He has seen horrific things. I cannot blame him for his anger.
Her thoughts traveled to the terror she had felt the night the Britisc destroyed Holton. The putrid smell of burning human flesh. The smothering feeling of dread in the confinement of the mead hall. The woman slain in an instant but a few paces from the steps of the entrance. The darting pain of her swollen ankle, as Leola tried to run in her escape. The look of complete fear on Ardith’s face.
Ardith, the earlmann’s daughter, who had treated her kindly even though she had to work as a servant to pay back the money her father owed the earlmann.
Oh, Ardith!
She had hardly thought of the earlmann’s daughter since that night, when she had pushed the girl away and yelled at her to run.
What a selfish person I have been! Ardith was my friend, and I, not knowing if she managed to get away from the Britisc or even if she lives, have hardly given her another thought for all these long months! Oh, God, wherever Ardith may be, I pray that you protect her from harm.
The rapid beating of the water on the window shutters seemed to pound in Leola’s head like a relentless hammer.
“I must go to bed,” Leola moaned.
She pushed herself up to a standing position and slowly walked back to her rooms. As she went, she felt a pang within her abdomen which grew deeper and sharper with every step.
There is something wrong!
Leola held her stomach and lowered herself on to the cushioned bench in her outer room. Her tired eyes traveled to the rugs at her feet.
“Gytha!” Leola moaned. “Gytha!”
Gytha came running in. “Mistress?” she said. “Are you ill?”
“I’m bleeding!” Leola gasped.
It was her most dreaded nightmare come to life in a single painful instant.
Gytha glanced down at the dark red blood on Leola’s slippers and yelled something to another servant, who rushed back to the hall.
“There, Mistress,” Gytha said to Leola. “She’s called for the midwife. She shall soon be here. Then you shall be fine,” but her face showed her fear.
Fine?
Time passed, and Leola could do nothing but gasp and whimper. Her head turned hot, as if baked in a pot, and her whole body trembled with pain.
The rain outside became forceful and aggressive and the wind groaned some complaint. They seemed to be an extension of the turmoil that raged within her body.
Oh God, give me courage.
“That is Taranis venting his wrath, I think,” came the absent voice.
Owain listened to the wind beat the rain but nothing around him grew wet from the water. He was certain that his skin felt damp from his own perspiration.
“Da,” Owain moaned.
“You are tired, I think,” the voice said. “You must rest, you must.”
The rain beat heavy on the window shutters.
“Grandfather,” King Irael whispered.
Owain looked through the darkened room at an old man who lay comfortably in bed. The man was King Rheiden, his great-grandfather, who had walked that land for over eighty years. King Rheiden had been a fierce warrior and a just ruler of three kingdoms. He had bestowed these lands on his three children, two of which he now out lived.
Although King Rheiden had been a strong man, even in his advanced age, a strange ailment had put him in his bed for the last four months.
“Irael,” King Rheiden said, and chuckled. “You are getting gray hair.”
King Irael laughed. “I am no longer a young man, Grandfather,” he said. “My own child is sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” King Rheiden mused. “And a great warrior already. That is rare. Where is he?”
“Owain,” King Irael said.
Owain felt his father's eye on him.
“Ie, Da,” he said.
“Come over here, Son,” King Irael said.
Owain stepped forward to the bed and took his great-grandfather's hand.
“I am here, Forefather,” Owain said.
“Listen, Owain,” King Rheiden said. “Listen to the storm, Boy.”
Owain listened to the violent wind and rain.
“That is Taranis god of the sky, the sun, and the thunder,” King Rheiden said. “He demands homage for he is a great and power god, worthy of our respect. But he does not always rage. Most of the time, he shine his sun down on us. That is balance.”
“Ie, Forefather,” Owain replied.
He wondered why his great-grandfather would bother talking about an ancient god that Owain didn't even believe in.
“My daughter, your grandmother, said that you were given the soul of Mascen,” King Rheiden said.
“Ie, Forefather,” Owain said.
He remembered his grandmother's words very well for she had repeated them throughout his childhood.
“The soul of an emperor,” King Rheiden said. “That is not to be taken for granted, Boy.”
“Of course not, Forefather,” Owain replied.
Owain felt that somehow his father must have communicated his own fears on King Rheiden to make his great-grandfather say such things.
“I hear that our clansman, Iorwert King of Lerion, has granted you Calybs,” King Rheiden continued.
“Ie,” Owain said. “He did.”
“The greatest sword for the greatest warrior,” King Rheiden said. “I found that sword in the sacred lake, when I was not too much older than you are now. I was not worthy of it and neither was any of my generation. But I knew that the time would come when a hero would rise up and save this land. I am glad.”
Owain felt proud at these words, that his forefather should recognize him above all of the powerful princes that had walked that land throughout his long life.
“When you dueled Lord Wynn,” King Rheiden said. “How many men did you fight?”
“I... I'm unsure,” Owain replied.
He had not thought of that before and therefore did not have answer.
“Your father says it was six, Boy,” King Rheiden said, his eyebrow raised.
“It was six,” King Irael replied.
“Six, then,” Owain said, confused as to why it should be important.
“Six,” King Rheiden mused. “Six you have conquered and thus six you are.”
Owain was sure he had beaten many more men than that in the three battles he had already fought but decided against arguing with his great-grandfather.
“Six,” King Rheiden mused.
“Ie, Grandfather,” King Irael replied.
“You are the Rowan,” King Rheiden said, to Owain. “Though you burn with an unquenchable fury, you are loyal and protect those you love.”
King Rheiden touched Owain's forehead with his outstretched forefinger and traced the symbol for the rowan there.
“You are the Oak,” King Rheiden said. “Strong, enduring, withstanding all tribulation.”
He then made the symbol for the oak.
“You are the Alder,” King Rheiden said. “Mighty, fierce, and invincible.”
And he traced the symbol for that tree.
“But you must also be the Hazel,” King Rheiden continued. “Judicious, wise, and peaceful. For war must be proportioned with harmony lest the land be torn asunder. You must also be the Willow. Enchanting, passionate, and vibrant. For like the sun, people will always seek a hero to love and not one to fear as the thunder. And above all, you must also be Ash. Uniting, binding, and securing. Or else nothing that was built will last.”
Each one, he traced on Owain's forehead with his wrinkled finger.
“That is balance,” he said.
“Ie, Forefather,” Owain replied, in awe.
“You have been granted Calybs,” King Rheiden said. “Follow the example of these trees and you will always be worthy of the Sword of Togadum.”
Owain was unsure what to make of King Rheiden's words but understood that they were a blessing on him.
“Now, Boy,” King Rheiden said, “go on. I am sure you have
much to do.”
“Thank you, Forefather,” Owain replied.
He kissed his great-grandfather's hand and went out, down the dark passage and out to the front hall. He strode passed the throngs of dignitaries, who had come to Aracon to pay their respects. He did not look up at the many of his own clan who were weeping among them, but walked straight outside to the violent storm.
The rain and wind screamed out their fury, until his hair was soaked and stuck to him. A harsh flash of piercing white light brightened up the courtyard if but for a single moment. The rumble of thunder came like the low bellow of the carnyx.
He took these things as if they fed him power.
“Six trees,” Owain mused.
The images of the letters that his great-grandfather had blessed him with stayed in his head.
“I shall always be worthy of Calybs.”
“Here’s the midwife, mistress,” Gytha whispered.
Leola opened her heavy eyes and stared up at the strange woman before her. She tried to speak but could not form any words, either Saxon or Latin.
She felt cool hands touching her neck and stomach.
“How old are you, Princess?” the midwife asked in Latin.
“Nigontienlic,” Leola moaned.
Gytha quickly translated. “Nineteen.”
“And this is your first labor?” the midwife asked.
Leola thought her head would split as she tried to speak in Latin.
“First pregnancy,” she moaned.
“I’m going to induce your labor,” she said.
“Too early.”
“About six weeks too early, I should think,” the midwife replied. “But if I don’t induce your labor, the babies could be hurt.”
Leola gasped.
That violent dread that something must be wrong, would go wrong, bubbled up inside of her, threatening to drown her in its waves.
“There, Princess,” the midwife said. “No fear now. You are young and strong. The babies have simply out grown their space. There is no more room for them to get bigger. I shall give you an herb and it shall hasten your labor.”
Leola heard the midwife giving orders to the assistants behind her to crush the herb and mix it with water. Yet her thoughts were now absorbed by one word the woman had said to her twice.
Babies?
“Babies?” Leola moaned.
“Of course, there are two in there,” came the midwife’s confident voice. “You have grown very big for only one child. Now drink.”
The rim of a cup touched Leola's lips, but when she tried to drink, she gasped and gulped.
“Slowly, Princess,” the midwife said. “Sip.”
The liquid was foul to smell and worse to taste. It burned her throat raw with every swallow. She gasped for air, short of breath, and coughed.
Am I going to die?
“Now just relax,” the midwife said. “In a moment you shall feel the contractions.”
Leola coughed again, and her stomach tightened at the movement of her diaphragm.
“Ugh!” Leola moaned. “It hurts!”
“A cool, wet, cloth for her forehead!” the midwife said to the servants. “Now, Princess, breath though the pain. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.”
Leola thought the waiting was forever, an eternity of suffering, bleeding, and the dread of what might happen.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, save my child and spare my life.
But she was in too much agony to make the sign of the cross.
She felt a damp cloth brush across her forehead, a little comfort amongst so much pain.
“Ugh!” Leola cried.
“Get her up,” the midwife said to her assistants. “Keep her head supported. There, Princess. You are doing fine. Keep breathing, Princess.”
Leola’s eyes squeezed shut and her whole face contorted in agony, as the muscles deep in her abdomen seemed to rip apart.
“Ugh!” she cried.
Owain thrust his sword through the neck of King Tudwal and into the firm truck of the oak tree. Just as the weapon stop, he felt the king’s iron armplate hard against his face.
There was a bright flash of light.
“Am I dead?” he asked himself.
And that was his last thought.
Chapter Thirty Four: New Life
Cold rain poured down on Britu as he dismounted at the steps of the castle. The stable hands rushed out to him to take his war pony into the safety of the barn, and Britu strode up to the front doors and went inside.
The front hall was warm from blazing fires. The servants took the prince's wet things from him and gave him a towel to dry his hair. Britu noted their solemn faces, and he felt an anxious hush had fallen over the whole house. His steps took him first to the sitting room where his uncle usually was. When he found it empty, Britu strode to the back of the house where the library was kept.
King Irael looked to be just as grave as the servants.
“The Meeting of the Circle went very well, Uncle,” Britu said.
“Good,” the king replied, absently.
“You are not curious to know how I conducted myself?” Britu asked with a mixture of amusement and fear over what could possibly be amiss.
“I am.”
But Britu realized that his uncle hardly heard his words.
“I rode all the way to Corin,” Britu said, in false irritation, “sat through a boring meeting with ten ungrateful lords, and rode back here in the storm to be with you, and all in one day. Now the least you can do is greet me.”
“Leola is in labor.”
“But cannot be,” Britu said, knowing that her time could not possibly be due before the winter solstice.
“The baby has come very early,” King Irael replied, and his fear was plain in his husky voice.
For a moment Britu could not respond. He felt a stinging guilt for having given Leola so much emotional pain. Perhaps his angry words had caused her to start her labor. Britu doubted that his righteous indignation was worth risking his own cousin's child over. He should have remained silent, and now chided himself bitterly for his selfishness.
“So that is why the house is filled with hushed voices,” Britu replied, his own voice broken. “You should get some rest, Uncle. It may take all night.”
King Irael rubbed his face and head with his wide hands. “I won’t be able sleep, Britu,” he said. “So I attempt to read.” But he set aside his book with that thought.
“She is strong,” Britu said.
“To be sure. She is strong and gentle and has a kind heart. So pray for her.”
“I shall.”
Britu went to a far shelf and took up a board game that sat there.
“Here,” he said. “I shall set up the pieces.”
“I could do with a game of chess,” King Irael replied, his eyes brightening. “How are the Lords of Glouia?”
“Very eager to know when you shall be well again and return to them,” Britu said with a cynical grin.
The king laughed. “What did you say to them?” he asked.
“I told them that the king’s choices for the mayors of the Three Cities were completely separate from the ruling over Glouia.”
King Irael nodded in agreement. “And that has made many angry.”
“Those who are angry say it is an affront to Glouia,” Britu said, “and those who would not care then listen to the ranting until they too are angry over nothing,” Britu replied. “Soon, two angry becomes four, and four changes to eight.”
“Everyone shall dispute the appointments!” the king cried.
Britu thought on Lord Eisu and how he had had his brother Prince Inam attempt to assassinate the king a mere two days before.
“But as you may well know,” he said, aloud, “the men who began the discord are those who wanted you to place one of their own men as mayor.”
“True, but I purposely did not do that, as it would grant some lords more power than others,” the king replie
d. “The point of the circle is so that each one is an equal and may voice his concerns without fear of retribution.”
“Some men do not wish to be equal,” Britu said. “They wish to dominate over their equals. Lord Eisu, who tried to murder you, wants his brother Prince Inam appointed Mayor of Ceri. He speaks his dissatisfaction in many ears, but if Prince Inam should become mayor, you know that they would band together against you.”
King Irael scowled. “I shall tend to Lord Eisu.”
“Put him on trial, Uncle,” Britu said, his voice hard and determined.
“No, no,” King Irael said. “That would be sure to bring open rebellion from the Dobunni. I do not want war.”
“You cannot allow him to continue causing trouble. He may create a war yet, and if he involves the other lords, the whole of Glouia may be ruined.”
“I have kept Glouia at peace for seventeen years,” the king replied. “I shall not change my ways because of Lord Eisu.”
“I know that you wish to save Glouia from war,” Britu said. “I know how you suffered greatly the last time this kingdom was torn apart by violence, but I-”
“Do not talk about what you know not, Britu,” King Irael said. “That war could not have been avoided and my wife's death could not have been foreseen. But this circumstance, though dangerous, does not have to lead to violence. Therefore, I shall not allow it to.”
Britu thought his uncle’s decision would prove inefficient in the kingdom’s ever shifting political sphere. Thus, he shut his lips only with the resolve to inform his parents, whom he hoped had more influence over King Irael then he himself possessed.
“Besides,” King Irael said with a smile, “I have Leola now, who has proved to be invaluable with politics. It was she who overheard the Dobunni plot.”
“Really!” Britu exclaimed.
“They had spoken freely before her, not realizing that she understood any Latin. Life is a funny thing.”
The evening dragged on into the billowy night. They played three whole games, before King Irael fell fast asleep in his chair. Britu then opened the book the king had been reading and scanned its contents back and forth, but his mind would not focus on the words written there.
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 24