The Beast of Caer Baddan

by Rebecca Vaughn

  She was horrified by him grabbing her in such a way, but held her peace. She had always thought him to be a villain but now did not want to incite his wrath.

  “Leola is it?” Raynar asked, his voice casual, his tone light.

  She was surprised that he should know her name. Because her position in the community had diminished with her employment at the mead hall, she thought it strange that any ridend should take the trouble to discover anything about her. Least of all one as conceited and self-absorbed as she was sure Raynar was.

  “Yea,” she replied, and her whole body cringed at the closeness of him.

  “I see how Ardith keeps your counsel,” he said.

  He nodded in the direction of the mead hall.

  “She is a kind mistress to me,” Leola replied.

  “I mean to make her my wife,” Raynar said.

  God forbid!

  “Persuade her for me,” he said. “I’ll pay the rest of your father’s debts to the earlmann, so that you shall not have to work there like this.”

  “You overestimate my influence, Raynar,” she said, with a weak smile. “Ardith is of her own mind. I could never persuade her to marry anyone.”

  “Admit it. I have seen all winter how she waits for you to finish working so that she can talk to you. She hangs on your every word.”

  Leola grew uneasy.

  Were you watching us? Following us? Listening to what we say?

  “Think of it,” Raynar said. “Do you wish to work like some lowly slave until it is paid off? Besides, you know that I am the best warrior in Holton. It was I who won the victory at Donwy. Who is better than I to take the earlmann’s seat?”

  “I must go,” Leola replied.

  “Think on it.”

  Raynar released his hold on her, and she curtsied politely and went. The further away she got, the faster her feet took her, until she was at her own hut.

  Leola stopped and stared.

  It was her parent's home. The place they had built not long after coming to the island some twenty-one years ago. They married and were soon expecting their first child. He had built up the mud walls and covered it with grass. She had placed the shelves for her jars.

  Leola pushed open the door and went in. They had been dead for many months, and yet everywhere she looked, Leola found sign of their loving care. The wooden bench, table, and stools which furnished the living room were made by his strong hands. Her mother's jars for storing herbs and spices to make medicines still lined the shelves on the wall.

  As Leola slid back the curtain that separated the living room from the bedroom, she was overwhelmed by the evidence of her parents' hard work. The bedding that made up three sleeping mats had been formed on her mother's loom. The hole in the corner of the room was dug out by her father for them to store grain over winter.

  This is my home.

  Yet it felt nothing like that now that both of her parents were dead.

  The cheery, welcoming place it had been, was now dull, dreary, and sad, as if the walls themselves were in mourning.

  Leola went to one corner and pulled back a small dirty stone to reveal the secret crevice her father had left in the wall. There she stashed the bit money she had received for her embroidery work with the few coins that she had already placed there. Leola could have paid more of the debt off, but she knew that she would need this money for the next winter as she would have no time or resources to plant and harvest her parents’ land.

  Somehow, I shall survive.

  Impoverished and employed as a lowly servant, Leola was not sure how.

  We are strongest when we are weak.

  With that last thought, Leola covered it up and left the hut.

  When she approached the mead hall, Leola noticed a small band of ridends stopped at the entrance, getting off of their mounts. Her heart jump up in her throat, as her gaze swept over their long smooth cloaks and freckled faces.

  You are Britisc ridends!

  The one at the head of the group looked over at her and stared. Leola held her breath, as his eyes traveled over her body.

  Her right hand slipped behind her to the knot tied at the small of her back with her apron strings. Her fingers found the small knife that she carried tucked there away from view. It was merely an instinctive motion, for Leola was not even sure if she would have the fortitude to stab a man.

  “Greetings,” the ridend said to her, but that seemed to be the extent of his knowledge of the Saxon language, for he continued on in Latin. “I have come to see your chieftain, Sigbert.”

  Leola could not help but be shocked.

  The Britisc were enemies to the Gewissae people, and even now the rumor was that the earlmann was planning an attack on Venta, one of the Britisc cities.

  Why would Britisc ridends pay our ruler a visit?

  Leola nodded to show the man that she understood his words and directed him to follow her. When she held the heavy door open for him to enter the mead hall, she felt his eyes creeping over her being.

  Please do not stare at me!

  She tried to stand still and confident but her anxiety threatened to consume her.

  “Cadfan Aetheling,” the man said, both introducing himself and showing that he knew a second Saxon word. “Prince Cadfan.”

  Aetheling? You are an aetheling?

  Leola had never seen a Britisc aetheling before and was now unsure of what to say or do.

  She bent her legs in a wobbling curtsy and repeated his words as an announcement.

  “Cadfan Aetheling!”

  Sigbert Earlmann was already walking forward to meet him. “Welcome! Welcome!” he said.

  Leola did not wait to hear any reply or discover why a Britisc aetheling should come to Holton. She had soap to make and wished to be far from the strange man's intrusive gaze.

  Even as she went to her work, his eyes seemed to burn into her mind as if there was something very evil behind them.

  Leola's right hand slipped behind her to the apron knot once more. Her knife was there, where she had always kept it, and if this Cadfan Aetheling came near her, she would stab him dead. It may take all the courage within her, but she would do it and have no regret.

  Chapter Four: The Maetae Camp

  Mounts were brought for the knights, and both Swale and Britu came to the front to find Owain.

  “Are we going to make chase, Owain?” Britu asked.

  He was holding the reigns of eager to be gone.

  “That we shall,” Owain replied. “We shall harry the Maetae.”

  The knights each climbed onto a war pony and were ready to depart.

  These were not Roman horses, but strong and intelligent creatures, born in Albion just like their human counterparts and bred to withstand the strenuous and variant terrain. The knights and princes alike had full confidence in these mighty animals.

  A servant brought Owain his own mount, and their party was soon off. They were wary of any ambush and so stayed away from the trees but rode on quickly after their fleeing enemy.

  Owain noticed when they crossed over broken piles of white bricks scattered about in the heather and grass. He knew they had come on one of the old Roman walls, the fortification that had for only a few years divided the Britannae of the North Country from their more northern foes.

  “We are in Maetae land now,” Owain said. “Be aware.”

  He did not wish to lose a knight in that unforgiving place.

  “So close!” Britu cried. “And here they are!”

  Just before them lay the whole of the enemy camp.

  Owain could see the ill clad servants running off in a panic and the warriors only just arriving at the tents.

  Owain drew his sword once more and gave its blade a fleeting glance.

  It was the greatest weapon on the island, the fabled Calybs the Sword of Togadum. He had been granted it by its keeper, the King of Lerion, and was the first to wield the weapon in hundreds of years. It was said to have cursed all who dared use i
t but were unworthy of its power. Owain had fought with it for over six years and felt blessed.

  The Pictii warriors who were still left in the camp saw them riding up and prepared a quick attack. They came up close to Owain's mount and tried to jump up and knock him off. He cut them back away from him with swift strikes, slicing through their arms or across their exposed chests.

  The enemy fell back and fled, and Owain followed after them, striking them down with blade or pommel.

  Owain saw the quick spring of a warrior to his left and blocked the man's blow with the bronze boss of his shield. The weight and momentum of his adversary knocked Owain completely off of his mount. He tucked his head and rolled over onto the ground. The Pictii fell to the dirt as well, and the two sprang up at once, facing each other.

  Owain held his shield and sword, while his enemy faced him with war club and a newly draw long knife.

  Owain saw his enemy's gaze back at him, daring him to attack, but Owain had not risen victorious over every foe from being impulsive. He waited, watching his enemy before him, until the man could hold back no more. The warrior sprang at Owain, his arm lifted high for a decisive club strike. Owain could see the defense of the man's body open as the arm was rose high above the head. Owain thrust his sword forward into the center of the warrior's armorless chest and brushed aside the man's blow with a jerk of his curved shield. The enemy fell at his feet, convulsed, and then was still.

  Owain looked up from the body of the warrior, gazing around and listening for another assault. None came, for the princes and knights had vanquished the remaining foes.

  Owain's foot kicked something in the dirt, and he knelt down to pick up a small bone handled knife. It was a very pretty little trinket, and Owain thought it would make an excellent present for his little daughter.

  There came a short gasping sound from with the tent before him. Owain glanced in, finding two bright eyes that stared back into him own. Owain pulled the tent flap up and knelt down on the hard ground.

  There within, he saw a Pictii girl huddled back at the far side of the tent. Her slender legs were pulled up to her chin as if to protect herself from some assault, and she shivered more from fear than from the cool morning. She looked like she was just thirteen, too young to be in the camp for any reason.

  “/Tain uscon/” Owain said, in the Language of the Pictii. “Come.”

  The girl did not move, but stared at him with huge gray eyes.

  “/Ta ruith, eortot/” Owain said, holding out an empty hand for her to take. “You are safe, Child.”

  One of the knights yelled something, and the girl jump in fright.

  Owain's quick ears caught her panicked voice.

  It was either “/Ranruith ga/” or “/Taruith ga/” for he was uncertain, yet he did not think it mattered if her words were an appeal to a deity or to Owain himself. This was a field of blood, no place for a young girl, and he would get her out of it.

  Owain looked on her, cocking his head to one side and turning his body away in order to appear smaller then he actually was.

  “/Tain uscon, eortot/” he said again, his own tone quiet and easy. “/Tain uscon/ Ta ruith/”

  She crept forward towards him and soon reached out and took his hand.

  He helped her up then and led her over to where the warriors had left some of their ponies. Owain chose one that seemed gentle and lifted her on it.

  “/Taorciu uscon, eortot/” he said. “Go, Child.”

  She took the offered reins but just continued to stare at him.

  “/Taorciu uscon/” he said, and stepped back away for her to pass.

  She smiled and then beckoned the mount forwards.

  Owain did not wait to watch her ride away, for his cousin’s harsh voice called him back to the war.

  “Owain!” Britu cried. “What are you doing?”

  “What is it?” Owain asked, ignoring the question.

  “We wait for your orders,” Britu replied, his irritation clear in his harsh voice.

  “Burn the camp,” Owain said.

  “Burn the camp,” Britu repeated.

  The knights hastened to obey and lit up the tents until the flames danced high in the air.

  For a moment the party watched the massive bonfire they created, as if it too was a part of their victory celebration. Then Owain ordered them mounted, and they took their way south but a little west of the way they had come, lest the enemy had planted a trap for them.

  When Owain and his party arrived back at the main battlefield, the soldiers were already cleaning up the pieces of broken shields and weaponry and the servants were running around, tending the wounded.

  “Owain! Owain! Owain!” the soldiers began to chant, as Owain rode passed.

  His heart swelled with pride. This was the third battle he had fought against the Pictii, and all three proved victories for him.

  “Prince Owain!” his ears caught the rumbling voice of their host.

  “King Coel,” Owain said. “We have won. The enemy is subdued, and your people are safe.”

  “I'm eternally indebted, Dominae!” the king replied.

  Owain could see the peace in the king’s mien.

  “I leave you then, King,” Owain replied. “God keep you.”

  King Coel’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in shock.

  “What?” he cried. “What do you mean? You have risked your life a thousand times today! Stay! I shall give you another feast!”

  “I'm expected in Lerion, but I thank you for your hospitality.”

  Owain did not mind lying to King Coel or to anyone else who was not of his own clan. The truth was far from diplomatic, and he knew that the powerful King of the Brigantae was a valued ally even if their tribes were traditionally enemies. It would just be unwise to say “I have grown tired of the North Country and am going home.” Prudence demanded that Owain keep peace between himself and the Brigantae king.

  There was a delicate balance that his own great grandfather had spoken of just before he died. On one side lay loyalty, endurance, and might, while the other had prudence, passion, and unity. Owain had learned long ago to be guided by them intertwined within him, and armed thus, he was a force like no other.

  Thus he thanked his host and the princes of the Brigantae and left the field of carnage. He was not yet to the bath house when one of the centurions caught up to him.

  “What are your orders, Dominae?” the man asked.

  “Cut off their heads and burn the bodies,” Owain replied, without hesitation.

  He was sensitive towards the long standing rituals left with them from ancient times. It was said that man’s power housed in his brain, and thus by removing the heads, the soldiers claimed their enemies’ power. Although the belief had long ago died out, the tradition remained, and Owain would not change it.

  “Then strike the winter lodgings,” he continued. “We leave Gododdin tomorrow.”

  The centurion went, and Owain was left with his musings and his bath.

  The servants came and removed his heavy armor piece by piece, and his back felt weightless at the change. He looked on his sword, tracing the carvings in its blade with the tip of his forefinger, before he surrendered it over to his servant’s care.

  “Are you well, Master?” his servant asked.

  “Ie, Leir,” Owain replied. “I simply think.”

  At that moment, he wished to dwell on nothing at all. No war, no debt, no death, only the warm water at it washed the sweat and blood from his body.

  Chapter Five: Assassin

  The supplies were packed the next day along with the gifts that the grateful Brigantae people bestowed on them, and the whole Army made its way southeast out of the Kingdom of Gododdin and into Catraeth. Their thoughts turned south, but Owain was ever willing to deter those plans.

  One sunny breakfast found Owain with Swale, Britu, and Annon sitting in the meeting tent in the center of their camp.

  “Message for Swale Prince of Ewyas,
” a servant said.

  Swale took the parchment from him and cut the seal with his knife.

  “From Ewyas?” Britu asked.

  “My father wishes to know if I would have him bid for Lady Gweldyr.”

  “Ah,” Britu said, with a knowing look.

  Owain nodded, thinking of the situation in the West that may soon result in war.

  “What?” Annon asked, with a confused frown on his young face. “Who is Lady Gweldyr?”

  “An heiress,” Britu said.

  “The heiress at the moment,” Swale said.

  “You know of the Demetae?” Owain asked of Annon.

  “I do,” the boy replied. “They are Eire.”

  “The Prince of the Demetae is dead. Died last fall. No son means that the daughter inherits the kingdom. She, Lady Gweldyr, is now seen as a most valuable match for every prince in the West.”

  “It is ridiculous,” Britu said. “Those grown men, fighting over a child like some bad comedy play.”

  Annon’s eyes went wide with horror at these words.

  “Do not take offense for my sake, Prince Annon,” Swale said with haste. “I have no desire for my own sons to be entangled by this. I shall write to my father insisting that he stay away from the matter. Besides, I vowed long ago that I would not dictate my children’s marriages.”

  Owain laughed at the thought.

  “Ah,” he said. “Prudent now that you have a daughter close to marrying age?”

  “No, no,” Swale said. “I assure you. Always prudent regardless. And my little girl is nowhere near marrying age.”

  Owain shook his head to say he knew that statement to be false.

  Another servant entered the tent.

  “What is it?” Britu asked.

  “Messenger from Vindi King of Ebrauc to see the Dominae,” the servant said.

  “Send him in.”

  “King Vindi?” Swale said. “He invites us to a feast.”