The Beast of Caer Baddan

by Rebecca Vaughn

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my husband, Miguel; my sisters, Jennifer, Victoria, and Heather; my brother, Reuben; my brother-in-law, Gabe; and my friends, Bimmy, Janet, Kenny, Barbara, Bob, Jordan, SquarePeg, Nid, and Nicolas, for all of their help, patience, and suggestions.

  Glossary of Main Characters

  Owain (Euginius): Prince of Glouia and head of the Army of Albion

  Britu: Prince of Atrebat, and Owain’s cousin

  Swale: Prince of Ewyas and also a relative of Owain

  Annon: Prince of Pengwern, and a student of Owain

  Leola: an orphaned commoner, who works in Sigbert Earlmann’s house

  The Britannae (Britisc)

  The dominant people living in Albion

  Owain’s family

  Irael (Aurelius) King of Glouia: Owain’s widowed father

  Lady Gratianna Owain's illegitimate daughter whom he name after his aunt

  Britu’s family

  Gourthigern King of Powys and Atrebat: Britu’s father, who brought the Saxons to the island

  Severa Queen of Atrebat: Britu’s mother and King Irael’s sister

  Lady Scothnoe: Lady of Atrebat and Britu’s younger sister

  Prince Edernus: Britu’s younger brother and a student of Father Vitalius

  Annon’s family

  Emrys King of Pengwern: Annon’s father

  Madge Queen of Pengwern: Annon’s mother

  The Dumnonni people

  Tudwal King of the Dumnonni

  Gadeon Prince of the Dumnonni: King Tudwal’s son by Owain's aunt Gratianna

  Prince Cadfan: King Tudwal’s nephew

  The Dobunni people

  Eisu Lord of the Dobunni: in opposition to King Irael

  Queen Deire: Lord Eisu’s wife

  Prince Inam: Lord Eisu’s brother, who visits King Irael

  Prince Bodvoc: Lord Eisu’s youngest brother, becomes Lord of the Dobunni

  The Parisi people

  Vindi King of Ebrauc

  Lady Rhian Warrioress of Ebrauc

  The Silurae people

  Erb King of Gwent

  Sir Vesanus: a knight under Swale

  (Owain's mother, Queen Elen, was also Silurae)

  Other people

  Tuathal: King Irael’s steward

  Leir: Owain's servant

  Gytha: Queen Severa’s servant whom she sends with Leola to translate for her

  The Gewissae

  A predominately Saxon people living in Albion

  The Gewissae of Holton

  Sigbert Earlmann: the prince of Holton

  Ardith Sigbert-dotter: the earlmann’s only child, and Leola’s friend

  Raynar: a suitor of Ardith’s

  The Gewissae of Tiwton

  Giwis Cyning of Tiwton: prince of Tiwton and leader of the Gewissae

  Aluca Giwis-son: the Aetheling of Tiwton, in love with Ardith

  The Gewissae of Anlofton

  Wigmund Earlmann of Anlofton

  Fridiswid the Dryhtcwen: widow of Wigmund Earlmann of Anlofton

  Redburga: Leola’s aunt

  Fensalir: Redburga’s husband

  Garrick Fensalir-son: their youngest son

  Erna and Ead: their twin daughters

  Drudi: a girl a little younger then Leola’s

  Prologue

  Three things are feared:

  The wrath of the Rowan,

  The perseverance of the Oak,

  The strength of the Alder:

  These three are one.

  Three things are honored:

  The serenity of the Hazel,

  The passion of the Willow,

  The unity of the Ash:

  These three are one.

  Chapter One: A Champion

  Owain stood motionless and dazed, not understanding what played out before his eyes. His rough fingers gripped around the leather-wrapped handle of a broadsword, but he could not think to defend himself. His jaw trembled in fear, and his eyes fixed on the body of his teacher, who lay as a heap of butchered man in the grass.

  He heard his mother’s frantic voice cry out his name.

  “Owain!”

  His gaze lifted from his teacher to the strange man who towered above him like a fabled giant from the ancient legends.

  “Owain!” his mother cried. “Go!”

  Yet he could not move his feet or even cry out.

  The strange man was wounded, bleeding from his chest and cheek, but the boy hardly noticed these things. He stared up into the man’s haunting eyes, which burned a hole into his young courage.

  Owain saw his mother as she stepped between them, her white dress fluttering in the breeze, and a long slender knife in her grasp.

  “Run!” she cried.

  Her knife plunged deep into the man’s exposed arm, but a careless swing from his sword brought her down.

  At once, the boy’s tongue was loose.

  “Mam!” he cried. “Mam! No!”

  His voice echoed in his head, as if another being was screaming out, and his mind could not control it.

  His mother lay still, with her large brown eyes staring up at the heavens. Blood gushed out of her stomach, and even the organs that should never see daylight were exposed for all to view.

  The slender hand of another woman took the boy by the arm.

  “Come, Prince! Come!”

  The words resonated in his heart, not as a call to flee, but to fight. Something deep within him swelled to the surface of his being, like a foaming liquid, heating to a boil in response. His eyes flashed in unhindered rage.

  “Ugh!” Owain cried.

  He pulled himself away from the other woman and flew at the strange man before him. He batted the man’s sword away with the heavy bronze boss in the center of his shield. His wide blade found its final mark across the man’s pale face.

  “Ugh!” Owain cried. “Die! Die! Die!”

  “Owain!”

  Owain glanced over to see his friends standing in the center of the room, the crowds of dinner guests surrounding them. He wondered how he had heard them call his name above the rapid beating of the drums and chatter in the hall.

  They were dressed as befitted their princely status, with large wool brats of six interwoven colors secured around their waists by leather belts and up at their right shoulders with gold broaches. Their breastplates were made of small metal scales sewn together to form thick yet flexible overvests. Their arms were covered by leather sleeves and large metal armplates. White linen leggings and Roman styled laced-up boots completed their attire.

  Yet what distinguished them from the other men who filled the great hall, was the shine of their newly polished armor that glittering with inlaid gold. Gold chains hung around their necks, and rings graced their fingers.

  They were the sons of some of the most powerful kings on the island and stood as Owain’s only equals in the vast sea of mighty warriors.

  Owain rose from his solitary bench, and the grim memories dropped from him as if they had fallen to the painted stone floor. His face was firm, and his manner emitted the confidence of one who had everything. He would not allow himself to dwell too long on the festivities but perhaps he had earned a little lightheartedness.

  “Owain!” one of the princes called.

  Owain came to the center of the hall, where his friends were gathered.

  “I'm here, Britu,” he replied.

  Britu was just two and twenty, with thick curly brown hair and freckles dotted across his smooth shaved face. He had a light in his eye and a pleasant smile, both of which Owain knew could disappear in a furious instant.

  “You are the champion once more,” Britu said, the Latin words dripping eas
ily from his schooled tongue. “Do not believe that disappearing shall go unnoticed.”

  “Join us, Prince Owain,” another said. “We shall perform the sword dance.”

  Owain had thought he wanted to join them, yet now that he was once more in the center of the festivities, his anguishing heart longed for silence.

  “Well and good,” Owain replied.

  He glanced down at the most junior member of their party. At fifteen, Annon was small, slender, and seemed to be lost in the heavy armor. His usually pale face was now flushed with excitement.

  “But the hour is late,” Owain replied. “I bid you all a good evening.”

  “No, Prince,” Annon pleaded. “You have had a great victory. This is a celebration. You must dance.”

  “I must go to bed,” Owain replied, with a laugh. “And do not think that this morning's conquest shall make me lenient on you tomorrow. You are learning a new counterattack at sunrise.”

  As he teased Annon, his broad hand messed up the boy's long black curls.

  “Let me stay up a bit longer, Prince,” the boy whined.

  “I shall see Annon to bed, Owain,” another said.

  Owain glanced at Swale, who had been the first of them to form what was now their little group of friends. Swale was older than Britu by ten years, and his calm appearance marked a distinction between them. Where Britu quickly became agitated and aggressive, Owain knew that Swale kept his self-control.

  “Very well, Swale,” Owain replied. “I go then. God keep you, Gentlemen. Bid a good night to King Coel.”

  The music changed from triumphant to a wild frenzy, as the monotonous drumming was joined by flutes and harps, each one with its own melody. The sound interlocked like a large complicated puzzle. Two swords were placed on the floor, and the gathering chanted for the greatest dancer present to grace them with his performance.

  “Swale! Swale! Swale!”

  The prince gave them a grand bow and then began to jump around the sharp weapons, staying clear of the blades with quick nimble feet.

  Owain strode out of the great hall and along the wide passageway toward the stairs.

  The castle around him was not as grand as his home, far to the south in Baddan, for it had been originally built by the Romans as one of the fortresses to defend the North Country against the Caledoni Pictii. But Owain was glad for the firm structure that had given them security over a long winter in the bitter northern cold.

  In over nine years of war, Owain had never respected an enemy as he did the Pictii. They were a valiant people, and he knew that was a rare honor to have defeated them so quickly or even at all. His mother could be pleased with his achievements.

  At least, Owain felt she would have been.

  “Prince Owain!” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

  A faint, enticing smile lingered on his lips, for he recognized the haughty little voice of Lady Gwawl, the eldest daughter of their distinguished host. She had sought him out, just as he had wanted her to.

  Owain turned around to see her rushing down the passageway.

  “Prince Owain!” she gasped as she came to a stop before him. “Dominae!”

  “Ie, Lady,” he replied.

  “You are sneaking away from the feast,” she said, in mock reproach. “You should have said something.”

  “I apologize, Lady.”

  He felt no remorse yet had spoken thus because he knew that it would please her. He looked down at her wondrously, and she in turn grinned at his attentions. She was a confident young woman, who knew what she wanted, and Owain would be pleased to give it to her.

  “Lady Gwawl,” Owain said, taking a step closer to her.

  Over her head, Owain saw the figure of King Coel standing at the light of the doorway to the great hall.

  “Gwawl!” the king cried, his rumbling voice echoing in the passageway.

  Gwawl jumped in surprise.

  “Ie, Da!” she said, a look of irritation covering her pretty face.

  King Coel held out his hand to her, bidding her come, and she walked over to him with her head down in defeat.

  “What are you doing?” he said, his brow knotted in a deep frown.

  “Nothing, Da,” she mumbled her reply.

  “Nothing?” her father said.

  His eyes rose to Owain, who read the anger and suspicion contained in his gaze.

  “Pack your things,” the king said. “You are going to your uncle’s house in Venedotia.”

  “What?” she cried, her own voice turning harsh, as if she was trying to stifle a boiling rage. “Why?”

  “Now,” was his only answer.

  With a backwards look at Owain, she stormed off down another passageway.

  “You have a reputation, Dominae,” King Coel said, giving Owain his highest and most reverent address.

  “I am aware of all of my reputations, King,” Owain replied, with a sly smile.

  King Coel seemed to look him over with a sorrowful eye.

  “I'm grateful for your help and that of the Army of Albion against the Maetae Pictii,” the king said, “and I respect you as a dominae, but I do not want you near my daughter.”

  “As you please, King,” Owain said, with a formal bow of his proud head. “I shall go to bed. Excuse me.”

  He turned his back on his host and strode out to the stairwell.

  It did not bother him that King Coel had interceded, for there were many other women on the island.

  Once in his room, Owain’s eyes caught sight of the large silver mirror that hung on the far wall. His refection within it stared back at him, as his gaze took in his thick red hair that curled in broad waves around his face. His wide jaw and muscular neck. His piercing green eyes, dark and sparkling like rare jewels. He knew, had always known, that every curve of his body was perfect.

  Owain washed his face at the basin set before the mirror.

  “Leir,” he said.

  A tall young man rose from his sleeping mat and brushed himself off with a careless hand.

  “Ie, Master,” he said in Brythonic, the language of the land. “A grand feast, Master?”

  He began to remove Owain’s attire piece by piece, beginning with his flaming red cape and the gold chain that secured it in place. Then he took off Owain’s belt and heavy wool brat.

  “All the princes of the Brigantae and the northern tribes were there,” Owain replied.

  “Fitting for the dominae,” Leir said.

  Leir unfastened the metal armplates and legplates and set them aside, then pulled the leather sleeves off of his forearms. Owain held the scale armor breastplate to himself, as Leir unlatched it at the shoulders and under the arms, and lifted the back piece away.

  “Fitting, Ie,” Owain replied, his voice quiet as his thoughts began to turn within him once more.

  He felt that a feast, no matter how distinguished the guests or grand the delicacies, could in no way dampen the throbbing pain in his heart. Nor did the striking victory against worthy foes ease his misery, but win every battle was what he must do. He had to fight on, for he felt that if he should stop, his mother would know and be disappointed in him.

  Owain looked around to see one of the Brigantae servant women enter the chamber, lugging a stack of wood in her arms.

  A distraction was exactly what he needed now, lest his troubled heart be crushed under the weight of misery.

  He watched, as the servant woman knelt at the hearth, laid half of her load aside, and placed the other half carefully into the fire. When she rose to her feet, she moved as if to slip out of the room.

  Owain stepped in her way.

  “Oh!” she cried, in surprise. “I beg your pardon, Prince.”

  She curtsied and moved to the side to let him pass.

  Owain stood still and gazed on her. He saw her own eyes trail up to his in confusion and then over the whole of his pure white tunic and its lavish embroidery.

  “Prince,” she said under her breath. Her wide eyes told him that
she had never been that close to any ruler before. “Prince,” was all she said.

  “Ie,” he replied. “If you wish to go, go. I’ll not keep you.”

  He moved aside from the door to give her space, but his tender eyes kept her frozen where she stood.

  “Prince, you-” but her voice trailed off to nothing.

  Owain smiled on her, and she in turn smiled back. When she didn’t leave, Owain stepped towards her and whispered in her ear.

  “You need not be afraid of me, pretty girl,” he said.

  Chapter Two: War

  Dawn found Owain fully armored, marching out to the vast open fields to the north of the stronghold. Young Annon staggered up after him, with the knights trailing behind.

  The frigid cold of an early spring morning felt fresh to him after the snowy winter. He lifted both hands in veneration, as the mild wind kissed his handsome face.

  “God keep you, Mam,” he whispered.

  Annon yawned.

  “Wake up, Sleepy,” Owain said, an amused smile dancing on his lips.

  “It is too early,” Annon whined. “And I danced three times.”

  “A warrior rises with the sun, no matter what he did the night before.”

  “What did you do last night?” Annon asked, with the look of a skeptic.

  “Some things a warrior never reveals.”

  “Well,” said the boy, yawning again. “What is this new counter?”

  “Sir Vesanus,” Owain called to one of the knights.

  The knight stepped forward and drew his sword in preparation.

  “Now, Annon,” Owain said. “Annon?”

  The boy was looking off to Owain’s right and seemed lost in his own thoughts. Owain followed his gaze out to the empty fields of the west.

  “You know that you cannot see Alt Clut from here, boy,” Owain said.

  “I know, Prince,” Annon said, absently.

  “And that the Attacotti are confined to the hills there, so there is no possibility of their arrival here in Gododdin.”