Clash of Kings Read Free Page A

irritation for the belated appearance of his granddaughter.
    Conscious of the gulf between them, Olwyn tried to bridge that yawning space without touching him, which she knew would not be acceptable to the irascible old king.
    ‘How go your borders, Father? I know your friendship with King Bryn ap Synnel is as strong as ever, but the Picts still raid our lands in the spring.’ She was conscious that she was gabbling, but that gulf . . . She bridged it in the only way she could, with hurried words, hoping to deflect criticism from her wayward daughter. ‘I know you are in alliance with the Cornovii king, but the Brigante aren’t very friendly, are they? I do wish you had time for more peaceful pursuits.’
    Melvig frowned. He was uncomfortable with woman’s chatter , as he called it, and was unwilling to discuss political matters with anyone, including his son, Melvyn.
    He ran his hand through his beard and scratched his chin to cover his awkwardness. As an affectionate but distant father, he had never known how to discuss anything of importance with his daughters, faring better when he was issuing peremptory instructions in a gruff voice. He patted his daughter’s head clumsily, and tried to deflect any personal revelations.
    ‘You don’t need to worry your head about the Picts, or those Brigante bastards. They’ve got a new king who’s more amenable to reason than his predecessor. It’s the south where the true dangers lie, but there’ll always be someone to keep you safe, girl. You don’t need to be afraid.’
    ‘I’m not afraid, Father. Whatever will happen, will happen. We all stand in the hollow of the Mother’s hand.’
    Melvig cleared his throat, and Olwyn knew he was embarrassed by any reference to the Mother, whom all sensible men feared to their very bones. Regretfully, Olwyn patted her father’s shoulder in passing and went to wait for her daughter.
    When she finally arrived, the girl came at a run, with scant regard for her wind-torn hair and grass-stained skirts. Melvig noticed that Branwyn’s feet were bare and dirty, and that one sunburned hand clutched her sandals behind her back.
    As if he wouldn’t notice!
    ‘So, my young barbarian, you’ve decided to honour us with your presence at last. What do you have to say for yourself, eh? Don’t you realise how foolhardy you are to run across the path of galloping horses? The gods must have protected us both, for you weren’t trampled to death and I didn’t fall from my horse.’
    Branwyn stood resolutely before him with her dirty feet slightly apart. Her eyes were cast down modestly, but Melvig wasn’t deceived.
    ‘Are you half-witted, girl? Give me a fair answer, or by my oath I’ll have you locked in your room. And there you will stay for six months, even if I have to leave a guard to enforce my wishes.’
    ‘You’re frightening her, Father!’
    ‘Her?’ Melvig snorted derisively, and waved a chicken leg in his granddaughter’s direction. ‘She’s afraid of too little for her own good.’
    The object of his disapproval was a tall, slender girl just approaching womanhood but still possessing all the awkwardness of a young animal. Her skin was startlingly pale, for Olwyn and Melvig both tanned easily, and were always a warm, golden hue. Her eyes were inherited from Godric, and were brown and lustrous, but they were harder and more wilful than those of her noble father. Her mouth was generous and naturally red, but her nose was too long and narrow for feminine beauty, and her lips always appeared to be smiling at something vaguely unpleasant. Her mahogany-brown hair with its highlights of bronze was an odd frame for her pale flesh and dark eyes, and with that imperious nose coupled with brows that rose upward at the outer corners the child possessed an alien, disconcerting sexuality. Melvig felt his palms itch with the desire to slap her pale face. Even Olwyn, a doting mother, was a little repelled by her daughter’s indifference to