The Beast of Caer Baddan

by Rebecca Vaughn

  “After the Eire return to Glouia to sack Caer Corin, and you know full well they shall,” Owain said, “and assuming that I am once more able to defeat them, speak of it again. Perhaps you shall have better fortune in persuading me.”

  “We must go to Atrebat,” Britu said, in a daze.

  He set his letter down on the table and stared at his food.

  “Oh?” Owain said. “Your father wishes you back?”

  Yet once he had spoken thus, Owain knew that it was far more serious than his cousin's ordinary paternal troubles. Britu’s face had gone white from horror.

  “Britu,” Owain said, his eyes growing in concern. “What is it?”

  “The Gewissae,” Britu said, his own face filling with fear and rage at once. “The Gewissae are rebelling.”

  “What?” Swale cried. “No!”

  “They are,” Britu replied. “My father has had spies watching those people for seven years. They are moving men. Not livestock, not families, but men, warriors. They are preparing for war.”

  Owain knew what that meant. He must have been eighteen when the Gewissae last crossed out of their designated land and into his uncle's kingdom, Atrebat. Owain had been in the Kingdom of Gwent, fighting invading Eire when news came of the destruction, but he had long understood that Britu witnessed the wreckage for himself.

  “We shall leave immediately,” Owain said.

  Swale gave a silent nod.

  “The Army cannot move fast enough,” Britu replied, his eyes burning with dread.

  “We shall go now and take the knights with us,” Owain replied. “The soldiers shall follow as quickly as they can.”

  “Good,” Swale replied. “I shall give Sir Vesanus the order.”

  As he went on the errand, Owain left the meeting tent, pulling Annon beside him.

  “Although you shall not be fighting this war, Annon, I want you to take care that you watch intently,” he said. “The Gewissae have a different fighting style to the Pictii, and you shall gain as much from this battle as you did from the ones against Maetae.”

  “I shall!” the boy cried, his treble voice ringing with fervor.

  “Get ready to ride.”

  Annon ran to his own tent, and Owain smiled over his playfulness. He recalled his own combat training which had not been as joyous as his young student’s had quickly become.

  “Leir!” Owain called, when he entered the large front room of his spacious tent.

  “Ie, Master,” his servant replied.

  “Pack my things. We are leaving for Venta.”

  Leir brought out Owain’s cape.

  “Pack, than take down the tent, Boys,” Leir said to another five servants, who quickly obeyed.

  “The Kingdom of Atrebat, Master?” Leir asked of Owain, as he secured the cape on his shoulders. “News from your uncle, the king?”

  “Ie. Good news, in fact. War.”

  Another battle meant another opportunity to honor his mother with a brilliant conquest.

  “I found this among your tunics, Master,” Leir said, bringing out a long pure white garment.

  Owain did not have to look long on it to identify what it was.

  “A lady has left an underdress,” he replied, although he could not say to whom it belonged.

  “I know not who to send it to, Master,” Leir said.

  “Nor I. Worry not on that. Pack it with the rest of the supplies.”

  Owain gave one final look at himself in the silver mirror.

  “Good news, indeed,” he mused.

  Chapter Seven: Rumors of War

  Once Owain gave the orders to centurions, their company was off down the southerly road into the woods. They consisted of four princes, fifty knights, and over one hundred servants, trailing through the forest. The spring air was crisp with the scent of the budding primrose, but their haste would not allow them to enjoy it.

  It was evening before they arrived at the castle of Venta Capital of Atrebat. Owain took Annon into the library, while Britu inquired after the king and queen.

  “My parents are still out,” Britu said to Swale.

  His restless being at last breathed a sigh of relief. Now that they were in Venta, and Britu could see that the city was not yet under attack, he felt his fear over the upcoming war subside.

  “I should have known they would not be back yet,” Britu mused. “It is Sunday.”

  Swale gave him a puzzle look as if to say “what does the day have to do with them being out?”

  “It is Sunday,” Britu said again, annoyed that he should have to explain his parents' enthusiasm towards religion.

  “They are in church,” Swale replied, with a knowing laugh. “We should have stayed longer at breakfast. And now we are sore.”

  “It is better to be here and wait for my father, then for him to wait for us,” Britu said. “Come. We shall go tell Owain.”

  They walked down the wide passageway and into the library at the far back of the castle, where they found Annon sitting alone at the round table by the hearth.

  “Where is Owain?” Britu asked.

  “He went out for a moment,” Annon replied. “He shall be back.”

  “He is out chasing some girl,” Britu said.

  He knew that this was his conjecture yet strongly believed it to be accurate.

  “You sent Prince Iestyn out to find King Gourthigern?” Swale asked of Britu.

  “I did,” he replied. “My father could return at any moment, and when he sees Owain is not present, he shall blame me.”

  “Really, Britu,” Swale replied, his brow knotted in a disapproving frown. “You assume too much.”

  His clansman’s steady voice did not sooth Britu, and before he could answer the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the hall were pulled open, and another man walked in.

  “My father,” Britu grumbled.

  King Gourthigern was just five and forty but had all gray hair tied in a tail at the back of his neck. His brown beard was trimmed in style, shaved clean on the sides and worn long at the chin with a large curved mustache. He had no armor or brat but was covered in a long colorful robe. Linen slippers were tied on his feet so that he made not a sound as he strode across the hall to the table.

  “Britu,” King Gourthigern said to his son.

  Britu came forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  “God keep you, Father,” he replied.

  “You are gone too long in the North Country,” the king said, in reproach. “The entire winter to be exact. See that your future expeditions do not take nearly so long.”

  “As you wish, Father,” Britu said, accepting the rebuke.

  “Prince Swale,” King Gourthigern said.

  “King Gourthigern,” Swale replied, with a respectful bow of his head.

  “Your parents are well, I trust?”

  “They are, King.”

  “And who is this young one here?”

  “This is King Emrys' son, Annon Prince of Pengwern, Father,” Britu said in rampant haste. “He has come with Owain to finish his combat training.”

  “Ah,” the king replied. “God keep you, Prince Annon. Lucky you are to have such a teacher.”

  “I know that well, King Gourthigern,” Annon said, his own hurried voice revealing his nervousness.

  “Where is Euginius?” King Gourthigern asked, using Owain’s Latin name.

  “He has stepped out for a moment but shall soon return,” Swale said.

  “I am impatient to be done,” King Gourthigern replied, with a frown to Britu.

  Britu glanced from the king’s impatient face to Swale’s perplexed expression, giving the latter a knowing eye.

  “I shall find him, Father,” he said, and departed on the errand.

  Owain sat on a bench on the long patio, facing the garden. He pulled out his sword and laid it broadside across his lap. His rough fingers rubbed along the smooth carvings in the steel, tracing the ancient symbols his had long ago committed to heart. It was his sw
ord, the most honored weapon in the whole island since its creation over four hundred years before. It had been forged in secret fires of Aracon for the great and powerful King Togadum and called by him Calybs.

  It was with this sword that Owain had gained victory over his enemies, for he was worthy of it.

  “But not yet worthy of her sacrifice,” Owain whispered to himself.

  Owain glanced up to divert himself and looked out into the yard where the servant women were washing clothes. His deep-set eyes caught sight of one young woman who bent over her work. Her form and figure interested him, and he was glad for a distraction from his gloomy thoughts.

  “Prince Owain,” said a voice.

  He rose to his feet to see one of his young cousins, the sister of Britu, approach.

  “God keep you, Lady Scothnoe,” he said, remembering her.

  She was pretty, just fifteen, and loved to get his attention, a habit that was quiet amusing to him.

  “God keep you, Prince Owain,” Lady Scothnoe replied, smiling broadly. “I thought you were in a conference.”

  “Not as yet, Lady,” Owain replied.

  Lady Scothnoe appeared to be thrilled for gaining his notice but did not seem to know what to do with it. Thus she smiled and looked every way but his.

  “You have been to Pengwern?” she asked, more as something to say than from real curiosity.

  “I have,” he replied, for he had been to every kingdom on the island from Bryneich to Dumnonnia.

  “Is it covered in rocks?” she asked.

  “Part of it is, Lady.”

  She listened attentively as he described the geography of different kingdoms, and he answered her questions with the humorous thought that she would not have been half so interested in roads and hills if the speaker had been her elder brother.

  She was too young and too naive for him, but more than that, she was his clanswoman, and a man did not seduce his own clanswoman. Thus he spoke to her kindly and tried to excuse himself only to find her more persistent than any other woman he had met.

  “Is it true that you beat an Angle champion?” she asked.

  “It is,” Owain replied, amazed that word of his latest feat had spread so quickly. He wondered what other events of his that spring were people were already talking about.

  “My servant woman had it from the knights,” she said, blushing over his suspicion.

  Owain was about to reply when he heard Britu's agitated voice calling his name.

  “Owain!” Britu cried, coming out of the house and walking over to them.

  “Clansman,” Owain said. He caught the ire in the younger man’s voice and sought to pacify him. “Are they now assembled?”

  Lady Scothnoe was silent, shifting her gaze down as if to avoid looking up at her elder brother's disapproving eye.

  “They are, Owain,” Britu said. “Father is waiting for you and grows anxious at your tardy.”

  “God keep you, Lady Scothnoe,” Owain said.

  She curtsied to him but said nothing.

  Owain followed Britu back into the house and down the passageway to the hall. They were half of the way there, when Britu seized him by the latches of his breastplate.

  “What are you doing with my sister?” he cried.

  “Calm, Clansman,” Owain said.

  He was undaunted by the outburst and chose not to knock Britu’s hands off. He wished to pacify his cousin rather than fight him.

  “Do not dare seduce her,” Britu said, through his clenched teeth.

  “I am not trying to seduce your sister,” Owain replied, laughing at the thought. “Peace, Britu-”

  “Peace?” Britu said, his eyes burning into Owain’s. “I know you well. I know of the women you seduce day after day. You are a fiend.”

  “Britu-”

  “You touch my sister and by God and all the ancestors, I shall run you through!”

  “If you know me well, Clansman,” Owain said, serious to match his cousin’s fury, “then you would know that I would not do that with my own clanswoman.”

  “Swear it,” Britu said.

  “I swear it, Britu, on the Sword of Togadum.”

  Britu let go of him then. “Very well,” he said, his voice turning aloft and serene.

  “Britu,” Owain said, “we are like brothers, you and I.”

  “That is true,” Britu replied.

  Owain put a comforting arm around his cousin, and they walked to the hall.

  “Euginius, my nephew,” King Gourthigern said, his relief marked in his gruff voice. “There you are.”

  “God keep you, Uncle,” Owain replied. “Annon, Swale.”

  “What shall we do about the Gewissae?” Annon said.

  “Patience, Annon,” Owain replied. “Let the king speak, for it is he who called us to his aid. Uncle?”

  They sat down around the table, and the king explained.

  “The Gewissae have prepared for battle in secret and are just now gathering a force in the Town of Hol,” he said. “They have been discontent for months, but now they mean war.”

  “How do you know they are in Hol?” Swale said.

  “The scouts have seen how they gathered their warriors in other places as well, including their capital Tiw,” the king replied. “But the general movement is towards Hol.”

  He wiped his brow with the palm of his hand as he recalled the events.

  “Twenty years ago, they came to this great land of Albion, because we needed them,” he continued. “They did their work, beating back the Pictii who invaded Went, and settled in the area designated for them. And then they wanted more land, and more, and more. I cannot contain them any longer. This is the third rebellion they have started, and the island cannot take another.”

  “They are Saxon,” Britu said, as if to say that Saxon was synonymous with murderous scoundrel.

  “Euginius?” said the king with a pleading look to Owain.

  “True,” Owain said. “They are Saxon.”

  Owain did not equate Saxon or any other people with villainy. They were simply not his people. At that moment, they were an adversary to crush. He was determined that, as long as he lived, the Gewissae would never rise up against Atrebat or any other Britannae kingdom again.

  Owain took the map that lay open on the table and found the locations. Tiw was in the northwestern side of Gewissae land, Hol positioned in the southeastern part, and many villages specked around the land.

  “Hol, Tiw, these towns are too far apart for reinforcements,” he said. “If they are gathered at Hol, they are all there or going in that direction.”

  “What of Anlof here?” Britu asked, pointing to the place north of Hol on the map.

  “Too exposed,” Owain replied. “Anlof is too small a village to hide an army. They would not risk gathering where we would notice them so easily. No. They meet in Tiw and then move to Hol. Anyone from Anlof or any of the towns in the southern land would simply gather in Hol.”

  “Then they are in Hol and shall strike from Hol,” King Gourthigern said.

  Owain heard the bitterness in the king's voice.

  “Strike where?” Annon asked, his own voice bursting with excitement.

  Owain smiled at Annon’s eagerness to contribute to the war plans.

  “A number of different possibilities,” he replied. “Venta-”

  “Here?” Britu said. “They would not dare! Barbarians!”

  “I would well believe them capable of anything now,” King Gourthigern replied.

  Britu frowned in annoyance, as if the king’s contradiction was simply to oppose him.

  “What of Caer Corin?” Annon asked. “It is not so easily defended as here.”

  The word Corin made Owain’s ears sting. He heard it often enough, had been to that city a great deal, and yet after sixteen long years, the mere mention of it bit him like a venomous snake.

  “Which makes it also a likely target,” Owain said, clearing his throat. “However, their taxes are paid to
Atrebat and not to Glouia. They would do nothing to their advantage by destroying Corin. Besides Corin is not ideally placed to Hol. They could more easily attack it from Tiw and so would not have moved the men from there all the way south to Hol. Dore in Dumnonnia is a far more likely target for such a maneuver. However, Venta remains the most likely object of their desire.”

  “I think they would come here to Venta,” Swale said. “If they have been biding their time all these years, they have planned this out with the greatest care. They shall strike us where they think it shall do us the most harm.”

  “That is true,” King Gourthigern said. “They want blood and shall take over the whole of Atrebat if they are not stopped.”

  “Let us not forget what they did to Donwy,” Swale said.

  “Of course not,” Britu replied.

  They grew silent as the memory of that unfortunate town filled their minds. Only Annon frowned in confusion.

  “What-” Annon said.

  Owain knew that the boy was only trying to ask for an explanation, but as he felt it was neither the time nor place for a story of past woe, he stopped him with a quieting hand.

  “We shall destroy the Gewissae first,” Owain said. “Beginning with Hol.”

  “I'm concerned of Anlof for its location,” Britu said. “It is an easy stopping point for those from the northern villages. And it is not altogether small.”

  “It is an ideal location,” Owain said. “Yet its size still makes it unlikely to be a threat.”

  “I know,” Swale said, “but we have Sir Vesanus here and the fifty knights. If I leave tonight, I shall be there before dawn. Any threat, however small, would be eradicated without revealing our intentions for Hol.”

  Owain thought on this for a moment and realized that approaching Hol from two ways, both north and east, would give them an added advantage.

  “Very well, Swale,” he replied. “Take the knights to Anlof. Eliminate every threat.”

  “You are the dominae, Euginius,” the king replied. "Do whatever you think is best."

  “Good,” Owain said. "I shall."

  For that was exactly what he had been doing for six years passed, whatever he thought best, or even, whatever he felt like doing.