The Merlin Prophecy Book One: Battle of Kings (Volume 1) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

M. K. Hume is a retired academic. She received her MA and PhD in Arthurian literature and is the author of The Merlin Prophecy, a historical trilogy about the legend of Merlin. She lives in Australia with her husband and two sons.

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The Merlin Prophecy Book One: Battle of Kings

Chapter I

FROM MONA

Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud?

Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests?

Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?

Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?

Or kings be breakers of their own behests?

But no perfection is so absolute

That some impurity doth not pollute.

—SHAKESPEARE, THE RAPE OF LUCRECE

“Daughter?” An angry, masculine voice bellowed from the forecourt of the old villa at Segontium. Disturbed farm birds squawked and squabbled as they scrambled away from the huge horses. “Olwyn! Come out at once! Explain yourself!”

The sounds of nervous horses and a series of shouted orders, all delivered in a stentorian, impatient voice, forced Olwyn to put down her spindle, smooth her hair and woolen robe, and hurry out of the women’s quarters towards the atrium of an ancient house where a tall, grizzled man was stripping off his fine leather gloves and woolen cloak, dropping them negligently over the nearest oaken bench.

His garb was careless, but his leathers, the well-tended furs, and the embossed designs of hawks on his fine hide tunic indicated wealth and power. The heavy golden torc that proclaimed his status and a collection of brass, gold, and silver arm rings, wrist bands, and cloak pins were worn with such negligent grace that Melvig radiated the authority of a king. Even more telling were the disdainful eyebrows, the heavy lines of self-indulgence that drew down his narrow lips and a certain blunt directness in his stare that spoke of a nature accustomed to giving orders. On this particular afternoon, above a greying beard, his eyes were stormy and promised that squalls would soon come to her door.

“Father! How nice to see you. Please, sit and be welcome. May I order the wine you like so much?”

Melvig ap Melwy made a grumpy gesture of assent and threw himself into a casual slouch, his long, still-muscular legs outstretched and his fingers tapping the armrest of his chair with ill-concealed irritation. Olwyn turned to her steward, who was hovering nervously behind his mistress. “Fetch the last of the Falernian wine that came from Rome. And some sweetmeats. I believe my father’s hungry.”

“Hungry be damned, woman! I’m cross. And it’s your infernal brat who’s the cause of my upset. A man ought to be able to ride with his guard to see his daughter without risking assassination.”

Olwyn’s brow furrowed. Her father had always been a tyrant and a blusterer, but she loved him despite his faults. As the king of the Deceangli tribe, he often risked death from impatient claimants to his throne and ambitious invaders. But, so far, he had proved to be an elusive target and a vengeful survivor.

“Idiot woman! It’s that daughter of yours. More hair than brain, I say, and thoughtless to a fault. She ran across the path right under the hooves of my horse. Only good luck prevented me from being thrown . . . and I’m too old to risk my bones.”

Olwyn smiled with relief, noting that her father showed no concern for the health of his granddaughter. Melvig was utterly egocentric.

“You’re not very old, Father. You’re only fifty-two years by my reckoning, and you’re far too vigorous to be harmed by a twelve-year-old girl.”

“Humpf!” Melvig snorted. But he was pleased, none the less, and accepted the fine goblet of wine and ate every sweetmeat on the plate that was offered to him by Olwyn’s fumbling, nervous steward. When he had licked the last drops of honey from his huge mustache and drained the last of the wine in his cup, he fixed his daughter with his protuberant green eyes.

“Olwyn, my granddaughter is near as tall as your steward, but she still runs wild through the dunes with her legs bare where she can be seen by any peasant who cares to look. When did she last have her hair brushed? And when did she last bathe? She’s little more than a savage!”

“You exaggerate, Father. She’s high-spirited, and too young to be cooped up indoors. Would you take her from me? She’s all I have.”

“And whose fault is that?”

But Melvig’s eyes softened a trifle, as much as that dour man was able to express feelings of sympathy. He remembered that Olwyn had lost her husband to a roving band of outlanders in her second year of marriage. Since Godric’s death, she had steadfastly refused to remarry, and preferred to live with her servants and her daughter on the wild stretch of coast below Segontium. In Melvig’s opinion, his daughter was too young at twenty-five summers to have turned her face away from life. She still had all her teeth, her skin was unlined, and she had proved that she was fertile. If she had any loyalty to her clan, he thought with another spurt of temper, she would have given him another grandson years ago.

But Olwyn’s hazel eyes were slick with unshed tears, so Melvig was moved to pat her arm awkwardly to show his understanding of her fears. Although he was an impatient father, this particular daughter had always been a favored child, for in all the details that mattered Olwyn had been obedient and circumspect.

“I’ll not take her from you, daughter, so have done with all this fussing. But you must be aware that she’s as wild as a young filly and as heedless as a foolish coney that dares the hawks to strike. Would you have her stolen and raped? No? Then you must see to her education, Olwyn, because I’ll be searching for a husband for her at the end of winter.”

Olwyn’s heart sank and a single tear spilled from her thick, overlong lashes to roll down her pale cheek. Melvig used his large, calloused thumb to wipe away the salty trail with affectionate impatience.

“May the gods take thee, woman,” he whispered softly. “Don’t look at me as if I steal your last crust of bread. I’ll not take her yet, but the day will come soon, Olwyn, so you’d best be considering how you are to spend the rest of your days. Now, where are my traveling bags?”

Too wise to waste time in fruitless argument, Olwyn saw to the comfort of her father first, and then sent her maid to find her moon-mad daughter.

Segontium wasn’t a large town, but it bore the stamp of the Roman occupation in its small forum, brick and stone buildings, and sturdy wall. Once, over a thousand Roman troops had been quartered in the surrounding fields, allowing Paulinus, and Agricola after him, to smash all resistance by the Ordovice tribes. Above a pebble-strewn shoreline, Segontium looked towards the island of Mona where, forever after, all good Celts would remember the shameful slaughter of the druids, young and old, male and female, as they faced their implacable enemy on the ancient isle of sacred memory. Rome’s predatory legions had known that the druids held sway over the tribal kings. During the rebellion, leaving Boudicca to rage around Londinium, Paulinus had hastened north to rip the living, beating heart out of the Celts on Mona rather than bring the Iceni queen to heel. His desperate plan had succeeded, for few druids had 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...