“There are still ways of settling this, King Iorwerth,” King Irael said to the man who sat at the head of the table.
At thirty, King Iorwerth was fit and healthy, yet Owain knew that the man had never been a great warrior. A duel, such as the one this Lord Wynn was purposing, would certainly end King Iorwerth's life.
“I'm at a loss,” King Iorwerth replied. “Advise me, Clansman, for Lord Wynn shall be the death of all of us.”
“He shows everything that he has at once in order to intimidate you,” King Irael said. “But be assured he has nothing else hidden. He wants praise so dearly that he cannot keep his own secrets. Lord Wynn shall be his own downfall.”
“I need a champion,” King Iorwerth said, bitterly.
A burning desire filled Owain up from the depth of his stomach to to the top of his head. It was a mixture of longing and rage together. His mother had lost her life defending him against a man who had wished to supplant his father. Here now was another man, Lord Wynn, who was trying to do the exact same thing to their clansman Iorwerth King of Lerion.
All the honor taught to Owain over his mere sixteen years now screamed aloud for
justice. Honor for clan, family, position, and his mother's gracious memory. Together, they gave Owain a sense of purpose that he had never felt before.
“I shall fight for you, King,” Owain said, at once.
“What?” King Iorwerth cried, his eyes bulging from his face.
“Owain,” King Irael said, as if to say “Be silent.”
“You are just a boy, Prince Owain,” King Iorwerth replied.
Owain thought he saw a hint of amusement in his clansman's surprised face.
“I am unafraid, King Iorwerth,” Owain replied.
“No, my little Owain,” King Irael said, with a shake of his graying head.
Owain was certain that he was now as big as his father but did not say so.
“Do you believe I cannot best him, Da?” he asked.
“Do you believe that you can?” King Irael replied.
Somehow, Owain knew that his mother was watching him, and he refused to disappoint her.
“I believe that I must,” he said.
Sorrow seemed to swell up King Irael's deep green eyes, and when he spoke, his voice went hoarse.
“I believe that you can best Lord Wynn and his champion both,” he replied, and he sighed. “You may fight, my son.”
“No!” King Iorwerth cried, his own eyes filling with horror. “He is just sixteen! He's only been in three battles! You would pit him against a fierce warrior!”
“Some are born to fight,” King Irael replied. “Owain is such a man, though he be a but a child still. He shall fight for you.”
King Iorwerth was not convinced, but Owain did not care what that man believed. The fact that his father thought him capable of winning anything gave Owain added confidence and resolve.
“You may send the messenger to Lord Wynn with acceptance,” Owain said.
Chapter Twenty Eight: A Commoner and a Slave
Leola watched as the servants scurried about the room, warming the fire in the hearth and setting one of the small wooden table for her dinner. She assumed that they did not know how to speak in Saxon but wondered what they would say to her if they had. Gytha alone could speak to her, and Leola was more than happy to communicate with the girl.
“I'm so tired,” Leola said. “And my head hurts now.”
“It is these things in your hair, Mistress,” Gytha replied. “Here, let me.”
Gytha slid the bone combs out of Leola's hair and let it unravel itself.
“So much better,” Leola said, rubbing her fingers over her scalp.
“You have never worn your hair up before, Mistress?” Gytha asked.
“No,” Leola replied, promptly. “Always braided. I never realized there were other ways to wear my hair.”
Yet as she said this she realized that even in the small town and villages of Gewissae there were what might be considered different hair styles. Unmarried woman wore a single braid, married women had two braids, and many older widows knotted their hair at the back of their necks.
Gytha jumped and looked around, as if searching for something.
“What is it?” Leola asked.
“I thought I heard something, Mistress,” the girl said.
There came a clacking sound, as if someone was knocking on hallow wood.
“I hear it,” Leola replied. “It is right outside the window.”
Gytha went to one of the windows and opened the lattice shutters. “Nothing,” she said and went to another. “Nothing. Oh!”
The child was peering up out of the bushes through the window at them.
“Gratianna?” Leola said.
The child sprang to her feet and stared at Leola in surprise.
“Is that your name?” Leola asked, and Gytha repeated it in Brythonic.
“It is,” the child said. “I am Gratianna,” but she spoke in Latin which Gytha did not know.
“It is all right, Gytha,” Leola said. “I think I can understand her. God keep you, Gratianna. I am Leola.”
Gytha translated this last part into Brythonic, but Gratianna replied once more in Latin.
“God keep you, Leola,” she said.
“How old are you?” Leola asked.
“Three,” Gratianna replied, in Latin. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” Leola replied, for she was sure that she had not yet turned twenty.
“What is that?” the child asked, a confused expression consuming her little face.
“It is a lot older then you are,” Leola replied, with a giggle.
“Oh.”
“What is that in your hand?” Leola asked.
Gratianna held a cloth doll through the window for them to see.
“Does she have a name?” Leola asked.
“Doll,” Gratianna replied.
“I see. Well then, God keep you, doll.”
The child began to giggle. “That's funny!” she cried, and ran off into the thick of the garden.
The next day brought with it a renewal of the rituals from before. The bathing, dressing, and hair styling of the previous morning was completed with precision on the part of the servants, and boredom on the part of Leola.
Do these Britisc aethelings ever do anything without first taking a bath?
When Gytha was satisfied with her appearance she held up a small silver mirror for Leola to see. Leola had to agree with the treatment then, for she thought her reflection was nice, although much of it she owed to having a real mirror at her disposal.
Queen Severa came in. “Are you feeling well?” she asked, and Gytha translated.
“Yea, I am,” Leola replied. “Do you know Gratianna?”
“Owain's illegitimate daughter,” Queen Severa replied. “What of her?”
Something deep within her told Leola that she should not ask. “Why did she not stay with her mother?”
“She is illegitimate,” the queen replied. “Her mother did not wish to keep her, as she had newly married. She did not want her new husband's house to be clouded by the connection.”
“Why did she not marry Owain?”
“Because it was not a good match for Prince Owain. She was nothing but a Trinovanti. Her father was a prince of no land or position. Her mother's brother was a mere chieftain. A woman like that is not a fitting wife for an Andoco, for the Prince of Glouia, for the Champion of Albion, for the dominae. She was a…” but here, the queen shut her mouth. “Do you need a change of rooms?”
Leola was startled by the change in conversation and knew not how to respond.
“No,” she said, at last. “I like these rooms. Thank you.”
“Thank King Irael.”
To Leola's shock, Queen Severa rose and departed without another word.
What an arrogant woman she is! And I am nothing at all!
For she felt that her own position must be so far beneat
h that of Gratianna's mother for the queen to even look at her.
I wish I was in Anlofton with my aunt.
Leola rubbed her belly.
“You would like my aunt far more than your father's aunt,” she said. “For Redburga has the greatest of hearts.”
She missed her aunt and cousins, for they were the only family she had left. Even Fridiswid, young Drudi, and the women of Anlofton who had shunned her were now remembered with a fair eye.
They were her people, common people, ordinary people, and she belonged with them. She did not feel comfortable here with strange hair styles and critical people looking down on her.
Leola was aware that she could not return to Anlofton, for the village women's shunning her would probably continue at the detriment of her aunt and cousins. She also knew that her feelings of loss and turmoil had followed her from Holton.
Leola wondered at her emotional heart, that she should never feel satisfied and at peace. To her, the harmony and sanctuary of home only existed with her mother and father. Perhaps the baby in her womb would give her the purpose she had not had since she arrived in her aunt's village over six months before.
“I shall try to focus on you, my love. We shall survive together.”
It was still early when Leola finished her breakfast and went out to the garden. The air was cool, and the trees smelled fresh and clean from the morning dew. Leola found a comfortable bench to sit on and basked in the sunlight.
“God keep you,” a little voice said in Latin.
Leola opened her eyes to find the child, Gratianna, standing a bit away from her.
“Did I surprise you?” Gratianna asked.
Leola was unsure how to answer in that language and thus nodded an affirmation.
“I surprised you!” the child squealed in delight.
Leola beamed at her glee.
You are so darling! How could your mother ever leave you?
Leola then gazed at the child with a keen eye, searching for any likeness to Owain. She saw him in the little girl's deep emerald eyes, curly red hair, and broad confidant smile.
You are so beautiful.
“Is that a baby?” Gratianna asked, pointing to Leola's protruding stomach.
Leola nodded again.
“That's a big baby,” Gratianna said. “God keep you,” and she scurried off.
Leola put her arms around herself and gazed down at her growing stomach.
“You are a big baby,” she said.
Leola felt the infant move one way and then the other within her, as if in agreement. She didn't know why, but her heart felt as though it had filled up with joy.
“And strong too,” she said, “and handsome.”
Leola put her hands through her hair, but her fingers got caught in the combs.
Ugh!
Leola tried to pull them out, and found that they stayed fast in her locks.
What is wrong with these things?
She shook her head from side to side and then picked at the combs until each one released its hold on her hair and came out.
Worthless. I should have worn braids as I always do.
She fingered her hair until it smoothed out, then parted it down the middle and braided it into two long tails. Her tender head soon felt relaxed with her hair back the way she had always had it.
What is the point of other hair styles when they make your head feel terrible?
When the sun grew warm on her, Leola pulled herself up and slowly walked back inside and returned to her room. She was just sitting down, when the door opened again, and Queen Severa stepped in.
“God keep you-” Leola said, but stopped.
The queen was staring at her, with wide eyes and ashen face. “Fix her hair,” she said to one of the servants.
“My head hurts,” Leola said, when Gytha had repeated it to her in Saxon. “I can't have those things in it. It hurts.”
“You shall wear your hair properly,” the queen replied. “The way you are, you look like a commoner.”
Leola thought this was a very silly thing to say.
“I am a commoner,” she said.
“No,” the queen now spoke in Latin, and although Gytha did not understand, Leola knew enough Latin to decipher it. “You are a prisoner and a slave. You should have been sold at auction, you worthless, ignorant fool.”
The queen went to the door.
“Fix her hair,” she said to the servants in Brythonic and was gone.
The servants hurried to comb and redo Leola's hair until it was up and decorative the way it had been earlier in the morning.
Leola sat there where she was, and stared out into the room.
It was beautiful but foreign, like everything else around her. It was not her home, and these people around her were not her people. The clothes, the garden, and the pretty child belonged to another, and Leola was a stranger in it all.
“Do you want me to rub your feet, Mistress?” Gytha asked.
Mistress.
“No, Gytha. Please leave me,” Leola replied.
I am no one's mistress, nor can I ever be, but at least I do not have to be someone's slave.
With that, she rose once more, took up the blanket that was lying idly on the bench and walked out into the passageway.
“You are not dead, I think,” said an unfamiliar voice. “You are not dead, not dead. But you must eat, must eat.”
Owain felt hot food, tasteless and foul together, slip down his raw throat.
“You are not dead, I think,” the voice continued. “You are not dead.”
A wide open space extended from where Owain stood with his father, their clansman King Iorwerth, and a few knights of Lerion. On the other side of it was Lord Wynn, the lord's champion Prince Teirtu, and some knights who had rallied to his cause.
“Do not give Prince Teirtu a chance, Owain,” King Irael said. “For he shall give none to you.”
Owain walked out into open field until he stood half way between his own party and his enemy. His steady gaze caught Prince Teirtu's glance and their eyes locked together, as if daring each other to strike. Prince Teirtu then laughed, took up his shield, and strode out towards him.
“Owain is it?” Prince Teirtu asked.
An amused gleam danced in his eyes.
“It is,” Owain replied. “And you are Prince Teirtu.”
“You are a skinny little boy,” Prince Teirtu said. “Do not think I shall be easy on you because of it.”
“My father warned me that you would not be,” Owain replied.
Prince Teirtu drew his sword, and Owain drew his own as well, lest the prince should attack him before he had it ready.
“I'm glad we have such an understanding,” Prince Teirtu said.
The prince lunged at him, but Owain side stepped him and deflected his heavy swing off his shield.
“Good feet, boy,” the prince said, impressed. “But shall they save you?”
He struck again, yet Owain ducked his head and let the attack sail over him.
“And you can dodge well, I see,” Prince Teirtu said. “But you cannot out step me forever.”
Owain brushed another sword strike away with his raised shield.
“I shall kill you,” the prince said. “And laugh over your body.”
Owain hooked the prince’s sword with his own weapon and moved them both away from their bodies. He struck the prince hard across the face with the bronze boss of his shield. Prince Teirtu flew backwards onto the ground, dropped his sword, and held his face.
“Surrender!” Owain cried.
Prince Teirtu tried to knock Owain’s sword away with his own shield, but Owain hit his mark. He pushed the blade deep into the prince’s exposed neck until blood came gushing from the wound. The prince gasped, blood pouring from his mouth, and then lay still.
Owain dropped to his knees before the dead prince, his heart full with relief.
“Owain!”
He heard his father calling him, but he felt
he was not yet finished.
Owain looked over at the congregation of Lord Wynn’s supporters.
“Do you want him?” he cried. “If you want him come and get him!”
“Owain! Don’t!” King Irael cried.
But four of Lord Wynn’s knights were already descending on Owain, their swords draw to fight.
Chapter Twenty Nine: A Father and a Daughter
Leola's determined feet took her out into the front hall. The servants there did not speak to her yet quickly made way for her to pass, and those who were not busy about their work gave her a respectful bow or curtsy as she went. Leola did not pay them any attention but walked on, out the large wooden front doors and down the stone steps into the courtyard.
The warm autumn day's heat brushed her face and seemed to heal a portion of her wounded soul.
Shall I stay or go?
Yet even when she asked herself this question, her heart screamed the answer.
Why stay to be tormented? These people did not want her, did not love her. They were her enemies, hardly willing to tolerate her because she carried Owain's child. She neither liked them nor wished to be with them.
Leola set her shoulders.
I walked out of a Britisc camp. I can walk out of a Britisc mead hall.
The iron gates were opened for a group of knights to enter, and when the gatekeepers there saw Leola, they held them thus and bowed to her. The knights noticed her clothes and hairstyle and moved aside for her.
And I always feared knights, as any woman does.
Leola did not dwell on these thoughts, for her feet took her out to the main road, through the busy marketplace.
People bustled around her, buying, selling, or just moving about the city. Leola was surprised to find that even in their hurry, the people noticed her and bowed low, calling her “Princess.”
I am Owain's cwen.
But being a cwen was of no true advantage. She could just as easily have walked out without their grave bows and honored words. She did not need the whole city to move aside as she passed by.
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 20