Everywhere around her, guards and servants walked or ran in one direction. Some looked at her with curiosity, but none stopped or spoke to her. Her steady gait took her in the opposite way, away from them and where they were going. She repressed the urge to flee.
If I run now, they shall see, and I shall be caught.
The edge of the camp appeared as simply as tents and then open land, with no wall or ditch to distinguish it. Leola walked past the last of these temporary dwellings and walked off into the field. She suspected that she was in the northeastern side of Holton’s land and saw where the forest lay just beyond.
If I can get there without them noticing, I am free.
She walked on more slowly now, and bent over here and there as if looking for some herb, lest anyone should see her and question what she was doing.
Her steps led her to the end of the field where the forest trees rose up high from the ground and shaded the deep woods. She put her hand on one sure giant hazel and took a deep breath. Her feet crept in, until she felt herself slip into the deep woods.
Chapter Fifteen: Where Two Ways Part
The south, once merely dotted with quiet trees, was now lined with the advancing enemy. The Dumnonni appeared a strong people with their warriors dressed in long colorful mantles and metal cuffs. Although their pointed conical helmets were the same as most of the peoples of the island, they bore the proud emblems of each of their clans and families painted on their circular shields.
Owain's mind filled with the fierce and bitter rivalry his own clan had with the Isca clan, to which the King of the Dumnonni and their champion belonged. Both the Andoco and the Isca peoples held a list of grievances that the other had inflicted on them and neither wished to resolved the issues. Owain suspected that the Dumnonni's apparent agreement with the Gewissae people must be one more example of that hundred-year feud.
“Sound the battle horns,” Owain said.
The centurions repeated the order, and the soon groaning sound of the carnyx filled the air. At first it was high like a trumpet, loud and muffled combined, and then buzzing low, as if daring the enemy to come forth.
The soldiers yelled in response.
“Attack!” Owain cried.
The whole army ran out, with the sound blasting behind them. The Dumnonni responded with their own horns and cries, and rushed forward to meet them.
They clashed in the center of the field.
Owain drove right into the middle of the Dumnonni lines, but his eyes searched the enemy's rear for their leader. Owain saw the Dumnonni warrioress with her horned helmet and her bronze battle mask. He found Prince Cadfan, a warrior whom he knew well from sight and reputation. Although Owain believed that prince to be skilled, clever, and devious, he was not the one Owain wanted.
Then his traveling gaze caught what his heart sought.
Far to the back, away from the battle, stood a man dressed in the costly scale armor and having the colorful squared mantel and gold plated helmet of a powerful ruler.
“King Tudwal,” Owain said to himself, recognizing the man.
He cut his way through the enemy soldiers, sending them falling all around him, until he was just before the King of the Dumnonni.
“Here we are again, King Tudwal,” Owain said.
A Dumnonni knight lunged at him, but Owain caught the man by the hooks of his breast plate and tossed him into the raging battle.
“We must end these meetings, Prince Euginius,” the Dumnonni king replied, using Owain's Latin name.
“Oh, I assure you, King,” Owain said. “This shall be our last.”
The Dumnonni king drew his own sword, and their weapons met with a harsh brazen sound.
“I have always enjoyed your company, Prince,” the Dumnonni king said.
His words were calm and easy in spite of the swordplay.
The Dumnonni knights were on Owain, but his quick weapon and hard shield beat them down.
“Then there is the difference between us,” Owain replied, “for I cannot abide your company at all.”
“It is your clan I do not like,” said the king.
Owain did not think that there was a way to separate himself from his clan. Isca was still Isca and Andoco still Andoco, and these two people would battle to eternity unless Owain put a stop to it.
“Many years ago, you kidnapped my aunt, Gratianna,” Owain replied. “And now you plan an attack on Venta the residence of my other aunt Severa. You say you do not like my clan? I say I do not like you.”
“Then let us finish this.”
The leaves crackled under Leola’s feet as she sped through the woods. The wind rushing into her throat was dry and seemed to burn her. She felt a strange sensation creeping up her neck, and the odd crackle sound of her hair told her that something about the air was wrong.
Even the forest creatures scurried to the safety of their burrow, seeming to possess some secret knowledge. But Leola was set on fleeing and not with the sensations around her.
She jumped in fright every time some tiny animal moved, as if they were Britannae soldiers capturing her.
No one can find me!
Yet she knew that her thoughts were thus only to convince herself that it was so.
The dim light of the gray noon appeared through the holes between the branches. That was her real freedom. Once she was there, she would be too far away for anyone to locate her.
Her heart pounded in her fingertips, and she clenched the knight and ring in her right hand. Her lips moved with her steps, counting them down from a hundred.
The forest went bright in one sudden white flash. A low cracking sound slapped her ears. She stopped, as if the light and noise froze her in flight.
Lightning!
She had escaped a prison only to find a new and different danger.
With lightning often came rain, and in this cool spring day, and her meager clothing, Leola was desperate not to get wet.
A second flash gave energy to her tired legs.
She darted through the forest like some wild creature, pushing off from the tree trunks to propel herself forward. She did not think or stopped, but ran silently until she came to the edge of the forest, where the tall grass met the trees, and collapsed there from exhaustion.
The battlefield went bright and the ground rumbled, but the soldiers were undaunted by the furious weather.
“Call Taranis!” they cried.
They believed that the ancient Britannae god of the sun, sky, and thunder was present in the wild storm and would give them victory over the Dumnonni. Thus they cheered all the more for lightning and charged on their enemy with an unstoppable force.
Owain struck the Dumnonni king hard with the pommel of his sword and pinned him up against a tree trunk. The king struggled against him.
“Surrender!” Owain cried.
“Never!” the king replied.
Owain thrust his sword into him, and the blade cut through his neck and held fast into the tree.
A flash of white covered the land and the putrid smell of burning flesh filled the air.
The clouds opened and rain poured down on the battle. The Dumnonni fell in disarray, each warrior running from the conflict without looking for their king. The Britannae soldiers chased them until their feet sunk in the mud.
“Blow the horns,” Swale said to one of the centurions, who then repeated the command.
The battle horns sounded, and the soldiers gave up their tired chase and gathered where Swale stood.
“Owain! Owain! Owain!” they cried.
Britu’s steady eyes traveled over them, but he did not see anything of his cousin.
“Swale!” he cried, his voice coarse from battle. “Where’s Owain?”
“I shall find him!” but the fear in Swale’s voice was plain.
“He could not have been hurt!” Britu cried.
They went and knights with them, and searched the battlefield. Servants and other soldiers tended the wounded, and Dumnonni
lay dead, but nothing was found of their dominae.
The rain continued to pour down heavily on them.
“Prince Swale!” one knight cried. “Here’s his sword!”
Swale, Britu, and the knights came to a great oak tree. It was black as if burned, and a foul smell linger around it. On the other side of the tree, they found Owain’s sword protruding outwards, still pinning the Dumnonni king to the charred trunk.
Swale seized the sword to pull it out but it held fast. The king’s head, however, ripped off and rolled aside. Britu flared in rage and kicked it.
“Britu!” Swale cried, in rebuke. “Pull this out.”
Britu took hold of the handle with both hands and forced it from the trunk.
“Find Prince Owain!” Swale said to the knights.
They rolled the bodies over and examined them.
“He’s not here, Prince!” they cried. “These are only Dumnonni knights here.”
“Count the bodies and leave them,” Swale said.
“As you wish, Prince.”
“But where is he?” Britu asked what the knights never would dare.
Britu’s eyes followed Swale’s glance to the ditch nearby. The rain had filled it to full, and the abundant water now flowed freely away as a mighty river.
“By this time?” Swale replied. “He is most likely out to sea.”
Leola lay still in the high grass, too tired to rise again. A sharp pain in her chest halted her breaths, and her pulse beat rapidly in her head.
When she had composed herself, her thoughts wondered to her present state, and the realization of her escape.
“I’m free!” she cried, her merry voice high with excitement.
“Leola fleeing, Leaping further,
No Briton senses, No battalion sees,
They look not, They lack knowing,
Leola gets away, Leola goes her way,
She runs fast, She rushes far.”
And at that she laughed at her own wit, that she should make a poem out of her escape. Laughing thus, she collected herself and sat up.
“Now,” she said, staring around her in wide eye, “where am I?”
It took much longer to find the road then it had for her to safely depart her captor’s camp, for the greenery there was too dense for normal travel, and she was quite far from any recognizable location. She soon found herself wondering back to one place or another where she was sure she had just left, until she stumbled on the hidden path.
A stinging pain swelled in her right ankle and darted up her leg.
She stumbled and dropped down, clenching the ground as if to relieve the pain by squeezing the wet earth in her hand.
Cold rain flowed down on her and drenched her hair and clothes. She felt the drops streaming down her face and back, until she was soaked through to her very being.
I will get there.
With some new determination, she came to her feet and followed the old road. She was cold, wet, and tired, and her ankle gave her no peace, but her stubborn will forced her on.
Chapter Sixteen: Loss and Reunion
Swale and Britu found Annon at the entrance to the camp. He was drenched from rain as they, but free from both mud and blood splatter.
“What is it?” he asked, fear building in his eyes.
“Owain is dead!” Britu replied, and his voice matched the anger in his heart.
“No!” the boy cried, and his teeth chattered in the cold.
“It is true, Annon,” Swale said, gently. “He must have been struck down by lightning.”
“Lightning!” Annon gasped. “Where is he? I must see him! Let me see him!”
Britu was silent and his stomach twisted within him until he felt sick.
“His body washed away in this storm,” Swale replied.
“No! No! No!” Annon screamed.
Swale put a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“He died fighting, as a warrior should,” he said. “We are honored to have stood by his side in his last battle.”
Annon nodded but could not seem to find his tongue to respond.
Swale continued to talked, but Britu was too angry and tormented to listen.
“Agh!” he cried.
His eyes swelled over with tears, and his hands shook from grief, but he would not let them see him weep. He turned his back on them and marched off back through the camp. He did not want them to follow, and it infuriated him to hear their footsteps behind him.
When they got to Owain's tent, they found that the outer room looked just as any of theirs, but the inner room was in shocking disarray. Blankets and pieces of ripped cloth were tossed around the room. The baskets and boxes were opened, some even tipped on their sides. Half eaten food and drink were still sitting on the tray on the table.
“What a mess!” Britu cried.
He so angry that he could vent on anything.
“I shall see to his servants later,” Swale said.
Britu looked around the tent, his eyes casting here and there, focusing on nothing. He tried to think what Owain would do before the battle, but the inner room was in such a disarray that it seemed nothing like Owain at all.
Britu’s eyes caught sight of the small leather bound book that Owain used to write his notes in for the Army. He knew that there was nothing in it but numbers and charts for weapons and food, and perhaps short descriptions of the various fights they had encountered. But it was in Owain’s hand.
“His journal,” Britu said, absently.
He grabbed the book and opened it up to read through it, yet his anxious eyes could not concentrate on the Latin script.
“Tell me if he wrote anything before the battle,” Britu said, passing the journal on to Swale.
As Swale scanned the contents of the year’s notes, Britu continued to wander around the tent, looking for Owain and knowing he would not find him there. Britu thought that the box which was set on the table by the half eaten food should not be there at all and remembered that he had seen it in Owain’s hands only two hours before they clashed with the Dumnonni.
Britu lifted the lid on the box and gazed inside.
“Harp strings?” he muttered.
Owain must have gotten them for his daughter while they were in Lerion. Britu would be sure that the whole box was given to the child. Her mother had abandoned her, and now she would never see her father again.
Swale’s voice forced Britu out of his gloomy thoughts.
“Britu,” Swale said, “listen, ‘I have taken for my wife Leola daughter of Hobern a Frisian of the village of Hol, her mother was Alburga daughter of a Saxon of the village of Anlof. She shall be called Princess of Glouia.’ Why would he do that?”
“He married?” Britu cried, not believing it.
“He married a Gewissae, here, in his tent, this morning.”
“Preposterous,” Britu said. “They’re Saxon.”
“Well that is what he did,” Swale replied. “Here it is in his hand,” and he gave the book back to Britu, pointing out the very last entry in it.
“He married a Gewissae,” Britu said, bewildered.
“Now, why, I must know,” Swlae said.
“I know why,” Annon said.
Both men stopped and turned towards the boy who they had all but forgotten a moment before. He stared back at them, fear and sadness building up within his young eyes.
“Speak up,” Britu said, impatient.
“He saw the old woman washing!” Annon cried.
“What!” cried Swale, horror written across his face.
“What are you talking about?” Britu asked Annon.
“He had a dream early this morning,” Annon blurted out. “He saw the old woman washing the blood out of his tunic. It is just as the stories say. He had a vision of the Phantom Queen. That’s how he knew that the Dumnonni were coming. That's how he knew he was going to die.”
“Owain!” Swale cried. “Why didn't you say something?”
“You kne
w this and did not tell us!” Britu cried, turning his rage on Annon.
“He told me just before the battle!” Annon cried, growing angry himself. “What was I to do? He was my teacher. I could not tell him not to fight.”
Britu paced the room.
He knew that it was so, for he had been told that Owain had taken one of the prisoners early. If Owain knew of his impending doom, why not marry? And there were no women here for hours but the Gewissae captives, trapped in the Saxon great hall.
“If he is married,” Britu said, “where is she, this Gewissae?”
“He must have let her go,” Swale said. He bent down and took up the iron slave collar. “It is fitting that way.”
“What of his father, King Irael?” Annon asked.
“We must tell him,” Britu said.
“No,” Swale said. “He shall not like it.”
“We must,” Britu cried. “It would be dishonorable not to! Owain dead and we, his clansmen, not reveal his marriage?”
“Nothing shall come of it,” Swale said. “I will keep the journal, and Britu, you must return the sword to your uncle, King Irael.”
“Of course,” Britu said.
He looked on the weapon in his hands. It was Owain’s most prized possession and still had the blood of the Dumnonni king on its blade. Britu’s throat swelled up with agony as he thought of his cousin and how he would never see him again.
“No,” Britu said. “You do it. I cannot.”
“Very well, Clansman,” Swale said.
Swale saw to Owain’s personal things and reprimanded the servants for their lack of order and duty. He was sure that Owain would never have tolerated such a disaster in his tent.
Britu had the sorry task of writing his own father with an explanation.
Owain was dead. There was no way to write it gently. All of their strength was based on Owain. All of their confidence was placed on his shoulders. Now that he was gone, what would his father do? What would any of the Andoco do?
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 11