Clash of Kings Read Free

escaped the bloody massacres, and Paulinus had crushed the superstitious, suddenly rootless Celts. In one final insult, the Christian priests had decided to take root on Ynys Gybi, a tiny isle huddled against Mona’s flanks.
    Segontium bore its taint of blood, while something heavy remained in the Latin name to cause the least superstitious man to furrow his brow and make the sign to ward off evil. The dark shores in winter, the screams of gulls and the sea-tainted air that was softened by the earth and trees of Mona warned its neighbours to beware.
    Olwyn had come to Godric’s house with joy, in full knowledge that her man had no Roman blood in him. Their ancient home was cobbled together from a ruin, using stones taken from Roman villas and the conical houses of the Celts, but Olwyn felt no taint in the clean winds that scoured the corridors of fallen leaves and the sand whipped into corners by storms. Situated a little to the south of the shadow of Mona, their snug house suffered the vicious blows of the Hibernian winds, but Olwyn was content. Even the worn floor tiles, with their alien designs of sun, stars, moons and constellations held no fears for her. Wind, clean sunshine, driving rain and freezing snow combined to drive any sour humours from the house and purge it of the Roman poison.
    But Godric had ridden away to protect his uncle’s fields from tribal incursions, and when he returned he was tied over his horse’s flanks, wrapped in greasy hides and pallid in death. Olwyn had been too numb to weep, even when she had unbound her husband’s corpse and exposed the many wounds made by arrows in his cold, marbled flesh. A stump of shaft protruded from the killing injury over his heart, and Olwyn had been so lost to propriety that she had struggled to tug it free.
    Eventually, after she had used a sharp knife to slice the flesh that held the cruel barbs of the arrowhead in place, the small length of shaft had seemed to leap out of Godric’s breast with an ugly, sucking noise. In a daze, she had washed her husband’s flesh, oiled his hair and plaited it neatly before dressing him in his finest furs and a woollen tunic. Finally, she bent to kiss his mouth, although the faint, sickly odour of death almost made her vomit. Blessedly, her tears began to fall.
    All the comforting obsequies of death were observed but only one duty consumed Olwyn’s waking moments. The arrowhead was separated from the remnants of its shaft and Olwyn laboured for many hours to drive a narrow hole through the wicked iron barb. Then, after months of toil, she hung the arrowhead round her daughter’s neck by a soft plait of leather.
    Melvig, her father, had been repulsed by the gesture, but Olwyn was a strange, obsessive creature who lacked his sturdy practicality, so he said nothing. If he had been honest, Melvig would have confessed that his stubborn, self-contained daughter frightened him a little with her intensity. Like all her kin, Olwyn was wild and strange. Melvig often wondered why he had taken a black-haired hill woman as his second wife, although her blatant sexuality had certainly stirred his loins. The gods were aware of his frustration when she produced no sons, only daughters, and all of them peculiar!
    Melvig ate in a petulant, reflective manner and scorned to use the old Roman divans, choosing instead to experience the solid serviceability of an adze-formed oak bench and table. His daughter served him mead with her own hands, although she wished privately that the Deceangli and Ordovice tribes were still at war so that her father would be forced to stay in his fortress at Canovium to the north. Still, she smiled in that distant fashion that always aggravated her father’s temper. Even as he accepted her excellent wine, he fought a desire to box her ears or to slap her pale cheeks until she cast off her impassiveness to weep and curse him. Anything but that empty face, the old man thought impotently, but managed to save his