“Go. Run,” Leola said, ignoring the protest. “Run, and don’t stop.”
She gave the earlmann’s daughter an incentive push in that direction, and the girl went, scampering out into the night.
The enemy ridends rounded up the women, who slowly receded back to the mead hall. Leola limped inside, leaning against the wall for support and gritting her teeth to keep from crying out. The ridends then took up the bar, the basket of weapons, and any tools they saw and tossed them outside. Leola heard the metal clatter and shuttered at the noise.
No hope.
The Britisc ridends then walked around the room, and the women pulled away from them, gasping in horror and weeping aloud.
Does the others' fear of you amuse you?
“Come, Sir-Knights,” said a commanding voice in the doorway.
“Ie, Prince Swale,” the ridends replied.
Their voices seemed surprised and guilty all at once, and Leola took a silent pleasure knowing that these Britisc ridends were out of the good graces of their leader.
They stepped out and shut the door behind them. Leola could their faint clatter outside and guessed that they were posting a guard to keep the women in.
Leola found her corner as before and sank down on the floor. She pulled her foot to her and rubbed it gently but the pain continued.
She was trapped and in agony.
Stupid, Raynar. I hope you burn in Hel's domain.
And she sobbed.
Chapter Eleven: Where Two Ways Meet
Owain walked down the mossy bank toward a wide flowing river.
An old woman was bending over the stream scrubbing away at a large cloth. The deep red stain on it seeped out into the water until the whole garment turned white. She looked up at Owain, her large green eyes revealing the sorrow of her heart.
Owain opened his eyes to find himself in his cot in his own tent, where he had laid down but a few hours before. He clutched at the tunic on him, only to find that it was all white and free from any stain. Everything around him was in its proper place.
“I-” he gasped, his dream turning over in his mind.
An old woman had washed blood out of his clothes. He knew what that meant, for he had heard the legends as a small child. He knew everything about the ancient Phantom Queen, the goddess of death, vengeance, and war. He was certain of what happened to warriors who, by luck or misfortune, dreamed of her at her work.
Owain came to his feet in an instant and went to the small table to wash his face in the water basin. His eyes crept up to the silver mirror which hung upside-down by its wide handle, and stared in it at the reflection of his face.
He was a handsome man, probably the most handsome young man on the island, yet this time, his eyes did not take in his perfect regal features. He gazed into his own eyes and saw the loss there that had never been filled grown deeper, more harsh, and ever painful.
He had dreamed of the Phantom Queen as she clean his tunic, his very soul, in preparation for a new being.
“Today, I shall die,” he said to himself.
It was a horrible reckoning, not for dying, as a warrior knows that every battle might be his last breath, but that his life was ultimately nothing.
He had spent his days trying to recompense for his mother’s death, and now that he faced the certainty of the end, he realized he would leave nothing for his father.
Had his father been dead already, Owain would not trouble his mind with it, for his own legacy was nothing to him. Yet, he knew that it concerned his father, who from Owain’s twentieth birthday, had pressured him to wed. Instead of finding a suitable wife and producing an heir as his father had done one and twenty years before, Owain had played the lover and produced an illegitimate daughter.
If they had been in ancient times, there would be no question as to his heir. He only had one child, his little Gratianna, and thus she would have gained everything that was to be his as a matter of course. The events of child's conception or marital status of the parents was irrelevant, and a girl was treated as a successor and not a commodity to be bartered.
If his father had been a lowly knight or chieftain, Owain was sure there would be no argument to his daughter taking his place. Instead he had been born to a great king, from a powerful tribe that was more concerned with appearances within a Roman influenced society than it was its own members.
As much as Owain adored his Gratianna, she would never be accepted as an heir to the Kingdom of Glouia. Not by the Lords of Glouia, or the rulers of the other kingdoms, or the Andoco clan.
Owain now realized that he should have taken Swale's advice and married one of their clanswomen back in Lerion.
“I have always caused my father grief and nothing more,” and that thought stabbed him like a sharp spear that dug into his heart.
Owain always assumed that he would have time later to marry and have a son, yet now he was to die, and most likely his end would come before noon.
He needed a son, but first, he needed a wife.
“My clothes!” he said to the servants who were in the outer room of the tent. “And send for the centurion.”
One of the servants ran out to obey, and the rest rushed in to lay out his things.
“No,” Owain said, when they took out one of his breastplates. “Get me a robe.”
They took out a long embroidered robe from one of the chests and put it on him. Then they laced up his boots.
“Prince of Glouia,” said a man, standing in the entrance way.
“Centurion,” Owain replied, not taking his eyes off of his own reflection. “Prepare the men. Today, we shall fight.”
“What?” the centurion said in surprise, before he caught his tongue. “As you wish, Dominae.” He saluted and left without another word.
“To war again, Master?” one of his servants asked, in Bythonic.
“To war, Leir. How far are we from Corin?”
“Corin, Master?” Leir replied. “Fifty miles, I would think.”
“Ie, that sounds correct,” but Owain was speaking more to himself than to his servant. “Too far. Not enough time. Not near enough time. There are no women here.”
“There are the prisoners, the women locked in the Saxon’s great hall, Master,” Leir said.
“Ie. That is true. There are the prisoners.”
Owain wondered if he could marry a prisoner but to his surprise, could not think of a reason not to. He knew of princes who had done just that, not only in ancient times but also men who still walked the island.
These prisoners were Gewissae, foreigners in Albion, yet so had his own grandfather been a soldier from Hispania. Most, if not all of the women would be commoners, but then there was nothing that barred a prince from marring a commoner. He knew of two kings in Albion who had been commoners themselves, Annon’s father King Emrys and King Coel far in the North Country.
It would be unusual to marry a commoner and considered undesirable, yet so was a king’s only son dying without an heir. That was exactly what would happen if Owain did not marry now.
“Get me some soap, towel, and that underdress from the baggage,” Owain said. “Leave them by the stream behind the great hall.
“Ie, Master,” the servant replied.
As if coming to a final decision, Owain took up his mantel and left the tent.
“Prince Owain,” Annon said. “Why the hurry?”
Owain was so deep in thought that he hardly noticed the boy coming to his side.
“We shall fight,” he replied, not slowing his pace.
“What?” Annon cried. “Is there word from King Gourthigern? What is it? Whom shall we fight?”
Owain continued on his way and refused to slow down even though he knew that Annon’s nimble steps could barely keep up.
“When, I know not,” Owain said, answering the question he saw on the boy’s lips. “Whom, I know not either. But this I can assure you, it shall be a terrible war.”
Annon’s face showed his surprise and he seemed u
nsure of how to answer.
“Go, eat,” Owain continued. “You shall need your courage.”
“Shall I fight today?” Annon asked, his voice ringing with excitement.
Owain smiled at the boy’s eagerness.
“Not today,” he replied. “Next year perhaps. Do not be too hasty to end combat training for real warfare. They are very different things.”
“Of course, Prince,” Annon replied.
“Go on to your breakfast.”
Owain’s gaze followed the boy over to meeting tent.
He wished to explain the entire situation to his friends. But time was now of utmost importance, and there were many things still left undone. He could not stand there arguing with the boy, who he suspected was not likely to believe his words. Besides, he did not want the whole Army whispering rumors of his impending death.
Owain crossed out of the main encampment to the remnants of the village.
Everywhere about lay burnt wooden frames left from houses, and bits of armor or cloth lying idly in the road. Loose animals protested the ashen air, as the smoke of the previous days fires rose high to torment them.
To the far eastern side of the desolate village sat the mead hall, serene and untouched by fire. Three soldiers sat on the large stones by the steps of the hall. They jumped to attention when Owain approached.
The great doors of the mead hall were pushed open and the dim light of the overcast day streamed in across the floor. The women in the center scurried out of its way as if the light itself would harm them. Those along the walls scrunched down where they were and hugged the cloaks that were wrapped around them. One naïve little child stood up and went towards the door, and his mother snatched him back in horror and tucked him safely in her blanket.
Leola sat huddled by the far wall under the shadows of the banners. As a man entered the mead hall, she pulled down her head down and her wrapped her left arm around her knees to steady her trembling body.
She heard the hallow clicking of the nails on the bottom of a warrior’s boots, as they traveled around the stone floor. It went and stopped and went and stopped again, going around the right side of the fire pit towards the large chairs that once seated the earlmann, young Ardith, and their most distinguished guests.
Jesus Christ, Son of God, protect me, your servant, Leola thought and then crossed herself.
Perhaps the man would leave. Perhaps he was only counting them.
Jesus Christ, Son of God, protect me, your servant, and she crossed herself again.
Deep within her stomach, Leola knew that he was staring right at her.
Jesus Christ, Son of God, protect me, your servant.
The man stood right in front of her. She could feel the heat from his torch light, and smell the lingering scent of perspiration.
“Leola!” came the panicked whisper of another woman.
“Araemest,” the man said to Leola in Saxon. “Stand up.”
Leola started, shocked at first to hear her language spoken so comfortably by one of the Britisc.
She came to her feet. As she stood before him, her legs shook beneath her, and her eyes dropped to the floor. The hall went silent as everyone there held their breath. Leola felt the man’s breathing above her head.
“Cymst,” he said. “Come.”
She could do naught but follow him out of the doors and into the cloudy dawn.
Chapter Twelve: Beauty
Outside was bright and gray together, and Leola’s eyes hardly focused on the objects around her. They seemed to pierce her eyes as the clouds cast a heavy shadow over the land. The hard hand of one of the soldiers at the doorway grabbed her by the neck and pulled her down to the ground. A cold heavy piece of metal fitted around her slender neck. The sharp pang of the hammer beating the latch on it closed rang in her ears.
A slave collar!
Leola knew well what they were, objects of ridicule for those slaves daring enough to attempt an escape and unfortunate enough to be caught.
We are all slaves now.
In the short span of a year, she had gone from the daughter of a respected citizen, to an in impoverished orphan, to a lowly servant, and finally to a prisoner trapped in the confines of the mead hall. The only thing left to be, the only logical conclusion she could surmise from this terrible war was that of bondage. The women and children who had taken refuge in the hall were now slaves. Only those who were able to escape the night before would be spared this ordeal.
I hope Ardith has gotten away and finds the willpower to make the long journey to Tiwton by herself.
With that last thought, her watery eyes found the man, who had brought her out, standing a distance away from her, his own deep emerald eyes watching her.
The soldier let go of her.
“Cymst,” said the man who watched. “Come.”
Leola staggered to her feet, but the pressure was too much for her swollen ankle.
Ugh!
The man waited until she could rise and then turned from her and walked away from the mead hall.
Leola followed.
They went down to the creek behind the mead hall, and Leola looked along the bank for evidence of Raynar and his surprise attack on her the night before. There was a patch of dried blood in the moss, but no body, as she had expected to find.
Perhaps these Britisc have burned it with the bodies from the battle.
Her eyes went wide as she stared down at the bank.
Her tattered goat hide shoes still sat idly by the steam, right where she had placed them the evening before.
My shoes!
She realized that the man had stopped walking and she was now very close to him. Her right hand moved to the knot of her apron where she kept her knife.
“Where did you get that blood on you?” the man asked in Saxon.
Leola glanced down at her apron to see the black blood stain streaked across it.
“I know not,” Leola replied, not looking up at him.
Indeed, it would be dangerous to say to one warrior that she had the daring to kill another, even if that other man was his enemy.
“I do not remember it, Master,” she said.
This last part she uttered, “Agend,” was simple enough but seemed to twist her stomach within her.
“Master!”
She really was his slave.
“It is of no consequence, Beauty,” he replied.
The word he called her now surprised her, for she had never considered herself to be exceptionally pretty. Even before her status in Holton had sunk, people had never considered her beautiful. And now to hear it on the lips of her enemy was too strange to understand.
Why are you giving me a term of endearment? What can you be thinking?
The Saxon speech had fallen so easily from his tongue, that she was sure he knew the meaning of the word. Yet for a man to call his slave such was ridiculous.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
For a moment she could not answer. She was certain that he was not a soldier, for he seemed in command of those on guard at the entrance to the mead hall.
“A ridend, Master,” she replied.
“Nay, Beauty, far from,” he said.
There was that word again, in all its contradiction, and Leola frowned thinking on it.
She was not his sister, daughter, or wife, for him to call her thus, yet he persisted in it. She did not understand why.
“I am an aetheling,” he said.
Her eyes grew wide and her lips parted as if saying the word. Her whole face revealed her horror.
“Aetheling?” she gasped.
She looked up at him as if searching his eyes for a falsehood.
“Yea,” he said. “I am the Aetheling of Glouia.”
His deep eyes never wavered.
You are an aetheling!
Leola’s right hand moved from her apron knot and folded into her other hand before her. She did not dare attempt to kill an aetheling. The risk was too grea
t, and the consequences too frightening. Whatever determination she had on seeing that strange Britisc aetheling, Cadfan, many days before, now shriveled up into a frightened stone at the bottom of her throat.
“Yea, Master,” she said, in a quiet voice.
“My name is Owain Irael-son of Baddan,” he said, “and I'm an Andoco.”
But she did not know where this place Baddan was or what he meant when he said “Andoco.” Her eyes traveled back and forth as she thought, trying to decipher his words.
“The Andoco are my people,” Owain said, as if understanding her thoughts.
“You are not Britisc?” she asked, confused.
“The Andoco are Britisc,” he replied.
“Oh,” she replied, still unsure what he meant.
“Wash, and leave your clothes here. There is a dress, soap, and a towel for you over there.” He directed her to where these things were laid on a fallen willow trunk.
“Yea, Master,” she replied.
Although she cast her eyes down again so that he could not see them, she felt his heavy gaze on her face, as if he were trying to see her thoughts.
“Do not be long,” he said.
Then he left her and walked up the side back towards the road.
Her eyes followed him as he went.
Now what should I do?
The forest was but twenty paces from the stream, but to flee there she must run up the other side of the long ditch. Leola was sure that the man could come back down into ditch, cross the stream, and run up the other side, before she reached the forest.
A curse on Raynar!
Thus with no practical plan of escape, Leola set her apron and the knife aside, unlaced her stiff bodice, and slipped out of her dress. She had not realized it before, but Raynar’s blood was all over her dress and right sleeve as well as both side of her apron.
She stepped into the stream until the cold water came up to her knees. She took a hand full of the yellowish soap and rubbed it on blackened stain on her arm. The air around her turned from musty to sweet, like bees’ honey.
Leola sniffed the soap and smiled.
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 8
