Clash of Kings
Authors: M. K. Hume
Prophecy: Clash of Kings
M. K. HUME
headline
Copyright © 2011 M. K. Hume
The right of M. K. Hume to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2011
All characters – other than the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7145 7
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
Table of Contents
CHAPTER IV - AN INAUSPICIOUS BIRTH
CHAPTER VII - THE BROKEN TOWER
CHAPTER VIII - THE SONG OF THE SUN
CHAPTER XI - WALKING WITH KINGS
CHAPTER XII - WHEN EAGLES FLY WITH NIGHTINGALES
CHAPTER XIII - THE RETRIBUTION OF TIME
CHAPTER XV - IN THE VALE OF PAIN
CHAPTER XVI - A GOOD DAY TO DIE
CHAPTER XVII - THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES
CHAPTER XVIII - FATHERS AND SONS
CHAPTER XXI - ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS
CHAPTER XXII - THE BURNING MAN
This book is dedicated to David Hill, a kind and gentle man, who departed this life on 30 September 2009, after a long and courageous battle with cancer. David was a family man to his bootlaces, and was dedicated to his caring wife, their five sons and their partners. Through David’s guidance and influence, his sons display admirable qualities of their own because, like all good men, they are reflections of their father. No higher praise can be conferred on any man.
Ave
, David.
Marilyn Hume
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am aware that few readers bother with acknowledgements, which is rather sad as authors have few opportunities to thank the many people who make our creations possible. Family members sacrifice their routines so that authors can have the luxury of time in which to write. For the garden untended, the maintenance undone, the carpets unbeaten and the tidying that is ignored, I thank you!
Thank you to Michael who keeps saying ‘What’s next?’ or, more often, ‘What does this crap mean?’ Every writer needs an honest, fiercely partisan critic who expresses their views constructively, so I am fortunate that Mike has always guarded my back and challenged my preconceived ideas.
My thanks to Damian who struggles on through illness and debilitation with his passion for history and his curious lateral thinking. Sometimes, with a simple observation, he sharpens my viewpoint or sets me off on a new path. We both love the darkness, the bizarre, the uncomfortable and the uncompromising nature of truth, all of which have a place in this work.
To Pamela Guy, a distant relative and very true friend, thank you for your big heart, your unquestioning support and your almond flour cake during long conversations over what to do next. As a ‘chalkie’, which is teacher-talk for a fellow professional, she has seen at first hand my passion for history, literature and the sheer beauty of knowing and searching. Love you, Pam!
Then there’s the publishing crew in London. My agent, Dorie Simmonds, asked for the first ten chapters of this novel, and then bullied me into a plan of where I was going with the trilogy. Bless her! Like Michael, she is a charming and elfin spur who always says exactly the right thing. I depend on her sound professionalism, and I appreciate her great talents.
Jane Morpeth, Headline’s CEO, is a genius, pure and simple. A few casual questions, and she sends my imagination into overdrive. Stylish and so erudite, she dominates my thinking when I am kicking my manuscripts into their final shape. Will Jane like this, I wonder? I probably should be embarrassed to admit such open admiration, but people do not rise as high in the publishing trade as Jane without being highly gifted. I trust this book meets her expectations and
my
promises.
And now there is my new editor at Headline, Clare Foss, who lifts my flagging spirits with her enthusiasm and support. With a few deft sentences, she guides me into considering all the ramifications of what I am doing. I thank you, Clare.
Then there are those at Headline who make things tick – Nancy, Kate, Emily, Angie and others. All are brilliant, professional Headliners who turn my manuscripts into something more substantial than my initial dreams. You are the ones who put real, adorned flesh onto the bones of my imagination. You clean the skin, tighten the pores, show the face of the novel to the world and shout about its value. I only write it and, without you, I would struggle for success. There are many others at Headline who have helped me, I know, so please forgive me if I have not named you. In truth, no one would ever read a word I write without you all.
I try to remind myself every day how lucky I am – in love, in my ability to write and in the recognition that I have received. Gratitude and humility are the only cures for hubris, which is as dangerous a vice now as it was in Myrddion’s day. Vortigern, Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon suffered from hubris and paid a very high price for their sins. Lord of Light, save me from its easy temptations as you evaded its blandishments yourself.
Marilyn Hume, April 2010
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
PROLOGUE
On the brow of the storm-torn headland, where the steel tines of the ocean wind combed the long grasses into smooth ringlets, the girl-child looked down upon her new home and sighed.
Grey stone rose coarsely out of the green flanks of Tintagel, where the leaf-shaped spearhead of land jutted into the Hibernian Sea and the wild waves smashed themselves to foam on the eroded cliffs below Gorlois’s protective wall. The girl shuddered at the cheerlessness of the small, conical cottages which clung to the cliffs below the fortress, linked by steep, winding paths that tethered them to the paved courts above. Beyond the narrow steps, one hundred feet below, the sea crushed the cliffs into pebbles and gnawed its way into the peninsula in a long, narrow inlet.
The girl turned slowly in a circle, holding her waist-length hair out of her eyes as the wind tore her luxuriant locks into rags of russet and mahogany. No trees grew at Tintagel, nor on the land around the fortress, so the long grass was the only hiding place for small hunted creatures. Although the wheeling, circling gulls preyed off the small fish and living shells of the shallows, other predators waited above, wings riding the invisible currents of the air and hungry eyes watching for the slightest movement in the long tangles of green grass below.
The girl bit her lip as a merlin dropped from the sky like a stone, its wings folded and its talons outstretched. Its scream of triumph drowned out the small cry of a young rabbit that found itself snatched up in the raptor’s cruel claws. Tears appeared in the girl’s clear eyes as she followed the flight of the huntress.
