Clash of Kings by M. K. Hume

anxiety, Olwyn was weary of pandering to her daughter’s sulks and caprices. In an indulgent mother of many years, such a sudden lack of empathy was, perhaps, explicable only because Olwyn was terrified of her father’s ire. Rudely and forcefully, she dragged the covers away from Branwyn’s curled body and threw a fresh tunic at the girl’s gaping, startled face.
    ‘Get up and assist your maid to pack! We’re travelling south to my sister, so don’t think to sulk or to argue. If you won’t rise of your own accord, I’ll order the servants to carry you to the carriage in your disarray. Shout, cry and pout all you want, but this time you will obey me.’
    ‘You don’t believe me!’ Branwyn’s lower lip quivered as she swung her thin legs over the side of the bed. For the first time, Olwyn recognised the calculation that waited below the sheen of tears in Branwyn’s eyes. Even now, pregnant and threatened, Branwyn was attempting to manipulate her mother’s love. Once again, Olwyn’s palm itched to slap her daughter’s face.
    ‘What does my opinion matter? Melvig won’t care what I think, and he won’t tolerate a pregnant granddaughter who is unwed. The only way to avoid disaster is to leave our home.’
    Reluctantly, Branwyn obeyed this new, more obdurate mother who examined her with eyes that were hard and unresponsive. For the first time, she began to understand the peril that threatened.
    Much chastened, and silent with apprehension, Branwyn joined her mother in the travelling carriage, a vehicle that was only a little more graceful than the heavy cart used to transport grain and firewood to and from the villa. Another wagon carried the supplies that Olwyn considered vital for a protracted visit away from the north. The huge wooden wheels, each with a band of iron on the rim to give it strength, seemed to find every rut on the old Roman track that headed towards Pennal, but at least a leather cover kept out the worst of the weather. With every jolt, Branwyn felt more nauseous and she longed to complain at the hardness of the plank seat and the dust that seemed to envelop them with every stride of the horses. But one glance at Olwyn’s face was sufficient to shrivel the words on the girl’s tongue.
    Olwyn was rigid with anxiety. Would Melvig follow them? This road was thick with brigands. Were the two stout fellows who controlled the straining oxen sufficient to protect them?
    The coastal road snaked over hills and river valleys, although it always remained within sight or scent of the sea. The land was largely wild and empty, for the winds blew strongly here, and twisted the trees into stunted pathetic forms that seemed to flinch away from the shore. The winds intruded into the leather tent on the travelling cart, and although the women were mostly dry, sand turned their eyes gritty and their feet were chilled to painfulness, regardless of the piled furs that surrounded them. Sleep was difficult in such stuffy quarters, and even when the pallid sun shone and the leather cover was removed, mud made the journey equally unpleasant.
    Eventually, after three long days, they arrived at Pennal. Conical huts clustered around a curved bay where muddy silt and black weed made the air rank with a rotting sea smell, and the odour of fish seemed to permeate the only inn. Olwyn and Branwyn slept under a reed roof and discovered the discomforts of straw bedding.
    ‘There are lice in the beds, Mother. I think I’d rather sleep on the wagon,’ Branwyn complained as she scratched her pale arms to bloody stripes with her nails.
    ‘We’re all suffering, daughter. But tomorrow we head inland, so the air should be sweeter. I’ll not rest easily until we are under Fillagh’s roof. I left a message for my father telling him that I wish to spend the night of the solstice at Caer Fyrddin, where a special pyre is lit. I’ve never told him falsehoods in the past, so perhaps he will be deceived. Pray that he believes my lies!