Clash of Kings (11 page)

‘Owlwa!’ a small voice screamed. ‘Leave Owlwa ’lone!’

Melvig paused in his instinctive warrior’s crouch over his daughter’s body. He felt a sting in his calf and swung one huge hand to swat away the annoyance even as he turned . . . and faced an angry, red-faced toddler.

Bemused by the child’s combative stance, and irritated further by the small eating knife that had been driven into his lower leg, Melvig’s expression wavered between the extremes of indignation and indulgent amusement. The boy, Myrddion, was poised to throw his sturdy body at the shaggy old king, although a child of such tender years could barely control his own bodily functions. Olwyn shook her dazed head and struggled to rise.

‘Myrddion? Come here, darling boy. Come to Olwyn!’

She opened her arms wide and the child brushed past Melvig and threw his slender body against her breast.

‘The child in question, I see,’ Melvin snapped, although his anger seemed to be seeping away with the slow trickle of blood that was running down his leg from his wounded calf. ‘So this is the bastard? At least he’s got balls, considering he lives in a household of women and Greeks.’

‘This is Myrddion Merlinus, who was presented to the sun god after his birth, and accepted by the Mother’s serpents before he could walk.’ Olwyn spoke as formally as she knew how, hoping to give Myrddion an illusion of status. ‘As you can see, he is a fine boy.’

‘But whose boy is he? When will you answer me, woman?’ Then her father’s face grew crafty around the eyes. ‘You’re not a coward or a liar, and you would speak out in your quiet way if he was your child. So the boy must be Branwyn’s son!’

The finality in Melvig’s voice made Olwyn’s blood run cold. Perhaps her father would stay his hand if he believed Myrddion was her child, but his granddaughter’s bastard son Never! He would demand his right to avenge this offensive slight on his honour.

Even as she began to beg her father to be sensible, he shouted for her steward, Plautenes, who came running immediately.

‘You! Find my granddaughter and bring her to me at once. Understand? I don’t want to be left cooling my heels while I wait on that young woman’s pleasure. Drag her here if you must.’

When Plautenes nodded and turned to leave, Melvig shouted out for wine and food, and Olwyn saw a flicker of annoyance slide across the servant’s smooth, unlined face. Melvig saw it too.

‘Why do you keep these nasty little pederasts around your house?’ he muttered as the slave left the room. ‘Surely there are more than enough Ordovice to serve you.’

Olwyn lifted her chin a little, held Myrddion close and tried to answer her father without inflaming his temper any further. When the king of the Deceangli was thwarted, he often made decisions that he regretted after he had time for reflection.

‘Please, Father, Plautenes isn’t a pederast. Nor is Crusus. They do not consort with children, but love each other like husband and wife. There is too little love in the world, Father, and they take very good care of me and mine.’

Olwyn could see her father beginning to formulate a stinging rejoinder when Branwyn entered the atrium from the colonnade, approached her grandfather and bowed her head in respect. The effect was spoiled by a slight, ironic smirk that caused Melvig’s brows to furrow.

‘Explain yourself, Branwyn. Where did this babe come from? Who was your lover?’

‘He’s not a babe!’ Branwyn glared at Melvig, and sparks flew as stubborn, egocentric wills clashed. ‘He’s the child of a demon, and he’s accursed. I’ll not touch the creature, so you may kill him if you want, Grandfather. I’ll not pine for him.’

‘Branwyn!’ Olwyn cried, aghast.

‘You’re unnatural, girl!’ Melvig snapped.

‘Unnatural? A demon in the guise of a beautiful young man crept into my room and raped me. He spoke a devilish language, so I cannot even tell you his name. I hate the creature as I hate the seed he planted in me. If I am unnatural, what does that make that . . . thing that my mother loves more than me?’

Mother, save us all, for Branwyn is demented and consumed with hatred. Olwyn’s thoughts were chaotic, but she was also appalled at her daughter’s callousness and icy control. The girl was a stranger who seemed to blame her mother for some betrayal that Olwyn would never understand.

‘A demon!’ Melvig pronounced scornfully. ‘I’m surprised they have the equipment to breed.’

‘More than sufficient, grandfather. The demon was cruel and determined to destroy me through his son. Doubt me if you will, but this child will bring bad luck to Segontium.’

Suddenly, Melvig laughed. ‘Your son has already done his best to kill me. He’s got a strong arm for a little one – and a bold eye. I could almost like the little bastard.’

‘He was trying to protect me, Father,’ Olwyn tried to explain, as she pleaded mutely with her daughter to provide some kind of aid. ‘Myrddion had no idea what he was doing. He’s only a baby, Father, and I swear there’s no evil in him.’

Her father chortled with amusement, and Branwyn smiled coldly from behind the back of her hand. The boy furrowed his brow and twisted in Olwyn’s arms so that he faced his accusers, and even Melvig felt the child’s wide, black eyes as they fixed themselves upon him. The infant’s gaze was so direct that the king felt that he had been thoroughly examined and found wanting in some essential element of his nature. As for Branwyn, the child’s gaze narrowed with dislike and something akin to contempt towards her, if a child of less than two years was capable of such complex emotions.

A cautious knock on a door across the colonnade warned them that the servant had returned with wine, ale and the small honey cakes that Melvig loved. Sensitive Plautenes read the unhappiness that lay behind his mistress’s full mouth and dark eyes, and hurried back to the kitchen as soon as he had set down his tray.

‘I heard raised voices, Crusus, and the mistress was on the verge of tears. I swear that the young mistress was almost gloating at her mother’s terror. Agh! She’s as cold as a witch’s tit, that Branwyn. We’d all be better off if she’d died in childbirth.’

Crusus clapped his hand over his lover’s mouth with a moue of horror. ‘For the sake of the gods, Plautenes! Have a care. The king is none too fond of either of us, and if he hears your opinions he’ll order you to be throttled. I only hope my pastries sooth his temper.’

Crusus was a gifted cook, so the sweet delicacies were quickly washed down Melvig’s maw with beakers of Olwyn’s best wine. He smacked his lips enthusiastically and even smiled at Myrddion when he thought no one was looking.

Once he had paced a little and drunk a few more glasses of wine, he came to his decision. It was a judicious ruling that pleased nobody else, but solved all his problems.

‘Well, Branwyn, I’ve decided that you are telling me the truth, so I will ensure that your tale of inhuman rapine is spread where it should be known. We shall let the world believe that the bastard is the child of a demon – for so you have sworn. Therefore, as you are soiled but guiltless in this matter, I will find you a suitable husband before the summer. You will accede to my wishes or face death, do you understand?’

Branwyn’s face was wiped clean of any triumph or mirth she might have felt when her grandfather sanctioned her story of a demon rapist. Her expression became blank and formless, as if her personality had been leached away by the thought of her impending marriage. Melvig saw her lips begin to shape a refusal and beat her into speech.

‘You will deny me at your peril. Never believe that I’ll have you killed, for I’ll not punish you so lightly for disobedience. How would you fancy a lifetime of imprisonment? Or, better yet, perhaps I’ll banish you with only the clothes on your back. Rape by a demon will seem kindly by comparison with life as a friendless, poverty-stricken female.’

Olwyn’s eyes pleaded with her daughter to be silent. Branwyn dropped her mutinous gaze and bowed low.

‘As for you, daughter, I am hurt by your subterfuge. As a widow, you’ve lived your life pleasantly and wilfully, but those days are over. I’ll present you with a choice of suitable husbands in recognition of your blameless life in the past, but you will marry again, whether you like my choices or not.’

Wisely, Olwyn bit her lip and said nothing. She cuddled Myrddion closely and the tired child, who had begun to suck his thumb in distress, wound his small arms around her neck.

‘As for the bastard, he may live . . . but only because he shows courage, which amuses me in a young man. Let all men and women in this villa know his ancestry, so they will be alert to any threat directed towards the souls of the pious. If he should grow to be wild, wilful or wicked, then he will be put to death for the safety of the people. Now! Where’s your cook?’

As Melvig ambled off to terrify the kitchen servants, Olwyn sobbed into Myrddion’s shoulder. The child smelled sweet and fresh, like cut grass after evening rain, with a hint of warmed milk. She breathed him in as if she could hide him in her ageing womb for safety, while Branwyn echoed her cry of pain.

‘Oh, Branwyn,’ Olwyn wept. ‘It won’t be so very bad, my dear. My father can be stern and ruthless, but he’s not cruel. He’ll find you a man who’ll treat you well, and perhaps you’ll come to like him a little, given time. I had never met your father when we wed, but I found that he was gentle and understanding. I couldn’t help but love him so much that, even now, the thought of marrying another man makes me very sad.’

Branwyn’s head swung up. Her eyes were venomous, and Olwyn flinched away from the obvious dislike her daughter cast at her in that glance.

‘I’m not you, Mother. I will marry no man!’

‘You’ll have no choice,’ Olwyn sighed. ‘Why are you so angry with me?’

‘Where were you when I needed you?’ Branwyn began in a quiet, relentless voice that gradually rose in volume and passion. ‘Did you notice that I was upset after the demon raped me? No! And why did you take me to Aunt Fillagh’s house? To save yourself from Grandfather’s anger. Then you champion that twisted product of the demon – that thing! That hateful creature! You love it! You care more about it than you do about me. I hope it kills you, the way it has murdered me.’

Olwyn could only stare mutely at her daughter. She had never understood Branwyn, but she loved her with a depth of feeling that was almost blind. Almost. As she gazed into the handsome, twisted face of her daughter, she was struck by how little she liked Branwyn under the layer of love she felt.

Let her go, Olwyn thought as she hugged Myrddion close to her. She knew she had irretrievably lost her daughter, but the goddess had given her a second chance through the quiet, loving eyes of her grandson.

‘Oh, Branwyn, you will suffer for your arrogance and the ugliness that lives inside you. Hate me if it makes you feel better, curse me if your life is easier with someone to hate, but until you love something or someone more than you love yourself, you still belong to your demon.’

Six months later, Melvig basked in early spring sunshine and stared out over the strait towards Mona. The sunlight loaned his face a little warmth so that his complexion shone and his grey and white hair appeared reddish in hue to match the streaks of colour in his beard. He was feeling expansive and successful, having negotiated the stormy waters of family without drawing blood.

Branwyn had required force.

She had cursed him, using words that Melvig could hardly credit a fifteen-year-old girl could ever know. She had spat and kicked, but neither her intended husband nor her grandfather had been swayed. The young warrior who had been chosen to wed Branwyn had seen the possibilities of his position instantly. His family was impoverished and a child that was a direct descendant of the king of the Deceangli would cement his wealth for his lifetime.

‘Let the silly little cow rave and swear,’ he had told his mother after his first, inauspicious meeting with his betrothed. ‘She will belong to me soon enough, and then I’ll school her to the duties of marriage. I will need your help, Mother, for this girl’s been spoiled all her life.’

His mother had been as ecstatic as her son.

‘Remember, Maelgwn, that this girl has been raped by a demon, or so the gossip goes. Of course she’ll be tainted. How could she not? I’ll help to teach her the duties that she owes to her husband in his house, of course, but you must be firm, if you understand me, son. You must treat her like a horse, and force her to accept the bridle.’

From the beginning, Branwyn had been terrified under her spitting, scratching violence. In Maelgwn, she saw something of the man who haunted her nightmares. In certain tricks of the light, he seemed taller and his eyes and hair blacker, so that Triton came towards her once again, with an outstretched hand that promised pain and mortification. She heard Maelgwn’s voice through the veil of a more melodic memory of terror, so that the broad, plain face of her betrothed writhed and shifted to Triton’s features . . . then back to his own, in a dizzying, mad, shape-shifting horror.

Ignorant of his granddaughter’s growing madness, Melvig was very pleased with the arranged marriage. Maelgwn had wed Branwyn, although she was bound and gagged during the ceremony with her husband’s permission. Later, she had been carried off to Tomen-y-mur where Maelgwn had a rather rundown estate that would keep the king’s granddaughter occupied for years to come. Melvig rubbed his palms together with approval as he thought of how the fractious Branwyn had finally been forced into obedience.

Maelgwn was not a monster, only a mother’s boy who had never cut himself loose from her cloying love. The first night of his marriage was a grotesque travesty of love, for Branwyn had fought like a woman possessed. His mother had warned him that Branwyn would not be gentled until she was with child, so the bridal bed saw one rape after another, although Maelgwn vomited away the rich food of the marriage feast after he had been forced to bind her arms then prise her legs apart.

By day, she was forced to labour like a kitchen maid by the orders of her mother-in-law until hatred was deeply carved into her inflexible nature. Branwyn waited, knowing that the demon and his seed had brought her to this pass. She knew, with the utter certainty of the crazed, that her day of vengeance would come.