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 woollen robe, and hurry out of the women’s quarters towards the atrium of the ancient house, where a tall, grizzled man was stripping off his fine leather gloves and woollen 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.
