The Beast of Caer Baddan

by Rebecca Vaughn

  “Of course not.”

  Owain stepped closer to the boy and whispered in his ear so that the company of knights surrounding them could not know his words.

  “The Attacotti shall never come near you again, Annon,” he said. “They shall not hurt you ever. I'm between you and them, and they cannot cross me.”

  Annon’s crystal eyes crept up to Owain’s, and Owain knew that the boy read the confidence on his face. There was no one who could better protect Annon than the man who had sneaked into the secret Attacotti hillfort and carried him out slung over the shoulder.

  There were many reasons the people bestowed Owain with the honor title Champion of Albion. Owain had defeated the self-proclaimed Champion of the North, a famous Brigantae from Rheged. He had bested four skilled knights at once when he himself was still a boy. He had even beaten a Pictii prince called Talorc, whom the Brigantae soldiers swore could run on air.

  Above these was his daring.

  No one presumed to enter the Attacotti hillfort with an army. Yet, as one man, Owain had climbed the cliffside, slipped through the passageways, slaughtered the guards, and taken Annon down from their wall of shame. He had deprived the Attacotti of their prisoner, an act which had earned him the admiration of even his most fierce adversaries.

  Surely, a man with such audacity could defeat anything.

  “Annon,” Owain said. “You are safe. Now back to your lesson. We do not want to disrespect the knights, for they have come out to help you learn and could be off hunting at this hour.”

  “I know, Prince,” the boy replied. “I’m sorry.”

  “Dominae,” Sir Vesanus said. “The scouts return.”

  Owain looked over to see six men riding hard towards them.

  “What is it, do you think?” the knight asked.

  “They are coming from the north,” Owain replied. “And at a rapid speed as well. It must be news of the Pictii.”

  “But they were vanquished!” Annon cried.

  “It seems we may have to defeat them once more,” Owain said. “Sirs!”

  “Dominae!” the head scout cried, his voice hoarse from heavy breathing in the cold morning air. “The Pictii are here!”

  “When?”

  “They are on us now!”

  Owain thought quickly. Although it was rough terrain, the enemy were accustomed to that land. He was certain that he had less than an hour to prepare for an attack.

  “Tell Prince Swale and King Coel that the Pictii shall be here in half an hour,” Owain said. “And take Prince Annon with you.”

  “But I want to see you fight!” the boy protested.

  “From a safe distance still, Annon,” Owain replied. “Now go.”

  Annon climbed on to the war pony behind the head scout and the riders took off up the slope towards the Brigantae castle.

  Owain closed his eyes and listened to the wind.

  “This is for you, Mam,” he whispered.

  Owain looked at the ring he wore on his small finger. It was made of gold and silver knots with designs carved into them and appeared tiny on his broad callused hand. The ring was very new compared to most of the jewelry that he possessed, for it was formed merely six and twenty years before as a present for his own father.

  To Owain, it symbolized the binding of the past, the ancient ancestors and the glorious Pendragons of old long since, to those of the present day. For the design matched that of the most prized weapon in Albion, Calybs Sword of Togadum. In those days, the rulers did not bow down to a foreign emperor, haughty Roman general, or destructive invading pirate king. They submitted themselves to the Pendragon, a Britannae as themselves, who ruled them fairly and led them to victory against their enemies. Perhaps that time would eventually return to Albion, giving the island peace and wealth once more.

  Owain's eyes wondered up from his hands to the open land to the north. The trees and bushy heather seemed calm, as if ignorant of the violence they would soon witness.

  “What shall we do, Dominae?” Sir Vesanus asked.

  “We wait for the enemy to come,” Owain replied.

  He was glad he had not eaten more than fruit. He did not like to have a heavy stomach while he battled. The soldiers would be slow for the night’s feasting, either from too much food or too much drink. Owain was sure that their enemy was counting on this and would not let them feel that advantage.

  Owain was determined to make the most of the time for he knew well how half of war was waiting patiently.

  He dropped his oblong shield and lay down in the dewed grass, resting his head on the hard boss in the center of the shield. A crude bed for a prince, but a normality to any warrior, and Owain had battled hard since before his sixteenth birthday.

  “Rest, Sir-Knights,” Owain said, not opening his eyes. “We shall have to be alert soon enough. Conserve your strength for the battle.”

  The knights then sat down on the grass by him and stretched out their legs. They too had had quite an extravagant party the night before, and Owain was certain they needed the relaxation.

  After a while, Owain rose again and with no more than “Stay” to his company, walked off towards the heather field.

  The air was alive with the faint mossy scent of the tiny flowers. The scarce trees added their own woody fragrance to the clean fresh earth. Far in the distance, Owain spotted the stealthy movement of a man.

  “Sir Vesanus,” Owain said.

  “Dominae,” the knight said, coming to his side.

  “You have keen eyes, Sir-Knight. What do you see?” Owain asked. “Is that an unsuspecting Votadini commoner or a Maetae Pictii?”

  “A Pictii, Dominae, to be sure,” the knight replied. “No Britannae would wear so little or shave half of his head in that fashion.”

  “Take him down,” Owain said.

  Sir Vesanus gave the order to another knight who unslung his bow in an instant. They watched as their adversary tried to out run the arrow, but the missile found a good mark in spite of the extreme distance.

  “Now, we fight,” Owain said.

  He walked back to the grass and took up his shield in readiness, as the knights hastened to form a thin yet efficient line.

  Owain's ears filled with the shattering blast and then the deep rumble.

  “There is the carnyx,” he said, with a mischievous half smile.

  Although he was now used to the sound, Owain had never heard it played as a child in the days of the last emperors. It had been restricted long before, and only in the last ten years had men, knowing the art of its performance, dared share their skill with others. Owain had quickly grown to love its sacred din and even when he had a mere two hundred soldiers in his Army, had sought out a young musician who was fluent in his technique and tone.

  The carnyx sounded again, and the earth clapped at the strike of the soldiers' harsh boots.

  “The Army is coming,” one of the knights whispered with a relieved sigh.

  “Look up, Gentlemen,” Owain said, in a loud voice. “So come the enemy.”

  Even as he spoke the delicate heather field was covered by the mountainous raven haired men.

  The Pictii, whether Maetae, Noevantae, or any other group, were an ancient adversary of the Britannae people. Long before the Romans had ever stepped on that land, the Britannae and Pictii had fought hundreds of terrible battles in a desperate bid for supremacy over the North Country of Albion.

  Now, since the Roman legions had returned to Gaul, those two rivals had no common foe to distract them from their hatred for one another. The fight began once more, with the Maetae Pictii driving southwards into land controlled by the Damnonii, Votadini, and the mighty Brigantae. It was the last of these with which Owain's battle hardened soldiers now stood, ready to face the violent rush.

  “Give us everything you have,” Owain mumbled, his eyes fixed on the swelling crowd of opposing warriors before him.

  They came to him like a raging hailstorm, rushing and battering down on them in a fre
nzy. But Owain's long winter preparation and two previous battles against these warriors had given his Army the knowledge to keep the Pictii from getting over them. The knights and soldiers in the front stayed closely backed together so that the enemy could not come betwixt them. The soldiers behind them, in the second and third lines of the formation, thrust their spears up and out at an angel, over the the conical helmets of those in the front line, stabbing any daring Pictii who tried to assail them. The enemy could neither jump their ranks nor overwhelm them.

  Owain stood in the front, shoulder to shoulder with the knights, with the soldiers pressed close behind them.

  He let the Pictii come to them, conserving the strength of his more heavily armored soldiers and letting his superior weaponry beat the enemy away. Owain's clean cuts kept the enemy from ever touching him. Wave upon wave, the Pictii rushed Owain's Army, trying to overpower them, but failing.

  “March forward,” Owain said to Sir Vesanus who was still at his side.

  “March forward!” the knight yelled to the soldiers.

  The whole company advanced as one great being, and the Maetae Pictii turned and fled.

  “Let us chase them!” someone cried.

  “No,” Owain said, and the knights repeated the order.

  Owain knew that they would regroup and did not want the soldiers to be scattered from a pursuit and thus vulnerable to an attack.

  His heart beat in his fingertips, as he rubbed the leather on his sword grip and shield handle. His eyes grew tired, and his throat went dry, but he would not leave the rank he had formed. He would not exit a battle and let his men fight without him. He was a prince, born and trained to lead, thus he stood there facing the backs of his fleeing enemy.

  Owain knew he must be patient if he wanted another victory. He had to wait for the enemy to return to him, for that was the only way to defeat them.

  The Pictii could not help themselves, for just at the edge of the heather field, Owain saw them regrouped and rush back towards him. He braced himself for the collision, as the enemy drove hard right into the Army's front line. Owain saw their gray eyes, as the shields smashed together in an orchestra of wood and bronze.

  The enemy swords and war clubs bashed at the soldiers' conical helmets and sharp spears, but they could not harm Owain's well-trained men. Owain swung his sword in every direction, and the warriors fell before him, one by one. The Army continued to march forward, pressing into the enemy and refusing to give them any space to fight.

  Owain breathed with every step forward and moved his fingers around so they would not get stiff in the cold morning air. The sword in his hand grew heavier with every new swing, and his feet began to ache as they marched on. He cared nothing for these discomforts, for he was a warrior who fought no matter what. He simply breathed in deeply and focused on his task.

  The Pictii did not return from their flight, and Owain watched their quick departure with an arrogant satisfaction.

  Chapter Three: The Gewissae

  Leola knelt on a wolf-fur rug and arranged an open overskirt around her young mistress’ slender waist.

  “You shall never guess,” her mistress said, “but I have such news to tell you, Leola.”

  Leola glanced at her with a happy smile, for she already had knowledge of the secret.

  “Something about the feast, Mistress?” she asked, innocently.

  “Yea, but do not call me 'Mistress.' I am Ardith to my friends.”

  Leola felt a gentle pull on her heart. She had few friends in her nineteen years, and most had been too embarrassed by her newfound employment to associate with her anymore. Perhaps it was odd that the earlmann's daughter should feel akin to a lower servant as she, but Leola knew that they were both alone in the world and needed each other's support.

  Leola's parents had converted to Christianity when she was only three. Although there were many other Christians throughout the countryside of Gewisland, her parents' deaths left her the only one there in Holton. They had raised her to know the old ways, the ancient traditions and beliefs of the Saex people, but now that her status in the community had fallen, she felt a unique isolation.

  In contrast, Ardith's mother had died many years before, leaving her the only dryhtcwen, noble woman of the Saex people, in the large town. Her father had been strict with her as earlmenn tend to be with their daughters. At age nine, she was not allowed to play in the creek, and at thirteen she was forbidden to have a lover. Leola was certain that now at seventeen, Ardith was the eldest virgin in Holton.

  We are so different, but what we feel is alike, Leola thought.

  “If you wish me to call you 'Ardith' I shall,” she said aloud, at last replying to the younger woman's statement. “But I cannot call you that in front of others. The earlmann might disapprove.”

  It would not do to anger the man to whom Leola still owed a great deal of money, especially when he ruled the second largest town in Gewisland.

  Leola flipped her single blond braid over her other shoulder, and pulled the overskirt straight.

  “Look at you, Ardith,” she said.

  Ardith leaned over this way and that, trying to view the embroidery on the hem.

  “It is so beautiful, Leola!” Ardith gasped. “I am so excited!”

  As Leola's blue eyes traveled over her work and the whole of her young mistress' attire, she had to agree. It was brilliant.

  The long white dress, which tied closed at the collarbone, was half covered by the open overskirt that brushed the floor behind her as she walked around the room. The embellishment that Leola added along the hem and up the front gave Ardith a regal appearance.

  “Help me put it all on!” Ardith cried.

  Leola, giggling at her mirth, secured the round gold plates at her breast and then laid long beaded necklaces around her neck.

  “Cape,” Leola said, taking out the garment.

  She draped it around Ardith's shoulders and secured it with a broach.

  “Red, to match my slippers,” Ardith said with a laugh, pointing to the crimson on her feet.

  Leola glanced down at her own attire.

  She was a commoner and so did not possess any gold, nor could she wear it if she had. Servants were not afforded such liberties. In place of gold plates over her breast, Leola had a stiff bodice that laced up the front. Her brown dress lacked the fancy embroidery which she had laboriously sewn onto Ardith's clothes. Leola had never owned beaded necklaces, a colorful overdress, or a bright cape. Instead, her wide sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and a long off-white apron was tied around her waist. They were work clothes, simple, practical, and ugly.

  “You shall not believe my good fortune!” Ardith cried, her face lighting up as if she would burst with joy.

  Good fortune.

  Leola had been thus named because, on the night of her birth, a stag with great antlers had been spotted in her mother’s garden. It was a sign of the power and dignity of the cynings, far higher standing then even the earlmenn. By the stag’s appearance, wealth and good fortune had been predicted for Leola. It was said that she would be a blessing to any home. Perhaps her aunt had simply invented that story in hopes of getting Leola a rich husband. Now, orphaned and in debt, Leola doubted that a stag brought any good at all.

  God is good.

  Thus she needed no fortune, which she was sure had long ago failed her.

  But Ardith's voice went on, interrupting these thoughts.

  “Father has given me permission to marry!” Ardith cried.

  “That is wonderful!” Leola cried, pretending to be surprised.

  Ardith clasped Leola's hands and pulled her around in a circle.

  “At the feast, I shall have everyone looking at me,” Ardith said. “I shall have my pick of whomever I want.”

  Leola giggled.

  She knew that this was not entirely true, for if Ardith chose someone that was unacceptable to the earlmann, there would be no wedding at all.

  “You will have a h
ard time deciding,” Leola said, in mock sobriety. “It is rumored that three of the sons of Wigmund Earlmann shall attend.”

  They laughed again.

  “Oh! I must show Father my new clothes!” Ardith squealed.

  “Go on then,” Leola replied. “I have things I must do. We can talk later.”

  Leola found the head servant in the kitchen and requested her extra pay for the embroidery she had done for Ardith's overskirt as that was not her usual work. The head servant counted out a few small coins for her.

  “Are you going home, Leola?” she asked, her voice sharp.

  “Yea,” Leola replied. “But I shall be back immediately.”

  “Good,” the head servant said. “I need you to make more soap.”

  “Yea.”

  Leola did not mind making soap, for there were far worse tasks at the mead hall.

  It was but a few months since Leola had begun working there for meager earnings, and it would be many more months before she had repaid the whole of her father’s court debts. She was not the only free person who served in the earlmann’s household, but she was the newest. The others who worked there were eager for her to know that her place was beneath theirs and thus treated her with contempt.

  “Do not take too long,” the head servant said, with a growl.

  “Yea,” Leola replied.

  As she walked out of the kitchen, Leola noticed two of the slave women washing the banners for the mead hall. She felt their scowls on her as she went by. Leola did not blame them for their glares, as she knew that they were jealous of her long hair. Their own tresses were mercilessly cut short every week to distinguish their bondage. Leola tried to be polite to them and did not let their envy bother her.

  I am only glad I'm not a slave.

  A hard hand was on her arm, with rough fingers circling around it. Before Leola could slip away, the grip tightened and pulled her in.

  “Peace, Raynar,” she said, recognizing the man who held her firmly in his grasp.

  He was a ridend, a warrior who had money enough to own a horse for battle. It was a prestigious position within the community but it did not mean one had better manners or a good heart. Raynar in particular, was a ridend whom Leola had long been wary of.