of the time) forget trying to be accurate in every case, especially where it interferes with the overall story. Most readers of any given story tend to dismiss absolute accuracy as more important than good storytelling anyway, and most readers will not even notice the discrepancies. A minority of any readership will notice any discrepancy, but that's life and is true of any profession, but most readers of fiction dismiss reality as their most important concern or they would be reading non-fiction instead.

By that I mean be as accurate as you can but do not let the minutiae of historical accuracy become an albatross which hangs around your neck and interferes with story development, so that you spend so much time attempting to be accurate in every detail, you cannot progress in writing. Proceed from beginning to end of the story and then you can revise and edit after initial drafting is completed, including correcting minor historical discrepancies. I'm not saying accuracy is unimportant, just not your primary concern. You're writing fiction after all, not non-fiction. History should compliment and enhance your tale, not determine it.

If I had one suggestion regarding your writing style, considering the story matter itself, I would suggest a slightly more poetic approach. But your use of language is more than sufficient as is and your writing is very well executed, so how your proceed and in what style is of course up to you.

Follow your own best instincts and do not let criticism interfere with your progress any more than you should let historicity bog down your progress. Use criticism to improve, not dispose your writing. The perfect is the enemy of the good.

I suspect however, that if you cleaned the manuscript up a bit, if the story evolve in an interesting manner, if something unusual or unique occurs to set your story apart, and if you submit it, then it would be a good candidate for possible publication. You should attempt to do so anyway.

If you do, Godspeed then.

[svalbard]

Thanks for the advice, Jack. I really appreciate it. There are times when the conflict between history and storytelling becomes an issue. Your points are a timely reminder as to my goal on this project.

Thank you again.