The Beast of Caer Baddan

by Rebecca Vaughn

  Britu agreed with Swale that it was best not to mention this Gewissae woman in his letter. He was sure that both his father and Owain’s father would be angry, if not horrified, at the thought of Owain marrying a Saxon commoner.

  Britu admitted to himself that calling the woman a commoner was an assumption yet he justified it with the knowledge that he had never heard of a Hobern as an earlmann. Besides, he knew that if she was the daughter of a ruler, Owain would have mentioned that fact in his journal. Thus he decided that this Gewissae woman must be a commoner, as well as Owain’s prisoner and slave. Wherever she was, she would be forgotten.

  Despite his mind telling him that this action was right, his heart told him that he would regret it.

  Leola limped down the path towards some dreary grass covered huts. At first, a sense of relief filled her at her arrival. In spite of the dark night, the rain and cold, and her injured foot, she had made the long journey all the way to her mother's village of Anlofton. She had not been there for years but still managed to find the little town, tucked away within the forest.

  Yet as she approached, Leola felt the dead air that hovered over the village like some conjurer of evil sent to doom them all.

  There should have been fires in the hearths and thus smoke streaming from the chimneys. The night sentry should have saluted her and called the people out in greeting.

  Why are there no fires? Where are the people? What atrocity has happened here?

  Fear bubbled up new from the depth of her stomach.

  “Redburga!” she cried. “It’s me, Leola! Alburga’s daughter! It is me! Your niece!”

  She looked at the silent, dreary huts one by one, not remembering which one had been her aunt's and uncle's.

  “Redburga!” she cried.

  Her weary body trembled with cold and dread, as her eyes searched the darkness for any movement.

  “Redburga!” she cried.

  One of the doors crept open and a stout woman stepped outside.

  “Leola?” she said.

  “Aunt!” Leola cried. “Thank God!”

  Her whole being relaxed and the agony washed out of her with cleansing tears.

  Redburga ran forward and opened the half-sized gate that separated the front garden from the road.

  “Quickly, inside!” she said, beckoning Leola with a waving hand.

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, Leola ran to her aunt, who folded her up in her strong arms.

  “Leola!” she cried. “It is you! You walked all this way? How glad I am you have come, but you must be exhausted! Come in! Come in!”

  Redburga hurried her in and shut the door.

  The living room was smoky and dusty, and Leola could hardly see in the dim candlelight. She sank onto a convenient bench and closed her eyes. Her chest was alive with the agitated beating of her heart, and her whole body was soaked through from cold rain.

  Redburga badgered her with questions.

  “What happened? What happened in the battle? What happened to Holton? What happened to our men?”

  “Ah!” Leola cried, still unable to grasp her fleeting breath. “What a mess! There was a surprise attack by the Britisc and they burned the whole town!”

  Redburga went to the hearth, stoked the fire, and fed it until it blazed.

  “No! The whole town?” she cried. “Where is my husband? Did you see him?”

  Leola had hardly thought of Fensalir since she had realized that the Britisc had won the fight.

  “Yea,” Leola said, carefully, “but only before, at the feast. I do not know if he has escaped the war.”

  “Yea. But there is hope.”

  Redburga took Leola's hands and rubbed them with a dry cloth.

  “This should warm you up, Dear,” she said. “What strange clothes you are wearing!”

  Leola glanced down at herself and saw with a smile that the lower half was covered in mud and that the whole dress was transparent from the rain.

  “A very long story,” Leola said, with a laugh, not wanting to think on the events. “Too long and confusing for this night. I’m so tired.”

  “Rest then,” Redburga replied. “But first, we must get these things of off you.”

  Leola dragged herself up so that her aunt could force the tight garment off of her. She shivered even as Redburga placed a warm towel around her and rubbed her shoulders.

  “Here. You can wear this old dress of mine,” Redburga said. “I was going to take it apart this morning. Glad I waited.”

  She took a brown garment out off a pile of cloth in the corner and slipped it over Leola’s head.

  “We'll see about getting you a bodice tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Leola said.

  “When Fensalir left, I told him to be sure to tell you to come,” Redburga said.

  “Yea,” Leola said, thinking on her dislike of her aunt's husband. “I am glad I did come.”

  “But I did not know that you had married, Dear.”

  Leola held herself still, not knowing how to respond.

  “Your hair-”

  “Yea,” Leola replied, taking the two tails in her hand. “It was...”

  She wondered how she was to explain a Britisc aetheling to her aunt.

  “Sudden?” Redburga asked, with a knowing smile.

  “Yea,” Leola replied.

  Leola was a relieved that her aunt was answering the questions herself.

  “Marriages often are,” Redburga continued.

  She bent over the hearth and stirred the strew that was placed there, and Leola breathed in the familiar aromas of vegetables and herbs.

  “The women shall demand your story of the war in the morning,” she said.

  “I don’t want to tell it.” Leola said, cringing.

  “Yea,” Redburga replied. “But you must. For it would not do for me to say as I was not there.”

  “Yea,” he said and let out a long sigh.

  She knew that her aunt was correct, yet what was she to tell them of Owain of Baddan? How was she to explain her strange marriage and her unbelievable escape?

  Her stomach rumbled as if twisted into a knot.

  “Is there anything to eat?” she asked.

  “Here,” Redburga replied. “Have this bread and you can eat the rest of the stew once it is hot.”

  Leola took a piece off the offered loaf of bread and ate.

  Plain and dry compared to the Britisc bread.

  She smiled at her own folly.

  I am so hungry and tired, and yet I can criticize food? I shall eat and be grateful.

  “Mama! Mama!” two chirping voices came from the other room.

  “Oh, they are up with all this commotion!” Redburga said. “Come out! Your cousin is here.”

  The curtain slid back and two blonde girls came out into the living room. They stared at Leola with wide blue eyes.

  Redburga pulled them over to her. “These are my youngest two, Erna and Ead.”

  “Greetings, Erna and Ead,” Leola said. “My name is Leola.”

  “You’re our cousin?” Erna asked, her face showed her doubt.

  “Yea, I am. My mama and your mama were twin sisters.”

  “We’re twins too!” Ead cried. “Erna and I!”

  “How old are you?” Leola asked.

  “We’re eight,” Erna said.

  “That is a good age to be.”

  “Now, both of you, back to bed,” said Redburga. “Go.”

  They went, stealing backwards glances at Leola until they were out of sight.

  Leola did not remember ever seeing the little girls before, even when they were infants. What she did remember was cleaning the scrapes and bruises on the knees of her three boy cousins.

  “Where are your sons, Aunt?” Leola asked.

  Redburga went to the fireplace.

  “Here!” she said, abruptly. “It looks hot now. Eat.”

  She spooned some stew into a bowl and set it on the table in front of Leola.
r />   Leola was too tired to question her aunt's odd response, and thus ate what she was given and was soon asleep.

  Chapter Seventeen: Passing the Sword

  The great hall felt dead around Britu as he strode in with Swale and Annon by his sides. The walls seemed to echo the sad news with their every step.

  “Owain is dead!

  “The heir of the Kingdom of Glouia is dead!

  “The Dominae of the Army of Albion is dead!

  “The greatest of the Andoco is dead!

  “The pride of the Catuvelani is dead!”

  Britu saw his own parents, King Gourthigern and Queen Severa, sitting at the far end of the hall. They looked solemn and tired, and from her red eyes and ghostly face, he knew that his mother had been weeping.

  Another man sat with them. He wore similar colorful robes and had a thick gold chain around his neck. His graying head was buried in his hands. Britu recognized him as Irael King of Glouia, his mother’s brother and Owain’s own father.

  As Britu gazed on his uncle, his soul panged for the man, whose face was aged far beyond his six and forty years. There was a marked expression of loss, sadness, and hopelessness in his eyes, that Britu was sure had never been there before.

  “Aurelius,” Queen Severa whispered to King Irael, using his Latin name, “they are here.”

  King Irael looked up at the princes, and Britu felt his own wounded heart ripping in two.

  “Where is my son?” King Irael said, his voice as broken as his spirits. “Where is my Owain?”

  The princes hung their heads.

  “What is this?” King Gourthigern cried. “Britu, where is your cousin?”

  “His body is lost, Father,” Britu replied, his throat turning dry with every word. “We could not find it in the rain and mud.”

  “You should have looked more!” King Gourthigern cried, his accusing eyes cutting into Britu's soul.

  “Sir,” Swale said, quickly, as if he might save Britu from his father's contempt. “We searched the battlefield all that afternoon and the whole of the next day. His body is gone. It is lost. The stream had become a river and washed it far away. We do not know where it has gone.”

  “Oh, Euginius!” the queen cried.

  King Irael gasped for air and clutched his chest, and Britu felt as though his uncle held his heart in his hand.

  King Gourthigern moved as if to berate the princes, but his brother-in-law held up a peaceful hand as if to say “Be still.”

  “No body to bury!” King Irael gasped. “That is the way it must be. My boy! My poor little Owain!”

  “Sir,” Swale said, “today, we are proud of Owain Prince of Glouia. For his death was more glorious then all of his other battles combined. He fought seventeen knights like a mighty hero of old long since. He cut them down and then killed their leader, Tudwal King of the Dumnonni, one of the greatest warriors of the South Country and the mortal enemy of the Andoco. No man however skilled or strong could stand against Owain.”

  “That is true,” Annon said. “There is none more brave then Owain. He was the greatest of men.”

  “Then how did he die?” King Irael asked, his voice hoarse and breaking.

  Britu spoke before he could stop himself. “God killed him.”

  “Britu!” cried King Gourthigern.

  “It was a strike of lightning,” Swale said, his sad voice hurried. “He thrust his sword through the neck of King Tudwal and it stuck fast into the trunk of an oak tree. The lightning bolt touched the tree and killed Owain, who was still holding the sword with his hand.”

  Britu believed that Swale assumed too much of what they did not know for sure, but knew it was not the time or place to contradict.

  King Irael grew silent, thinking of these words.

  “My son was worth more than seventeen men or even the whole Army of the Dumnonni,” he said, gripping the arms of his chair and rising to his feet. “He was my only child and now he is gone? Now he is dead?”

  Britu thought the very silence of the room pierced him through.

  “His sword, Clansman,” Swale whispered, no longer able to speak up.

  He unwrapped the weapon and presented it naked to their clansman.

  “The Sword of Togodum,” King Irael said, taking it up for all to see its magnificent blade. “Forged in Aracon, in the secret fires of the Black Mountains. The greatest sword for the greatest warrior. My grandfather, Rheiden was unworthy of it when he found it in the sacred lake. Nor was any of his family worthy, for they had submitted to the Romans. My brother Victor once thought that he would gain it. Yet he too failed to prove himself. But Owain, my little Owain, in his grief, and guilt, and broken heart, became a hero of all times. Proved himself better than all the rulers of Albion combined. Showed his greatness like the valiant Pendragons of long ago. And when he was granted this fabled sword, he killed a thousand men and saved a thousand thousand people.”

  The whole blade glimmered, as if it too was a testament of Owain's superiority.

  “Swale Prince of Ewyas,” King Irael continued. “Take it.”

  Britu was both shocked and relieved together. He breathed easy that his uncle did not hand the sword off to himself, and with it, the weighted responsibility. Yet he was also surprised by the king's flippancy. The looks on his parents' faces told him that they too were stunned.

  Swale backed away from King Irael, horrified out of his usual calm.

  “I am not worthy of it, Sir,” Swale replied, his words no louder than a heartbeat.

  “Then you must make yourself worthy of it, and wield it when you are,” King Irael replied, still holding out the weapon to the prince. “If you be not, then you must find one who is. Your son, or Britu's son when he should have one, or another of our clan. The island must be protected. The people must not be left to die by enemy hands.”

  “Of course not, Clansman.”

  Swale took back the sword and wrapped it up in the cloth once more, but Britu heard the fear in his solemn voice.

  “Brother,” the queen said, laying a tender hand on King Irael's shoulder. “He was the greatest ever. You can be proud of his conquests.”

  “You mean of battles or women?” King Irael replied.

  “Battle, Brother-”

  “No, no,” King Irael replied. “Do not try to dampen it. I have no son and no heir. Everything that I have built, everything that he had built, shall fade away. As my nephew said, God killed him.”

  Britu was ashamed for his words, and no one ventured to speak.

  “I shall order the funeral,” King Irael said.

  “Let me help you, Aurelius,” the queen said.

  “No, no, little Sister. Be with your son. For you know not what lies in these dark days.”

  King Irael walked out of the hall, and although Britu could only see his back, he knew that his uncle was weeping.

  Leola remembered Anlofton to be a quiet village, but the hush that now fell over it was not of calm serenity. It was harsh, thick, and fearful, as if the houses themselves were awaiting death.

  It was two days since she had arrived, when Leola hobbled out to the well in the center of the village. She had spent the time doing small house work for her aunt and nursing her swollen ankle, yet soon grew weary of indoors and used lack of water as an excuse to step out.

  She was hardly to the well, when she found herself surrounded by the village women, who had come out to inspect the newcomer and badger her with questions.

  “What happened in Holton?”

  “Is everyone dead?”

  “How did you get away?”

  Leola tried to answer the questions without divulging too much unfathomable information. She did not want the women of Anlofton labeling her a liar and a fantasist.

  “What we really need to know is if the Britisc are coming back here,” one woman said, and the rest quickly agreed.

  Leola frowned in confusion.

  “But what do you mean, 'If the Britisc are coming back?'” s
he asked. “Were they here as well?”

  “Did Redburga not tell you?” one woman asked.

  “The Britisc ridends came through four days ago,” another woman said. “Villains.”

  “They took all of the boys who were over eleven who had not gone with the army.”

  My cousins! Redburga's sons!

  “What has happened to them?” Leola asked, afraid for the answer that she knew would come.

  The women grew silent, and Leola could hear her own heart pounding in her breast.

  “We think they are dead,” one said, at last.

  “My poor aunt,” Leola gasped, trying to contain herself. “They were just boys.”

  “Well, at least she has the girls. Bebbe over there, she has no daughters.” She pointed to a woman sitting on a barrel in front of her hut.

  “You are Alburga’s daughter?” another woman asked, her voice hurried as if she wished to change the subject.

  “Yea,” Leola said, absently.

  “We were so sad to hear that she was dead.”

  Leola did not want to think of her parents and forced the conversation away from that topic as well.

  “What children are still here?” she asked.

  “My Drudi is almost your age,” one woman said. “You shall be good friends.”

  “Ah! Here is the dryhtcwen, Fridiswid,” another woman said.

  Leola heard the malice dripping from her words.

  “The wife, or I suppose widow, of our earlmann,” said another woman.

  Leola knew that in such a small village, Fridiswid must be the only noble woman around. She was apparently the only woman who still wore nice attire. While the rest of the village must have given up their metal adornments to see their warriors equipped for battle, the dryhtcwen had kept her long necklaces, circular breastplates, and colorful overskirt.

  “She had always been the envy with her high ways,” the first woman told Leola. “And now? Now we hate her!”

  Even with hatred for her, she was still their dryhtcwen, and with no men in the whole village, it was obvious that she had become their ruler. Thus they bowed to her, as was the custom when a dryhtcwen came by.

  “Greetings, Fridiswid Dryhtcwen,” they said.

  “Greetings, women,” she replied, and looked on Leola, who still stood in the center of the congregation. “And this young one, I do not know you.”