Clash of Kings (8 page)

‘Let me look at you, sweet one,’ her sister cooed as she released Olwyn and scanned her slight, willowy form from head to heels. ‘You’re not eating well? We’ll soon fix that, won’t we, Cletus?’

‘Without a doubt, my pet,’ her husband answered as he raised one of her work-scarred paws to his lips.

‘Thank you, Fillagh!’ Olwyn whispered. ‘I don’t know how to repay you for your kindness in allowing us to visit you. I had to remove my daughter from Father’s reach, and had you not offered us sanctuary I don’t know how we would have fared.’

Olwyn spoke almost by rote, voicing all the courteous pleasantries she could unscramble from her scattered wits. Fillagh had been a slender, black-haired twelve-year-old with a vivacious eye, pert breasts and an unpredictable temper when she had first met the son of the wine trader, Cletus Major, and recognised something in him that even his father had never seen. She saw his courage and his irrepressible joy in ordinary experiences, as well as a passionate understanding of all things that grew out of the earth. Cletus could turn the life cycle of a flower into a vast and exciting epic of creation. Fillagh discovered that idle compliments and the slavish devotion of young men seemed shallow when compared with the earnest dreams espoused by awkward, shambling Cletus. Perhaps it was the miracle of the attraction of opposites, but Fillagh discovered that she wanted no other man.

So, on a soft spring night, she left her father’s house in Canovium and followed Cletus Minor on the road to the south. Melvig caught them not far from Segontium and Cletus lost part of his ear defending Fillagh from the wrath of her sire. When she vowed that she would marry no one but Cletus and cursed her parent for inflicting her lover’s bloody wound, Melvig washed his hands of her. From that inauspicious day, her joyous existence had begun.

Now, in her noisy, unattractive villa on the flanks of Moridunum, Fillagh saw herself through her sister’s eyes. Being quite without artifice or vanity, she burst into a peal of amiable belly laughs that set her double chins quivering.

‘Bless you, Olwyn! I know I’m not a bag of skin and bones like I used to be. Love’s put meat on me and I’m all the better for it. Father would never have countenanced a farmer as my husband. But you can see how well it’s turned out. He chooses not to speak of me, I know, but I have survived his rejection. Aye . . . and we’ve flourished.’ She shook her ample hips for emphasis.

‘You have children, Fillagh?’ Olwyn managed to murmur as she was hustled into a huge kitchen and seated at a plank bench while a large earthenware bowl of stew materialised in Fillagh’s plump hands. A spoon of battered silver, huge in size, was produced with a flourish.

‘Aye, we have seven sons! My man tells me I have enriched his farm with every birth. My eldest has learned his letters and is now discovering how to work our lands under the tutelage of our steward. Two sons are fostered with good families in Venta Silurum where they’ll learn useful skills for the farm. The others run wild like all little savages, except for Elric, who’s only six months old.’ Fillagh examined Olwyn’s waist critically. ‘You’ve never remarried, sweetling? Ah, well, true love is hard to find, I’ll grant you. Still, it must have been lonely for your Branwyn as she was growing.’

Olwyn flushed at the unintended criticism, and Branwyn paled a little. Fillagh’s quick eyes saw that the child couldn’t eat the tasty stew that Olwyn had devoured without even realising it.

‘The babe drains you, little one,’ she said, one of her hands pressing Branwyn’s belly while the other stroked the girl’s aching back. ‘Yes, he’s a big, vigorous child who is determined to grow fat on his mother’s strength, bless him.’

Branwyn paled even more, until her eyes appeared like dark holes burned into a piece of linen.

‘It leeches off me and I wish it were dead. It’ll cause disunity all its life, the poor demon-spawned thing,’ she whispered faintly.

‘What are you saying, sweetling?’ Fillagh asked, all practical common sense. ‘No child is evil . . . and demons cannot breed.’

‘A demon in the guise of a beautiful youth raped me in my sleep,’ the girl whispered through bone-white, dry lips. ‘I swear it! He threatened to kill me if I made a sound.’

One trembling hand sought out a pocket tied over the swelling of her belly, searching through her hidden treasures until Branwyn found what she sought and removed her small, clenched fist.

‘The creature left me this ring, taken from the finger of the mother it poisoned.’ Branwyn’s hand opened hesitantly, and the two sisters could see a large amber bezel set in a delicate gold ring. Inside the rich stone, a spider was trapped, perfect and fragile, in a frozen moment that had become eternal. ‘The demon laughed, and promised it would do the same to me if I told anyone.’

The sisters exchanged glances, while Olwyn took the ring from her daughter’s unresponsive fingers. ‘This thing has no place near you, daughter. It’s vile and ugly, and it isn’t a gift that was given with good intentions.’

‘No, pretty Branwyn! Your demon is a cruel creature if it has harmed you so, and left you with such a loathsome memento,’ Fillagh added, and enfolded Branwyn in her warm arms. She pressed the girl’s tired head against her large breasts and stroked the thick brown hair. ‘Aye, child, he was a monster for sure, for only a demon would harm a little girl. He was strong, wasn’t he?’

Branwyn nodded and began to weep in response to her aunt’s kindness. Her thin shoulders shook, and Olwyn felt a spasm of jealousy. Her child was weakened, blighted and unlike her dancing, reckless self, but she could turn to Fillagh when she rejected her own mother.

‘Cletus, stir your fat rump, and carry this poor little darling to the guest room. No, missy, no arguments, for your feet won’t touch the floor while I have a strong husband to lift you.’ She turned and smiled fondly at her husband. ‘Could you send my maids to undress her and make her comfortable, my dear? While they’re at it, they can prepare Olwyn’s bed as well, and provide her with one of my tisanes to give my niece strength. She carries a heavy burden!’

Cletus may have been the master, but his wife was the true ruler of the villa. In no time, her commands had been obeyed. Then, with a promise that they would speak in the morning, Olwyn too was ordered to bed, where she found Branwyn already asleep, her hair tousled and a little colour returned to her cheeks.

On a pallet stuffed with lambs’ wool, under rugs of fine homespun and with a floor heated by a functioning hypocaust, Olwyn lay and listened to the sounds of the villa as it ground to a halt. Night had barely fallen, but the villa kept farm hours and the oil lamps were soon extinguished. Outside, a faint wind blew up the river valley so that a sound, almost like the sigh of a woman, tried to wind its way into the warm room. A night owl called and Olwyn’s blood cooled with superstition. A thousand creatures were waking to hunt in the darkness and Olwyn responded with overt sensitivity to the small scuffling of fear that seemed so close to the secure walls of the villa.

One thing was certain in this mad world of change and peril. No demon would disturb her daughter’s sleep tonight, nor would any intruder threaten the peace that enveloped the child like one of Fillagh’s woven blankets. Olwyn had found sanctuary for them both; the goddess had finally decided to smile upon two of her suffering daughters.

CHAPTER IV

AN INAUSPICIOUS BIRTH

In far-away Tintagel, Lady Ygerne stared out at the many shades of grey that defined sea, sky and land as, in the grim room behind her, men decided her fate. Her father had ridden the weary miles from Lindinis to attend this meeting, but his grey eyes were now stark with concern for his only daughter. Her unnatural pallor and her long, poignant silences overrode his pride that his child was poised to become the queen of the Dumnonii tribe, and unconsciously he flexed the muscle that ran along the line of his jaw as he stared down at the documents of betrothal. Ygerne couldn’t see his distress from her position near the slit window, but she could feel the radiating waves of his concern.

Beside Pridenow of Lindinis, Gorlois and his young nephew, Bors Major, looked down at a crude map and a messy sprawl of documents that lay on a bench, lit by a vile-smelling fish-oil lamp. The final agreement between the great tribes was coming to fruition and, in a dim corner, Gorlois’s scribe turned plain men’s speech into the eloquent, complex sentences of the betrothal agreement. Offers of land, gold, slaves and livestock were promised and formally accepted. Just beyond the light, a five-year-old boy, Bors Minor, watched the official rituals of betrothal with a child’s wide-eyed wonder. Meanwhile, the young Ygerne comforted herself with the knowledge that she was learning her true worth in the world’s wealth. Gorlois had made huge concessions in order to cement the marriage agreement, which was unusual in that, as the bridegroom, the king of the Dumnonii could ask for a fortune in gold from any prospective father-in-law.

Ygerne had dwelt at Tintagel for two strange and confusing years. Ordinarily, the betrothal documents would have been signed before she left her father’s house, but Pridenow was a fond parent and Ygerne was a beauty although she was only ten years of age. Accompanied by a chaperon and servants, she had been delivered to Gorlois so that Pridenow could satisfy himself that his darling would be happy with the Boar of Cornwall.

From their first meeting, Gorlois had been entranced and had re-discovered his boyhood in her presence. He had forgiven her strange fits of fancy as being part of her charm, and had proved to be a patient and an assiduous lover. Even Ygerne, frightened as she was by a life that was stern and hard, had found security in Gorlois’s strong arms and velvet brown eyes. While he remained more father than lover, she found that the secret parts of her heart were opening to the gentle person who dwelt within his hulking, muscular frame. And Gorlois had demanded nothing sexual of the child-woman, recognising that she was frightened of physical contact. A considerate man, Gorlois understood that patience would succeed where the assertion of his rights would alienate Ygerne for ever.

So here they were, and the betrothal had been sealed. Ygerne looked over towards her betrothed and, feeling her eyes on his face, Gorlois looked up and smiled with such warmth and affection that she felt embraced from her head to her toes.

He loves me. How strange, for he barely knows me.

Ygerne’s thoughts ranged out over the darkening sea, empty of even her favourites, the gulls, with their comical cries and ebullient natures.

‘A storm is coming, puss,’ her father whispered, as he joined her in staring out at the empty scene. ‘See that line of black cloud against the last of the sun? We’ll feel its full force within hours.’

‘Is the storm bad luck, Father? Is my betrothal cursed?’

‘Nonsense, puss! Storms come to Tintagel so frequently in winter that the trees don’t grow – else they’d be blown away by the winds.’ He lifted his daughter’s fair, frail face. ‘Now smile, my pet. Gorlois is the best man in these isles, save for Ambrosius, and even I dare not look so high for your future husband. You will be happy within your marriage.’

Ygerne shivered, although she was swathed in a thick woollen shawl. The storm marched towards the fortress like an army of invasion and the rolls of thunder in the distance mimicked the rumble of marching feet.

‘The light is almost gone, Father. I long for sunshine and soft days.’

‘You will be very happy after the consummation of your marriage in the prescribed two years, puss. I promise you! A good husband makes any weather soft and fair.’

Her father’s eyes glowed with subtle, lambent fire in the lamplight. His grey eyes were the wonder of his tribe, but their stare could be as cold as the sunless sea, except when they gazed on the face of his daughter.

She took pity on him then. Her father was desperate that she should be happy, and she worried at his increasing thinness and the lines that scored his smooth skin from nose to jaw. A hint of illness gave his flesh a trace of yellow in the nacreous light.

‘Are you well, Father? Does something ail you?’ Ygerne asked, suddenly afraid as the centre of her life stuttered in its smooth, circular pattern.

His face lightened and a wide smile split his handsome face. ‘Of course, puss, and in the days to come I’ll smile often to think that my darling now lies under the protection of the Iron King of the Dumnonii.’

But his fingers quivered in hers, and Ygerne schooled her face into passive compliance so her father wouldn’t recognise the terror that coiled in her heart.

In the months that followed their brutal journey, Olwyn had cause to bless her sister and her good-natured husband. With their laughter, simplicity and sweetness of spirit, they began to bring Branwyn back from the far, cold silences that had enveloped her. Cosseted and spoiled, she was encouraged to sit in the sunshine or fuss over the old farm bitch who was long past her frolicsome youth. Branwyn sang a little, and even spoke of how blue the sea glittered from their hillside, although she refused to travel to the sands to breathe in the salty air.