Clash of Kings by M. K. Hume

to no man. No man! Not even yourself! You have no right to accuse me out of hand.’
    ‘If I choose to call you a slut, who will gainsay me? Or is it Branwyn who has been making the two-backed beast with a lover?’ Melvig shouted, his temper fraying as she watched his face redden. ‘Don’t you ever contradict me, woman, for I am not one to countenance your insults.’
    ‘My insults? Mine? You call me a slut and accuse my daughter of behaving like an evil whore and you are insulted? You go too far, Father. I have never said a word against you, nor raised my hand towards you, but you shame us all by your outbursts.’
    Melvig’s lips twisted and he swore with sudden crudity. One huge, age-spotted hand reached out, almost covering her face with his extended fingers, and he thrust her away from him so that she stumbled from the force of his anger. She struck her head against the wall as she fell.
    ‘Owlwa!’ a small voice screamed. ‘Leave Owlwa ’lone!’
    Melvig paused in his instinctive warrior’s crouch over his daughter’s body. He felt a sting in his calf and swung one huge hand to swat away the annoyance even as he turned . . . and faced an angry, red-faced toddler.
    Bemused by the child’s combative stance, and irritated further by the small eating knife that had been driven into his lower leg, Melvig’s expression wavered between the extremes of indignation and indulgent amusement. The boy, Myrddion, was poised to throw his sturdy body at the shaggy old king, although a child of such tender years could barely control his own bodily functions. Olwyn shook her dazed head and struggled to rise.
    ‘Myrddion? Come here, darling boy. Come to Olwyn!’
    She opened her arms wide and the child brushed past Melvig and threw his slender body against her breast.
    ‘The child in question, I see,’ Melvin snapped, although his anger seemed to be seeping away with the slow trickle of blood that was running down his leg from his wounded calf. ‘So this is the bastard? At least he’s got balls, considering he lives in a household of women and Greeks.’
    ‘This is Myrddion Merlinus, who was presented to the sun god after his birth, and accepted by the Mother’s serpents before he could walk.’ Olwyn spoke as formally as she knew how, hoping to give Myrddion an illusion of status. ‘As you can see, he is a fine boy.’
    ‘But whose boy is he? When will you answer me, woman?’ Then her father’s face grew crafty around the eyes. ‘You’re not a coward or a liar, and you would speak out in your quiet way if he was your child. So the boy must be Branwyn’s son!’
    The finality in Melvig’s voice made Olwyn’s blood run cold. Perhaps her father would stay his hand if he believed Myrddion was her child, but his granddaughter’s bastard son Never! He would demand his right to avenge this offensive slight on his honour.
    Even as she began to beg her father to be sensible, he shouted for her steward, Plautenes, who came running immediately.
    ‘You! Find my granddaughter and bring her to me at once. Understand? I don’t want to be left cooling my heels while I wait on that young woman’s pleasure. Drag her here if you must.’
    When Plautenes nodded and turned to leave, Melvig shouted out for wine and food, and Olwyn saw a flicker of annoyance slide across the servant’s smooth, unlined face. Melvig saw it too.
    ‘Why do you keep these nasty little pederasts around your house?’ he muttered as the slave left the room. ‘Surely there are more than enough Ordovice to serve you.’
    Olwyn lifted her chin a little, held Myrddion close and tried to answer her father without inflaming his temper any further. When the king of the Deceangli was thwarted, he often made decisions that he regretted after he had time for reflection.
    ‘Please, Father, Plautenes isn’t a pederast. Nor is Crusus. They do not consort with children, but love each other like husband and wife. There is too little love in the world, Father,