“I beg you, Woman,” Owain said. He spoke carefully, lest his words should offend her. “Can you tell me where Caer Baddan is?”
To Owain’s utter shock, the woman shrank from his view.
“I apologize for my ill kept appearance,” he said, with a charming smile.
“It is the winter solstice feast, Stranger,” she replied.
Before he could ask a second question, she turned away and went away without a backwards glance.
Owain was shocked. His mind did not have time to contemplate this, however, as the startled shriek of the village children forced him to return to his present situation.
He looked over to see children staring at him, their eyes wide with horror, and their little mouths dropped open.
“Mam, look!” one cried. “A monster!”
“Hush!” his mother said in rebuke. “He has a nasty scar. Leave the poor man alone.”
“He looks like an Ankou!”
“Hush!”
Owain could not respond or even understand this. These children were horrified of him, thought he was an Ankou, an agent of the god of death. The idea was too ridiculous, and yet here were the children screaming at him and hiding behind some crates, as if they feared he would strike them dead with a glance.
“Is he going to eat us?” one asked the other.
The mother, who was bent over her laundry, rebuked them, and glanced up at Owain with a pitying eye. No admiration, or awe, or delight, as Owain was accustomed to seeing in the eyes of women. Nothing could he detect but simple pity.
Owain was too uneasy to stay in one place. He strode down the main street with quick steps, until he found the village smith pounding away at some new-forming tools.
“God keep you,” Owain said to him. “Can you direct me to Caer Baddan?”
“Belanus and Darama, Man!” the smith cried, looking up at Owain. “You look like you walked out of Hades! What happened to you?”
“I...I...” but Owain was too surprised and confused to answer. “I was in a war...”
“A wonder you are not dead, looking like that! The spirits of the ancestors protect you!”
Owain was too flabbergasted to feel insulted. He had never before been treated like this.
People liked him, had always liked him, had always liked to look at him. He had won the hearts of every common person on the island. Even his enemies, the Pictii, the Eire, the Angle, and the Dumnonni all agreed that he was a fine looking man. Owain Prince of Glouia was renowned both for his victories and his handsome face.
In an instant, he felt that his whole sense of self died within him.
“What am I then, if not Owain of Baddan?” he muttered to himself.
“You take that path to the highway,” the man said, answering Owain’s original question. “The highway you take-”
“West,” Owain said, too impatient to be gone to allow that man to finish speaking. “I thank you, good man.”
He turned immediately and followed the dirt road north, leaving the peering eyes of the village people behind him.
His steps grew heavy in his feet and his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. It was as if something precious and vital had died within him. Although he walked and breathed, he was only half of himself, a vague shadow of what he was supposed to be. He knew not what had happened, but something had occurred and changed everything about him.
Chapter Forty: Solstice Feast
Leola looked on the people one at a time, but each face gave her an added fear. The great hall was filled with the brightly dressed rulers of the land, all people whom she needed to please, that she knew she must make love her. It was just as Queen Madge had said, she was sure. If she was patient, humble, and kind, they would accept her.
But what about those who, like Queen Severa, hated her for her low birth? Would not speaking in broken Latin only show them that she was uneducated, backwards, and stupid?
“My daughter,” King Irael said as if he knew the words that were forming in her mind, “let your thoughts be positive. Once this is finished, you won’t have to do it again until June.”
“I can’t do it now,” she replied, her fear revealed in her trembling voice.
“You must let them greet you."
“Why?” Leola whispered. “I do not belong here.”
“But you must,” he said. “When I am dead, these people shall make Euginius king in my place. The more they respect you now, the easier it shall be for him then.”
Leola did not like him speaking of his death, but did not argue.
He led her down the steps into the crowd, but the rulers of Glouia made way for them as they went.
“Lord Meirchion,” he said, introducing the first ruler they came too. “My daughter-in-law, Princess Leola.”
The lord bowed, and Leola tried to do the same, but King Irael held her upper arm in such a way as to prevent any movement.
Leola greeted him in a clear but quiet tone, and he responded in a pleased voice.
I can do this. If King Emrys was a commoner and people elected him to rule over them, then surely I can greet people only twice a year.
King Irael led her on to the next couple.
“Lord Eisu and Queen Deire,” he said, introducing them. “My daughter-in-law, Princess Leola.”
Leola swallowed hard as she thought on that horrible conversation the lord had with his brother many weeks before. She could still hear their hushed voices plotting the king's death.
“God keep you, Lord Eisu, Queen Deire,” Leola said, forcing the words from her mouth.
Lord Eisu stared at her with wide, horrified eyes and could not find his tongue.
You now know that it was I who had found you out!
Leola prayed that no further retaliation would then be bestowed on her.
“Princess Leola,” Queen Deire said, hurried as if to try to cover up her husband's ill manners. “I was glad to hear that the babies are well and that you are quite recovered.”
“Thank you,” Leola replied with a sunny smile.
In spite of the queen's kind words, Leola still did not feel comfortable with her command of Latin to speak to these strangers beyond the simple phrases she had rehearsed. Where her anger at Prince Britu and her comfort with Queen Madge had both loosened her tongue, her self-consciousness here in the busy feasting hall made any true conversation impossible.
If only I had been born to Britisc princes instead of Gewissae farmers, then I'm sure Queen Deire and I would be great friends.
But the thought of her loving parents brought their deaths fresh to her mind.
What selfish person wishes for other parents when their own were so good? Many people in Gewisland would have thanked the gods a thousand times over if they could have had a temperate father and a patient mother such as mine had been.
“You are doing quite well,” King Irael said, and his voice startled her back to the present affair.
I must focus on this, for he is correct. I do not know when he might leave this life, and if these people should hate me, it shall not be well for my sons.
King Irael directed her on to other lords and their queens, and princes and their princesses. Leola smiled at them and greeted them in the clearest Latin she could muster, until they had reached their seats at the head table. King Irael gave a speech praising the lords, their people, and their ancestors, and ordered the boar brought in.
Leola was relieved at this, for she felt as long as the guests were eating they were not looking at the head table, staring at her.
When the hour was late and the rulers of Glouia had returned to their own homes, Leola ventured a word.
“What was the feast for, Father?” she asked.
The king laughed. “What are all feasts for? To waste valuables on people you must please but do actually not like, in order to reassert yourself as more powerful than them.”
Leola had to laugh with him.
“Or perhaps you wish to encourage them to be better wa
rriors before a battle,” she said, thinking on the Gewissae feast where she had served the warriors over eight months before.
“No, no battle, I beg you,” and the king shook his head. “I shall tell you. It used to be a religious day in pagan times, worship to Taranis the god of the sun, among other things, and also to new life. The fires were put out signifying death. Then the chieftain would light his fire on the highest hill, and the heads of the families around would then light a torch from that fire and return to their own homes and use that torch to relight all of the fires in the houses. Then everything would be bright and new. New light. New life. The old god dies with the extinguished fires, and the new god rises forth with the new kindled flames. But that was in the old days.”
Leola thought about the Feast of Yeole which she was sure must be going on in Gewisland. She remembered how they would slaughter the goats and offer thanksgiving to the ancient god, Thunaer. Then they sang songs in praise of his victories over mythological giants, his mighty war hammer that only he could lift, and his bright red hair.
These two peoples, the Gewissae and the Britannae, seemed so different. Their customs, clothing, food, and beliefs appeared to be nothing alike, and she marveled at it.
“And now?” Leola asked. “Now that you are Christian, what is the feast for?”
“It is just a tradition, a day of commemoration,” the king said. “Perhaps renewing our ties with each other. But no deity is restored to life this night.”
“My King! My King!” one of the gate guards cried, as he burst the front doors wide open.
“What is it?” King Irael asked.
“It is he! It is the prince!”
“Prince Britu, my nephew?”
“No! The dominae! Prince Owain! Your son! He has returned!”
King Irael stood there as if turned to stone.
“Owain,” he whispered. “Can it be true?”
His hands trembled, searching for the table at his side to lean his heavy body on. Leola took his hand and placed it firmly on the table for him, but he did not seem to notice this gesture.
“My son is dead,” he muttered. “This is some dream.”
Leola’s eyes found the door that the gate guard held open and gazed on the stranger who stepped into the hall.
He wore a linen tunic and leggings with his colorful wool brat wrapped around him like a mantle. His armor was gone. The rings on his massive fingers were even dirtier than his hands, and the gold chain around his neck was tucked under his large mantle, hidden from view.
He looked nothing like the warrior who had dressed so meticulously for battle, like the prince who had commanded her to follow him, or like the lover who had gently kissed her collarbone and whispered “Beauty” in her hair.
But as Leola caught his steady emerald gaze, she knew him to be that man.
“Owain!” King Irael's voice was faint, as if scarcely breathing to utter a sound. “You have returned to me!”
Owain took a step forward into the great hall, but his weary feet felt like rocks as he moved them.
He cast a long look around and noticed everything within the massive room. The chairs, benches, the tables, the banners, everything was as it had been a year before when he last said farewell to his family. He was certain there was no change, and yet he himself was so greatly altered that he did not even feel it was his home.
“Owain!” King Irael cried.
Owain's tired eyes looked up to see his father rush forward and throw his long arms around him.
“My son! My little boy!” the king cried. “You have returned to me!”
At first Owain shivered in his embrace, shrinking back at the contact that he had not had for so long. Yet his father held him there and would not release him, and soon Owain felt some of his pain melt away in those comforting arms.
“Where have you been?” his father's voice continue. “Where have you been all this long time?”
Owain shivered again.
“You are cold!” King Irael cried. “The night is freezing! Come in! Here is the fire!”
Owain felt his body move into the hall toward one of the great fireplaces along the walls. He was too cold, exhausted, and in grave pain to do anything but allow his father to take him.
“Tuathal!” the king cried. “Tuathal!”
The steward appeared at the door with a host of servants behind him.
“Serve young Master Owain!” the king cried. “He has returned to us once more!”
The steward hurried the servants on to different tasks, but Owain's mind was too heavy to listen to the words.
King Irael pulled his own chair over to the fire for Owain to sit down. Servants brought one of the tables forward and laid it with meat, bread, and wine. Owain hardly noticed until the aroma awakened a deep need within the pit of his stomach. He was sure he had spent many months hardly eating anything but ill composed porridge, only to walk the whole day and half of the night to find Baddan. He was in dire want of substance.
He felt the servants washing his hands in the large basin they set before him. With his rings removed and his nails scrubbed, he began to feel a bit more like himself.
One by one, the servants came to him and told him how glad they were for his safe return. He accepted their good wishes with patience but was so exhausted, he barely heard their words. He gave a long sigh of relief when they were gone back to their work and the hall was quiet.
Owain took a piece of meat, yet although it was soft to chew, it stuck in the far back of his mouth when he tried to swallow it. He choked, gagged, and spit it out on to the table.
“Eat the porridge then, my little Owain,” King Irael said, moving the roast aside. “Here. Take some wine. It shall warm you.”
Owain was now cautious with anything he wished to consume, but as he tried the wine, he felt it slipping down his throat easily and heat his stiff body. He took bread at his father's insistence and then some porridge that was brought in for him.
Unlike the poor hermit's porridge which he had been eating all those months, this was made of new milk and the finest grains. It was hot and at first seemed to burn him, but soon he was soothed by its pleasant scent and taste.
Perhaps a part of him was still human.
Leola watched from the other side of the hall, once more preferring to view the world as an outsider. She did not know whether or not she should participate in the ordeal, and the longer she stayed on the sidelines, the harder it became to find her courage.
What happens now?
Leola had been so upset to hear of Owain’s death, but now, she did not know what she felt from seeing him here. Owain had been her master for most of the solitary hour she had known him. He had died, and now after more than eight months, he was alive again. Dirty, tired, battered, and visibly upset, but very much alive.
So what do I do? What shall he do?
She knew that if he did not at once regret their marriage, he soon would, and the thought of that filled her with fear.
She realized that he looked up and saw her standing there, watching him. Her anxiety seemed to bubble up inside of her until she thought her whole being would boil over from terror. When their eyes met, she ducked her head and turned way.
“Excuse me, Master,” she said in Saxon.
Leola spoke so quietly that she wasn’t even sure he had heard her but was too anxious to wait for a reply. She left the hall and went to her rooms, her stomach sick and her heart heavy.
Chapter Forty One: Family Reunion
The babies were sleeping as they always did, and because of the late hour, their nurses were also asleep on their cots by the cradle.
“Did you have a good time, Mistress?” Gytha asked, rising from her own sleeping mat to help Leola undress.
“Yea,” Leola replied, in a daze. “Prince Owain has returned home.”
“That is King Irael’s son? Your husband? The one who was dead?”
My husband.
Leola could feel the co
ld metal slave collar around her neck, hear the sharp beating of the hammer securing the latch in place.
“That’s wonderful!” Gytha cried, softly so as not to wake the babies. “You must be so happy!”
“Yea,” Leola said, and shivered.
Should I be happy?
“Does he look well?” Gytha asked.
“He is very tired and wounded,” Leola replied, forcing the words from her dry mouth.
“What a lucky night this is for you, Mistress,” Gytha said.
“Yea.”
How shall I bear it?
“So, out with it, Da,” Owain said to King Irael when Leola was gone.
“What?” his father asked. “What is it?”
Owain had to smile at what he believed to be his father's willful ignorance. King Irael would never blatantly criticize his son. Had never, as long as Owain could remember. The king simply blinded his eyes to any misdeeds.
Owain sighed.
“I have disappointed you yet again,” he said, with a dejected shake of his head.
“I have you back, my boy,” King Irael replied, his eyes swelling with tears once more. “How could I ever be disappointed with you?”
Owain tried to smile at this, but the heavy load on his heart would not allow it.
“When I dreamed that I saw the old woman washing,” he said, his voice still broken, “the only thing I could think of was how I had upset you by not marrying and having a son.”
“Do not think on that day.”
His father held Owain's broad shoulders a little tighter, and Owain thought that perhaps his cares were nothing at all.
“I married a Gewissae prisoner in some vain hope of giving you an heir,” Owain continued.
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 28