“Greetings, Queen Severa,” Leola said. She rose to her feet but could only bow her head.
The queen glanced at one of the servants, asked something to which they answered.
When the queen was satisfied by their response, she sat down on one of the cushioned chairs and indicated to Leola to take the one across from her.
Leola set herself down with care and breathed a sigh of relief, for sitting was now a great comfort to her aching feet and sensitive lower back.
I shall blame those stairs. Why have so many in a mead hall?
“You are very far along,” Queen Severa said, with arched eye brows.
“Not very,” Leola replied. “About six months, I think.”
The queen gazed at Leola long and hard, as if she might just by looking in her eyes, open up her thoughts and discover some lie.
What is it? What is wrong with you?
“My nephew, Prince Owain, is dead,” the queen said.
Leola's heart stopped its rhythm, and she felt the blood draining from her face. When she tried to pull air into her lungs, her head went light and dizzy, as if the room were spinning around her.
What did you say?
Owain could not actually be dead, but as Leola looked on the queen's serious face, she knew that she meant her words.
With some short forced gasps, Leola steadied herself and tried to speak.
“When?” was all she could manage.
“He died that afternoon, after your marriage,” the queen replied.
These icy words stabbed Leola in the throat.
“Emrys King of Pengwern has agreed to take you,” the queen continued. “You shall stay with his wife Queen Madge until your labor, and then we shall find a suitable place for you.”
But Leola could not process these things, for one thought stayed foremost in her mind.
“What?” she said. “I do not understand. What has happened to him?”
“Prince Owain is dead,” Queen Severa said.
“But how?”
“That is all,” the queen replied, rising to her feet and departing as abruptly as she had come.
Leola looked around the room, but her eyes would not rest on anything. Her head felt hot, and her stomach twisted within her.
“No! No! No!” her heart screamed.
Owain was not be dead. He simply could not be dead. He had to be alive.
Leola put her head in her hands and wept.
Oh, Owain! Why?
“Die! Die! Die!” Owain screamed.
His voice was harsh and broken from yelling, and his arms so tired that he thought they might fall off, yet the ferocious beating in his chest would not allow him to stop.
He hacked at the pile of crumbled man at his feet, hardly seeing the blood he flung high in the air or the putrid odder that seeped from the body.
Die! Die! Die!”
Chapter Twenty Five: Hope for an Heir
King Irael stared into the blazing hearth and took no notice of the servants' movement around him.
“Prince Inam of the Dobunni is here to wait on you, King,” the steward said.
“What? Again?” King Irael replied, hardly taking his eyes off of the fire. “Very well. Show the man in.”
A moment passed, and a sturdy young man, clad in scale armor and a colorful cape,
entered the sitting room. His eyes and hair were dark brown and his neck was thick, traits often seen in Dobunni people. He bowed to King Irael, but the king did not rise to greet him.
“What do you want, Prince Inam?” King Irael asked. “Or rather, what does your brother, Lord Eisu want?”
For King Irael knew that no journey to see him was of the prince's own volition, as his role had always been a messenger for his older brother, the ruler of the Dobunni people.
“Eisu, Lord of the Dobunni-”
“Ie, Ie,” the king said, tired of false nobility. “Waste not my time and yours on ceremony. Be out with it.”
“You chose the Mayor of Gloui from among the Silerae people.”
It was that old debate. Questioning who should be given power over the Three Cities, Baddan, Ceri, and Gloui. These selfish lords had protested the appointment of the Mayor of Ceri, a conclusion that had taken the king seven months to reach. Now they were challenging the latest appointment, the Mayor of Gloui, the largest and most prestigious city in Albion.
“That decision was not one completed over night, Prince,” King Irael replied. “I chose the Mayor of Gloui from among capable men.”
“But not among Dobunni men.”
The king was far too weary to be patient with the prince. “Obviously, there were no men better suited among the Dobunni,” he replied. “I placed the best man in the position.”
“This is a grave affront to my people, people who call you their king.”
King Irael marveled at the blindness and conceit that he saw in the prince. “And you believe that there are no other people in Gloui or in the countryside of Glouia but the Dobunni? You believe yourselves to be all? You have much to learn of the world, Prince Inam, for it is a vast place with many, many different people.”
Prince Inam's eyes burned with anger. “And yet the Mayor of Gloui is a Silurae. In fact, a clansman of your own wife.”
King Irael thought on these words, for although they cut him deeply, he would not disregard them. But even when he examined his heart, he knew that he was right. If he had wished to placate his wife's family, he would have given the position to someone more prominent within the clan or to someone of a closer relationship to her. The truth was that he picked a man who was honest and trustworthy, traits that were hard to come by in any tribe.
“This is not a large world, King, but a very small one,” Prince Inam said. “The Dumnoni know full well how you punish us for her death.”
“Prince,” King Irael replied. He tried to keep a steady voice, but the agony that those memories brought were now tenfold from his son's death. “The appointment has no connection to my wife or the circumstances of her murder. I do not punish anyone for that crime, as devastating as it was.
Prince Inam seemed impressed by these words, but it was obvious that he was not finished protesting.
“King Irael,” he said, “if you would but consider the wise men of our tribe, the good, capable men that-”
“I am the king. I do as I see fit.”
“But, King-”
“Go.”
“As you wish.”
The prince bowed, yet even then King Irael would not acknowledge him. His gaze was fixed on the firelight and could not be moved. Bitter tears soon ran down his rough cheeks.
“Owain,” he whispered. “Owain. My boy. My son. Why were you taken from me?”
King Irael sat in the same place the next morning, his eyes ever on the consuming flame. He heard the door open and little feet rush in, and knew that it was Owain’s child, Gratianna.
“I have caught a butterfly, grandfather!” she squealed with joy.
The king gazed on her with a sorrowed heart. She looked so much like her father, his son, that it pained him to look on her. His wounds were still too fresh, and he knew not how to reach out to a small child.
The door opened once more and a nervous nurse entered and curtsied to him.
“Forgive-“ she said, but he interrupted her speech.
“Go on, Gratianna,” he said, kindly, and to the nurse. “Give her some cake or something.”
He reasoned that children always like cake.
“Ie, Master,” the nurse replied. She took the child by the shoulders and directed her towards the door.
"But my butterfly!” she cried, her round eyes squinted in an aggravated frown.
The little girl stormed off, and her nurse rushed after her.
A servant came in as they left and bowed to King Irael.
“Master,” the man said, “the Bishop of Gloui is here.”
“The bishop, the lords, the good natured clansmen,” King Irael rep
lied, worn out. “What do any of them say that is of any good? Send him in.”
Vitalius Bishop of Gloui had actually been King of Atrebat and Powys until he
conceded both to his son, King Gourthigern, and retired to the church.
The servant soon returned with the bishop and three young boys.
“Ah! Father Vitalius!” King Irael said, giving his uncle his religious title. “God keep you.”
“God keep you, Nephew,” the bishop replied.
“You look well,” King Irael said.
“Religious life suits me well,” the bishop replied. “I have brought my students to see your vast library. You do recall issuing the invitation?”
“Oh,” the king said, his eyebrows rising in remembrance. “Of course. Of course. Forgive me. I have had much on my mind.”
“I know,” the bishop said, his concern and sympathy written across his aged face.
“Perhaps we should see it another day.”
King Irael looked on the boys and could see the bright scholar that Owain had been in each of their young faces. Perhaps it would not hurt to try to be a little happy for one day and
forget all of the grief.
“No, no, Uncle,” he said. “They shall see it now. Introduce them.”
The bishop seemed relieved and presented the students one at a time.
“This is my grandson, your nephew, Edernus,” he said.
“Ah, Severa's youngest,” King Irael said. “I have not seen you since you were a toddler. God keep you, Edernus.”
“God keep you, Uncle,” the boy replied.
“Honorius of Gwent,” the bishop said, indicating the second boy. “And quite the young scholar.”
“A good attribute in a boy,” King Irael said. “God keep you, Honorius.”
Young Honorius replied in kind.
“And this is my godson, Vitalinus of Colun,” the bishop said, placing a proud hand on the last boy's shoulder.
“A privilege to bare the bishop's name,” King Irael said. “God keep you, Vitalinus.”
“God keep you, King,” Vitalinus replied. “I hope to follow in his footsteps one day.”
King Irael was delighted at these words. To have so many intellects there, reading, learning, and eager to apply their knowledge, was a joy.
“A worthy aspiration,” he said. “Now then, this way. The library is at your disposal.”
They went out to the front hall and down the wide passageway to a large room along the back of the house. Books of leather-bound parchment, large scrolled maps, and smooth wooden star charts filled the shelves.
The boys marveled at the sight of it.
“How many books do you have?” Honorius asked, voice high with awe.
“Seven and Sixty,” King Irael replied.
The boys seemed shocked at such a large number and stared around the room in amazement.
“I also have some ancient scrolls in those chests over there,” the king said.
The boys went to investigate.
“This is strange writing,” Edernus said, lifting one long scroll up for the rest to see.
“Take care with that,” the bishop said. “It is Greek.”
“What does it say?” Vitalinus asked.
The bishop's trained eye scanned the document for clues.
“It appears to be the book of Judith,” he replied.
King Irael gave a sad smile. Although the master of four languages, Owain had never taken to Greek.
A servant came to the doorway and bowed.
“A letter for you, Master, from Swale Prince of Ewyas,” he said, presenting the folded paper.
King Irael took it, broke the seal that held it closed, and sat down at the table to read. As his eyes flew over the parchment, they grew wide in shock. He read but did not understand, his mind refusing to believe what he knew was not possible.
“Can this be?” he gasped.
His right hand gripped his chest, to stifle a deep burning pain that raged there.
“Aurelius!” Father Vitalius cried. “Are you ill? Ill news?”
For a moment the king could not speak, as his doubting thoughts concluded.
“Good news!” he cried. “If it can be true!”
He staggered to his feet, with his hand gripping the bishop's strong arm.
“I must go to Atrebat!”
“Atrebat?” the bishop said, in surprise. “My son or your sister?”
“I must go,” King Irael muttered.
“What is wrong?” the bishop asked, his own eyes growing concerned.
“Nothing!” the king cried. “Everything is right! I must go.”
“When?” the bishop asked.
“Now. I can entrust my books to you, Uncle.”
But the king’s thoughts were far from his library.
“Of course,” the bishop replied. “The boys shall not harm anything. It will be just as you leave it.”
“Good. God keep you, Uncle.”
King Irael did not wait for a reply, for he hurried from the room, calling to the servants to ready his carriage.
“He has been like this for half an hour, Irael,” came the frantic voice of Owain's grandmother, Queen Ceindrech.
Owain did not care that she stood behind him, had been standing there, coaxing him to lower his broadsword. He must kill the villain. That was all that mattered.
“What shall I do?” Queen Ceindrech asked.
“Go back inside, Mam,” These were the words of Owain’s father, King Irael. “You should not see this. I shall handle my son.”
But Owain refused to stop and swung even harder, beating apart the pile of human meat and bone in the grass.
“No!” he screamed, but his throat was so raw, he hardly uttered a sound.
“Owain,” his father said. “My little boy.”
At his father’s voice, Owain felt his arm slowing and his breath returning to his lungs.
“Da!” he cried. “He killed Mam!”
“I know, my son,” his father said. “I know. But you have avenged her. You have killed the murderer. Now do not think of it again.”
King Irael slipped his arms around Owain’s body, and Owain shivered in his
embrace. He relinquished his weapon and laid his head down on his father’s chest.
“Ah, Da!” Owain cried. “I love her!”
“I know, my boy,” King Irael replied, and Owain heard the pain and anguish in his voice. “I love her too.”
Owain clung to his father and wept bitter tears.
Chapter Twenty Six: Wife of a Prince
Leola did not remember when she fell asleep, but found that she was quite comfortable. Her back did not ache from lying on the soft pillows, and she realize in surprise that the crude sleeping mat that she was accustomed to sleeping on had actually been hurting her.
She did not have time to enjoy this feeling of ease and relaxation, for her mind was soon filled again with the terrible news.
How could Owain be dead? And that very day!
Leola could see him in her thoughts as clear as if he stood before her. She remembered every detail of the scaled breastplate that covered his body and every swirl of crimson paint across his handsome face. He smiled, tilted his red head to one side, and seemed to kiss her with his deep emerald eyes.
And that was the last time she had seen him, the last time she would ever see him.
Her head burned hot once more, as a wave of unknown emotions swept over her and threatened to consume her being.
Yet even in her anguish, she had to question herself.
And why am I so sad for it?
She had not known him more than two hours, and for most of that, she had feared him. He had been kind to her, but even that may have been a fleeting goodness.
She did not understand why, but she was sad, and the more she thought on it, the faster gentle tears flowed down her cheeks.
With the morning came the servant women and the entire regiment of washing repea
ted from the day before.
Leola was even more surprised by this than she was the first time, for she could not recall ever bathing two days in a row. She was certain that the women had not washed more than their hands and face for a week. But they were servants, and she was not. Now she was a dryhtcwen, and she suspected that that made a difference.
She knew that Ardith had bathed a great deal once the winter snow had melted, yet she was sure even the earlmann's daughter would be shocked at anyone washing their body one evening and then the very next morning.
Once the breakfast tray was removed, Leola found herself alone with her troubled thoughts.
She did not understand why she was so upset over Owain's death. He was a man whom she did not actually know, for a morning's acquaintance did not signify knowledge. She had only been with him once, and had little reason to believe that he had truly cared for her.
Leola searched her heart over and was finally compelled to admit a secret truth.
Owain made her feel desirable. She loved the way he spoke to her, touched her, and even how he looked on her. He had called her “Beauty” so many times, that she had begun to believe that she was in fact lovely, precious, and special.
Leola had to chide herself then, that she should wish a man to life once more, only to make herself feel pretty.
“Are you well, Mistress?” Gytha asked.
Leola was surprised to see her there, for she had not heard the servant girl come into the room.
“No,” Leola moaned. “I feel terrible. My feet hurt and there is this terrible pounding in my head.”
“Here, Mistress,” and the servant picked up her feet and pushed a cushion underneath them.
Leola had to smile for this kindness, for she had never had a stranger willing to do things for her. But then, Gytha was a servant and these things were her tasks. Leola then resolved that if she was to be a mistress, she must be just as gentle and thoughtful as Ardith had been towards her.
I shall not dwell on Owain's death. I shall only seek to make the most of my new life, whatever it may become.
“Gytha, correct?” Leola asked, to be sure of the girl's name.
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 18