Clash of Kings (5 page)

‘If I’m not home by the noontime meal, my mother will send out her menservants to find me. They’ll catch you . . . and you’ll regret treating me so cruelly.’

‘I think you’re lying, my little poppet. You’ve brought bread and cheese for us, so you expected to be out here for many hours. I think I’ll be long gone before they realise you’re missing.’

The tears began to spill out of Branwyn’s eyes, but she scorned to cry aloud or to beg like a child. Her cosy dreams of love and devotion had vanished, leaving her frightened, angry and mortified. The roil of her emotions expressed itself through the contempt in her eyes, which the stranger recognised immediately. He slapped her once more, hard enough this time to leave a handprint on her downy face.

‘I’d forgotten how boring children can be,’ he said. Yet he smiled, as if he offered her a priceless compliment. ‘Maiden tears and shy manners are the dreary companions of pretty faces and lissome bodies.’

‘Then let me go and I won’t tell anyone where you are,’ Branwyn replied as persuasively as she knew how. Her natural courage kept her voice steady, but they both recognised that the bravado in her words was false.

‘I don’t think so, little one,’ he said. ‘Open your mouth!’

Branwyn locked her lips firmly together as he thrust a piece of cloth towards her mouth.

Pitiless, he moved with the speed of a serpent.

Her arms were pinned by his knees so his hands were free to pinch her nose closed.

‘Open your mouth, bitch!’

Choking, she was forced to open her mouth to gulp in air, and the man rammed the filthy rag between her teeth. Although she gagged and retched, she still managed to bite his forefinger, drawing blood in the process.

‘You harpy! I’ll scar from that bite!’ he snapped, as he lashed her hands together with part of her own tunic. Trussed so tightly that she could scarcely move, Branwyn hoped that he would leave her and make his escape while the day was still young.

But her captor was sadistic and she was at his mercy. As a cat toys with a helpless bird for sport alone, so he revelled in a terror that she couldn’t banish from her eyes. Her resistance had annoyed him, so he was determined to make her pay a huge price for her struggles.

Branwyn had never known such violence or scorn. She’d never imagined that any man would contemplate rape of the kinswoman of the king. Her mother had dedicated her life to the worship of the goddess once her husband had lost his life, so the daughter was accustomed to the reverence that her mother’s sacrifice merited. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the rough male hands that forced her knees apart and stripped the cloth from her genitals as the stranger began to assault her immature body, drawing blood and inflicting a growing shame that turned her eyes black with horror.

The stranger took his time, leaving Branwyn to stare blindly at the fluffy white clouds that seemed so close and so achingly pure. Gulls circled above the ruined hut and she struggled to lose herself in their squabbling, raucous cursing as they jostled for position on the foreshore where the tide was already beginning to peak. In truth, she wanted to separate herself from the sweating, set face above her, wishing herself elsewhere as he defiled her with his body and a constant stream of ugly oaths. She knew nothing of men and now she desired to live apart from that accursed sex until she was dead.

Eventually, he spent himself inside her and she felt her gorge rise behind the makeshift gag. His blind, self-absorbed face sickened her and made a mockery of all her daydreams. How could her mother have loved a man with her entire body and soul? Branwyn was no longer surprised that Olwyn had dedicated herself to celibacy after his death. If her father had been half as brutal as this animal, then surely his end must have been a blessing for Olwyn. No wonder she had chosen not to remarry.

‘He might kill me now, to ensure he escapes unscathed,’ she thought, more calmly than she would have imagined possible. Simultaneously, she saw the thought and the pleasure of it flit through his eyes and come to rest on his smiling lips.

Think, Branwyn, think!

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she murmured through the gag, the sound muffled and warped although she tried to mouth the words clearly. ‘Thank you!’

His curiosity was stirred. Rapists are rarely thanked for their attentions.

She could tell that he was a vain man, one used to compliments and accolades. She endeavoured to smile through the gag and to make her eyes dewy and soft. To emphasise her capitulation, she raised her numbed, bound hands to stroke his damp hair away from his forehead.

His puzzlement deepened. Instinctively, Branwyn could tell that this was a man who must understand everything and her salvation might lie in her lack of predictability.

He tore the gag from her mouth and eyed her suspiciously, his body still pressing her painfully into the grass and sandy soil.

‘What tricks are you trying to play, my little she-cub?’ His voice held no trace of empathy or apology, so Branwyn reasoned that this man never counted the cost of the fulfilment of his desires.

‘It’s not a trick, my lord. You have saved me from a life of dedication to Ceridwen and the fate of spending my days in lonely contemplation and prayer. Celibacy is all my mother has ever desired for me.’

The stranger stared at her intently as he searched for any sign of deceit in her childishly worshipful eyes. Branwyn was an accomplished liar, having practised the art daily to enjoy her life as she chose without the strictures of chaperons, constant questions and curfews, so the stranger was unable to pierce her mask of deception. Yet he wouldn’t permit himself to trust her.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said again. ‘I hadn’t expected to be initiated into the holy rites by a grown man, least of all by a stranger of note from a far-off land. You’ve insulted me and my kin, but I know the sea sent you to me to save me from my mother’s plans, so I can forgive your arrogance.’

He pinched her cheek harshly in punishment and she winced at the sudden pain, but she schooled her traitorous eyes to remain open and admiring.

‘You didn’t act like a grateful girl. And you fought and spat like a whore. How can I know if you’re telling the truth?’

‘You took me by surprise, my lord. I’d have freely given you anything you asked, but you chose to use your hand. I’m not a slave, or a peasant who can be taken by force. What would you have me do?’

The stranger laughed, but he did not untie her hands. Despite his pleasant voice and attractive features, he’d survived to full adulthood because he lacked trust in others and could conceal his viciousness behind a bland countenance.

‘Such pretty words, Branwyn, daughter of Godric and granddaughter of Melvig ap Melwy. I don’t trust you an inch, but at least I’m spared maidenly hysterics. You’re an unusual girl and, if I let you live, I have no doubt that you will make your mark upon the world. But why should I permit you to survive if you could inform on me?’

Despite her fear, Branwyn picked up the bald challenge that he had flung down so casually before her. As Olwyn often bemoaned, she was Melvig’s granddaughter. Every word she spoke was cunning and chosen with care to disarm him, to flatter his ego and to win his admiration.

‘I’m only a girl, my lord, and I’m tolerably certain that I couldn’t hurt you in any way, even if my hands were unbound. Nor could I free myself easily if I attempted to do so. Besides, I don’t know your name, or where you have come from or your reason for being on this coast. How can I do you harm? In fact, a day might come when we could be allies, as I believe that I am in your debt. I’m no threat to you.’ She smiled at him. ‘Now that you’ve awakened my body to the mysteries, why should I choose to repay you with danger and pursuit? You’ve freed me from the unpleasant prospect of dedication to the goddess, a role I know I would hate. In fact, my lord, I would welcome further instruction before you leave me.’

Although her actions sickened part of her soul, Branwyn squirmed until her groin was pressed against the naked thigh of the stranger. She rubbed herself against him suggestively although she was almost too terrified to speak.

‘Your words are pretty, little vixen, but I have fond memories of your teeth.’ He sucked the small wound on his forefinger.

‘As I said, you took me by surprise, master. When the sea dumped you on my shore, I thought you were a special gift from the gods. Perhaps you are! I ask that you don’t kill me – for I promise not to tell a soul that you were here.’

The stranger laughed and smoothed her slightly swollen cheek with one negligent hand.

‘You’re a liar, but you’re entertaining and quick-witted far beyond your years. Now, tell me how I might safely leave this place. How might I reach Glevum and the roads that lead to the south? Who knows, but perhaps I’ll leave you here in safety if you answer me fairly.’

Branwyn thought furiously.

Unlike most of her sex, her curious nature had led her to examine her father’s scrolls and maps. She’d not received sufficient teaching to be able to read and she’d been unable to explore the wonders of her father’s scriptorium, but his maps had called to her with their siren song of travel and she had studied them in detail. It seemed she was still under the protection of the goddess, and she thanked her father for the scrolls that might save her life.

‘There’s a track that leads to the south beyond the dunes,’ she said softly as she gazed unflinchingly into the stranger’s eyes. ‘It was originally used by the Romans, but it’s now overgrown. If you’re determined, you can make your way along it. Follow the track along the coast until you reach a fishing village called Pennal. The road from the village will take you across the hills to Y Gaer, then Burrium, Venta Silurum and, finally, the port below Glevum. From there you can take ship to anywhere in the world.’

The stranger eyed her narrowly with an expression that suddenly reminded her of a stoat, so cold, calculating and predatory was his stare.

‘You could order mounted men to be at my heels before nightfall.’

‘I could, if anyone listened to a girl. But I would have to explain to my mother that I’ve lost my maidenhead. And then she’d happily imprison me in our villa for my own good. She wants to keep me a child for ever so she tries to protect me from all threats. As for my grandfather, he would order me to be strangled, for I have lost my bride price. You know I speak the truth, just as you know I’ll be silent.’

The stranger rolled off her body and gathered up his cloak, the package of food and the water skin. Then he looked down at her speculatively and placed one large hand around her slender throat. Branwyn closed her eyes submissively, although her heart leapt in her chest. She had tried – and she had failed.

His thumb pressed down on her voice box, creating sudden, lancing pain. Her body bucked instinctively, but she pressed her lips together so she made no sound. He wasn’t the type of man to be swayed by tears or pleas. Perhaps courage could persuade him? Perhaps not.

‘That was just a taste, little one, for I’ll hunt you down and kill you slowly if your warriors should pursue me.’ He gave her a final, calculating stare. ‘I’m going to leave you to release yourself from your bonds,’ he whispered. ‘Remain here, quietly, until after darkness falls if you know what’s good for you, and then you may do as you choose. I’ll be long gone by sundown.’

Branwyn’s mind scurried through a number of options designed to make him pause. As she considered them one by one, she decided to present the face of an avaricious child, eager to profit from the morning’s events and hoping to disarm him by acting like an unpredictable whore-child.

‘May I beg for a memento, my lord, something to remember you by?’ She managed a smile. ‘I’d like a reminder, something to prove that I’ve not dreamed this whole meeting.’

He snorted with amusement. She was terrified that he might still change his mind, or be affronted by a request that was, on the face of it, such an unlikely reaction to rape. Cunning mimicked greed as she pouted.

‘Perhaps I want something to hate. I don’t know, but I would like a gift – anything at all. I like pretty things.’

‘Why?’ he asked flatly, as his doubts of her sincerity resurfaced with a vengeance.

‘Perhaps I’ll bear a child,’ she replied and masked a shudder of revulsion. She tried to smile but was unsuccessful, her lips merely twisting into a grimace. For a moment, the stranger’s brow furrowed in confusion, then his arrogance reasserted itself and he stripped a small amber ring from his thumb and tossed it at her.

‘This ring belonged to my mother. She was a lady of considerable charm, vivacity and traitorous deception. I took it from her dead hand after I poisoned her. You and I are well met, Branwyn, daughter of Godric, for we are much alike, but you may rest assured that our paths will never cross again.’

As he sauntered out of the ruined hut, she lay on the sod floor with the ruins of her robe pulled up to her waist. When she was sure that he was gone, she permitted herself to sob quietly. She’d struggled hard to hide her terror and convince him that she was no threat, so she’d taken little time to consider her myriad small hurts. Now, as the drama came to its conclusion, humiliation flooded her abused body and almost overwhelmed her calculating brain.

‘I hope he dies slowly and in terrible agony! The gods gave me no gift when they sent a demon to murder me. But I’m not dead and I won’t die, no matter what happens.’

Part of Branwyn’s agile mind accepted the truth that she had brought her rape upon herself. Childhood’s end comes to all girls, but Branwyn felt a sense of guilt from the dual whips of foolishness and selfish arrogance. She gnawed at her rag bonds, tearing at both cloth and tender flesh with her teeth. Suddenly, she felt so befouled that she could scarcely bear the thought of the filthy stamp he had placed upon her, both within and without.

No matter how she worried at the knots with her sharp young teeth, an hour passed before she was finally free. She staggered to her feet and struggled to return circulation to her swollen fingers, so that she could wrap herself in her torn robe. As an afterthought, she swept up the amber ring and drew it onto her index finger, which it fitted perfectly.