Clash of Kings Read Free Page B

the opinions of her elders.
    ‘I beg your pardon if I frightened you, Grandfather,’ she replied meekly. ‘But I like the sand and the gulls, and I don’t really notice anything other than where I’m going when I’m freed from my lessons.’
    ‘You’ll discover just how frightened I am, young lady, if you run under the hooves of my stallion again,’ Melvig spluttered, but his mouth curled in grudging appreciation. She was a spirited vixen, although she irritated him mightily. ‘You’ll feel the flat of my hand!’
    ‘Father!’ Olwyn protested, her eyes finally registering concern.
    ‘Go to your bed, girl – without your supper,’ the king ordered, gazing off into the distance to indicate that he had made an irrevocable decision. ‘Perhaps a time of fasting will remind you to take more care in future.’
    ‘There’s a storm coming, so all sensible folk will be seeking shelter for the night,’ Olwyn added. ‘You could easily have been caught in the elements of the gods through your foolishness, Branwyn. The storm clouds come from over Mona, where the druids tended the sacred groves. They tell us that the spirits are angry when the winds blow fiercely from the island, so any sensible person knows to pray to their household gods and keep their heads down.’
    The girl bowed low to her grandfather with a gravity that was totally false. Olwyn saw the girl’s lips quivering with scorn, and felt a frisson of fear at her daughter’s arrogance. Then the girl was gone, leaving behind the smell of sunshine and seaweed, as well as a small scattering of sand granules.
    ‘Mark my words, Olwyn, that little vixen will bring trouble to your house. Your Godric was a good, decent man, and apart from your failure to remarry for the sake of your family you’ve always been a dutiful daughter. But what can be made of Branwyn? She’s wilful, disobedient and completely unprepared for marriage. That’s your fault, daughter! She’s not even particularly beautiful,’ the old man added, combing his beard with irritable fingers. For the first time, he had felt the child’s blatant, unconscious sexuality and he was disturbed by its wild strength ‘What is to become of this plain, fractious and peculiar child?’
    Having voiced his opinion, he considered that the discussion was closed. Oblivious of the offended expression of his daughter, he stamped off to his quarters in a much-improved humour, while behind his receding back, Olwyn seethed. She regretted her gender and the intense, inward-looking nature that robbed her of the ability to voice any argument or complaint. Whenever her father invaded her quiet world, she felt impotent, frail and alone. Olwyn accepted that her daughter was reckless and even heedless of others, but Branwyn was so like her grandfather that the child sometimes overwhelmed her mother.
    A distant rumble of thunder intruded into Olwyn’s turbulent thoughts and she moved to the heavy wooden door of the villa. Her manservant was waiting to bolt the doors for the night, and Olwyn felt a surge of guilt that she should keep this good man from his bed. Uncharacteristically, she remained at the entrance to her house after ordering him to retire, because, like her mother before her, Olwyn couldn’t resist the lure of the approaching storm. Wild weather fascinated her and made her believe that real blood raced through her quiet veins.
    The storm gradually blotted out the last, numinous light of the long evening. Black clouds marched across the sky in the vanguard of the tempest and were laced with bruised purples and livid greens as if the gods had struck heaven’s face in a jealous rage. Behind the leading edge of the boiling storm clouds came an ominous denseness that seemed more palpable than air. Periodically, lightning lanced out of the darkness and struck the sea or the island like a crooked staff of incandescent energy. The air smelled of ozone, salt and the breathless sweat of a dead afternoon.
    Olwyn