Clash of Kings by M. K. Hume Read Free Book Online Page A

seen a more woebegone face as the one that thrust itself deeper into the sheets as if to avoid her mother’s sharp gaze.
    ‘I’m not well,’ Branwyn moaned, her words muffled by the enfolding cloth.
    ‘I know, daughter,’ Olwyn replied softly. ‘Gerda told me as much. She thinks you quicken with child.’
    Two spots of bright red colour emphasised the pallor of her daughter’s face.
    ‘No! I can’t be with child!’ Branwyn surged upright in response to her mother’s bluntness. ‘I won’t be with child! I’d rather cut my wrists and die !’
    Olwyn reached out one hand, a gesture that her daughter ignored.
    ‘Have you lain with a man, Branwyn? Don’t fear to tell me, for no blame will attach to you. You’re only a child.’
    ‘No! No! No!’ Branwyn’s expression was both mutinous and revolted. The child was talking herself into a state of hysteria, and when she began to retch weakly into the bowl Olwyn held her hand solicitously and wiped the flushed little brow. ‘You must believe me! How could I have lain with a man when only Grandfather and our house servants are here? They are all old and ugly.’
    It can’t be true. Branwyn must be sickening for something, Olwyn told herself, although her sleep was disturbed by terrible nightmares and the goddess seemed to turn her face away from Olwyn’s prayers.
    As the slow months followed, Branwyn’s health slowly began to improve. But Olwyn couldn’t blind herself to the swelling in her daughter’s belly. Rightly or wrongly, Branwyn had lied, and now she was surely with child, one that swelled so grotesquely on her slight frame that it seemed that the unborn infant was an incubus sucking out her daughter’s life. Branwyn wouldn’t tolerate questions, wilfully choosing to deny the evidence of her eyes in favour of some fanciful imaginings. At her wit’s end, Olwyn was forced to consider her own inaction.
    Autumn had fled, and winter had come to the northern coast of Gwynedd. Sea and sky were grey, while sleety rain fell daily and blanketed Olwyn’s mood with gloom. She leaned on the door frame and watched the northern road, clutching a heavy woollen shawl tightly around her shoulders. Soon, Melvig ap Melwy would ride down that path, flanked by his warriors in breastplates of oxhide and bronze, and Branwyn would be forced to reveal her sin. Granddaughter and unborn child could die if Melvig so desired, for the old king wouldn’t suffer Branwyn’s silences and denials. As the pater familias , he had the right to order Branwyn’s death.
    A chill wind stirred the last dead leaves that were banked against the wall of the villa, disintegrating in the rain to brown and sanguine skeletons. Olwyn shivered as the breeze snatched at her plaited hair, loosening a few long tendrils with its cold fingers. Her father would not feel a moment’s compunction, nor listen to Olwyn’s pleading. He would follow his own road, as he always did, even if he later regretted the rashness of his decisions. The babe would be left in the open to die when it was born and Branwyn would be cast off for ever.
    Whom could Olwyn turn to? Her brother, Melvyn, was a grown man with a son older than Branwyn. He would never choose death in the old ways for his niece and an infant, for Melvyn was softer than his father although he was the Deceangli heir. But to reach Melvyn, Olwyn must travel to Canovium, and once she was in her father’s city Melvig would soon learn the details of his granddaughter’s sin.
    No, her brother could not help her, even if he dared to defy his father.
    The leaf mould twisted in a sudden, vicious gust of cold air, as the last traces of summer were swept away from the villa walls and dispersed in the orchards beyond the house. Olwyn began to shiver in earnest. Her daughter was far from perfect, but she was all that Olwyn still possessed of Godric, whom she had loved so passionately that the Old Ones had been angered by her ardour. Yes, Branwyn must be saved, even