His soap smells like mead.
In spite of the cold, the soap and stream water felt good on her tired skin and soon washed all blood off of her.
There was a small basin and bone comb on the ground by the towel. Leola filled the basin with water and poured it over her head, and then combed out her long straight hair. She rubbed the soap on her sore foot and found that it was bruised and swollen.
No wonder I could not run! My foot is as big as my head!
She did not wish to admit it, but for a while she would be limping everywhere she went.
How am I supposed to escape from here like this? I must bide my time. There shall be an opportunity. It is simply not now.
With that, she rinsed the soap off, dried herself off with the towel, and pulled the dress over her head. The dress was both a little too tight and much too long, but clean and free from blood stain, and for that she was grateful.
“Leave those.”
Leola started and stared up at Owain where he stood. He was not looking at her but rather gazed off to the south as if searching for something. His face showed some sudden new knowledge.
“Come,” he said, more as if deciding something then just giving the command.
Leola saw that he was hardly paying any attention to her and took it as an opportunity. She mustered her courage with a stiff inhale, bent over her blood stained clothing, and slipped the knife out.
An aetheling is just a glorified ridend, and I have killed a ridend.
Leola climbed back up the ditch, limping as she went. She noticed a smooth stone that was stuck in the side of the earth.
That’s why I slipped! I stepped on a smooth rock!
But she had no time to chide herself, for Owain moved towards her at the top of the ditch.
“Beauty?” he said, as if asking her what she was doing just standing there.
Leola swallowed hard.
“Yea, Master,” she replied, coming up to the top and standing before him.
For a moment, he just stood there, looking at her, and she felt his emerald eyes traveling down her body.
She felt exposed, almost naked, as if he were gazing at her bare skin beneath the thin white dress that clung to her form.
Please do not stare at me. Please do not touch me.
Did she actually dare attempt to kill him? Risk this Britisc aetheling becoming infuriated with her? Who knew what he might do to her then?
“Come,” he said, and turned to go.
Leola took a deliberate step forward and raised her arm, the weapon firm in her grasp.
“Ah!” she cried in horror.
In an instant, her whole arm was trapped and could not move. His two forearms held it imprisoned between them, keeping the knife in her hand a mere finger's length away from his left eye. Leola had not seen him slip his left arm in between herself and her own forearm or him raise his right to block her attack. She only saw the result. She was trapped, and now he would strike her dead.
Leola supposed she could have scratched him with her free hand, but a consuming fear kept her from moving at all.
Oh, Father God, save me!
Leola thought she saw sympathy in his eyes. She was sure she must be mistaken, but the more she looked up at him the clearer she read affinity on his pale face. With every passing breath, a little more ease seeped into her.
His right hand turned upward, removed the weapon from her hand, and tossed it into the ditch, and Leola thought he killed independence in that motion.
Please do not hurt me!
Ensnared or released was no different to Leola, for his revealing gaze now held her more captive then his strong arm had.
“That is not the way to stab an aetheling, Beauty,” he said.
What? What do you mean by that?
Leola felt as though somehow he could see her thoughts on her panicked face. He tilted his head to one side and gave her a sorry smile, as if to reassure her of his gentility.
“The willingness to fight is commendable,” he said, “but everyone must learn to choose their battles.”
He was lovely and kind, and she knew not how to respond to him.
“Yea, Master,” and she forced the words out of her dry throat.
“Come,” he said.
He turned then, and walked towards the Britisc camp.
Leola breathed a long sigh and reluctantly followed.
Chapter Thirteen: A Britisc Aetheling
There were white tents everywhere. Some soldiers were standing guard and others were sitting about laughing and eating. Large fires burned to brighten the grim morning.
Here and there, they crossed the path of some knight, who seeing Owain, saluted and moved out of their way. It seemed to attest to Leola the truth of his words, that he was an aetheling.
They arrived at a large brightly colored tent that stood in what Leola suspected was the very center of the camp. A single sentry, standing guard, held the door flap open as they entered.
The tent room was wide and airy, with large trunks and lidded pots pushed up against the cloth walls. As she stepped in, her tattered goat shoes touched the furry rugs that spanned the floor.
Leola marveled.
This tent is as big as my house and nicer still then the mead hall!
There was a curtain along the far side, which Owain pulled back to reveal a second room. It was smaller and more furnished, having a long cot, a table, and a wooden stool.
“Sit down, Beauty,” Owain said.
He took the stool by the table, and there was no other place to sit down besides the cot.
Leola’s eyes gazed at it.
That was his bed, where he lay down and slept.
She willed her feet to move forward and lowered herself onto the cot.
It was soft, too soft she felt, and covered in smooth blankets and fluffy pillows.
“What is your name, Beauty?” he asked.
He had not demanded an answer from her, but instead asked quietly, a calm smile dancing on his perfect lips, as if looking on her face gave him pleasure.
At first, she could not bring herself to talk.
“Leola, good Master,” she replied.
She thought her tone sounded hollow and empty, as if her dread had somehow drained her life out of her tone.
“Leola what? What is your father’s name?”
His head tilted to one side and his eyes swept over her face, as if caressing it with a glance.
“Hobern. I am Leola Hobern-daughter,” she replied.
“Hobern?” he said, with surprise. “What name is that? Dane?”
“Fris,” she said. “My father was a Fris.”
“And your mother?”
“She was Saex. Her name was Alburga. She was from Anlofton.”
Now that she could speak, Leola felt the words rushing out of her before she could contain them.
“And your parents are then dead?” he asked.
“Yea,” Leola replied, and swallowed hard. “From the small pox.”
“I understand.”
For a while Owain wrote in the leather-bound book, and Leola’s eyes wondered around the tent.
They found the decorative silver mirror that hung above the table, the boxes and covered baskets in the corner, a large bowl of fresh fruit, and a strange carved ring on Owain’s smallest finger. She hardly dared let herself look up at Owain’s face, even as he looked at his work. He did not seem the least bit angry, but she would not risk him turning violent.
Owain did not write the names down as they were given to him, but instead translated them into Latin as he scribed.
Leola daughter of Hobern who was a Frisian of the village of Hol,
Her mother was Alburga daughter of a Saxon of the village of Anlof.
“Leir,” Owain called into the other room.
His servant appeared, and Owain spoke to him in Brythonic.
“Get some food and wine for the woman,” he said, “and have her feet washed.”
Owain knew that according to custom, a female relative of hers should wash her feet. But he did not have time to return to the mead hall for another unimportant woman, and he greatly suspected that Leola had no family there. Thus a man servant would have to do for now.
Leir went with the order, and Owain heard his voice to the other servants out in the larger room.
Leola’s eyes grew wide with surprise, and her hands caught up her long straight hair.
It was an odd gesture, and for a moment Owain simply noted it.
Another servant entered with a scrub and a large basin, filled with soapy water. He knelt down on the furry rugs and pulled Leola’s hideous shoes off of her feet.
Her face grew white as she stared at the servant.
“What is the matter, Beauty?” Owain asked her in Saxon.
“He has no hair,” she replied, as if she was unsure if she even dared to speak.
Owain looked at the servant with the eyes of an observer and agreed. The man had no hair, for all of the bondsmen who worked in Owain’s father’s household were shaved bald. It was a common sign of bondage, which Owain had long ago learned was a part of both of their cultures.
“Yea,” Owain said, unsure of what her trouble was.
“You are going to cut mine, aren’t you?” she asked, her face turning pale as if she dreaded the response.
“No, Beauty,” he replied. “I shall not.”
Her face and hands relaxed as if relieved of some terrible burden, and Owain felt a pang of pity for her.
She seemed about to speak, yet held herself quiet, as her eyes caught something in their gaze.
“What are you staring at?” he asked.
Owain followed her glance to the table where he had left one of his knives. It was small and engraved, like the rest from it set.
“You are enthralled with my knife,” he said, amused at the thought.
Surely she would not try to stab him again.
Leola shrank back from his words.
“It has scratches on it, Master,” she replied.
“Not scratches, Beauty. Letters,” he replied. “They are the signs for the trees, the rowan, oak, alder, hazel, willow, and ash. They are my trees. They protect me. They give me power.”
“The trees give you power?” she asked, and he heard the confusing in her cautious voice.
Owain thought that trying to explain very ancient beliefs of the Britannae people would consume far to much valuable time and be unlikely to resolve any question she might have regarding them.
“Yea, they do,” he simply said, and left it at that.
When servant finished washing her feet and left, another servant entered with a large platter of food.
“Eat whatever you want, Beauty,” Owain said. “I shall return shortly.”
He left, taking the knife with him.
Leola's stomach rumbled at the smell of the food. She was starved from a weary night and thus immediately accepted the platter that the servant gave her. It had water, which she drank immediately, and a red drink, of which she sipped a and thought it tasted odd.
Soap that smells like mead, and mead that tastes like grapes.
She had had only grapes once many years ago, when the Britisc merchants had traded in the village.
Leola sighed and tried to eat.
The hot bread filled her stomach, and the stew was thick and smelled of beef. That was a food she had never had but loved to smell. Trying it now, it did not disappoint her.
As she ate, her eyes searched the room for weaknesses that she might rip or pull up to get out, but the whole tent seemed snug and sound, and she soon realized that if she was to get out it must be by the tent door. Yet she could not simply walk out with a slave collar around her neck. Surely the other servants would notice and stop her or call for the soldiers.
What am I to do?
A harsh voice in the outer room caught her ear.
“Owain!” it cried.
Owain did not look up from the box that he was searching through, for he knew by the voice that it was Britu and by his tone that his cousin was angry.
“Ie, Clansman,” Owain replied.
“You have taken a prisoner out of the Saxon great hall!” Britu cried.
“Ie, that I did,” Owain said.
“You break the rules,” Britu cried, so upset that he could hardly utter the Latin. “You always break the rules. Prisoners are granted by lot. You know that. Lot. You roll the dice.”
“I know that, Britu,” Owain said.
“And yet you take a prisoner before the lot!”
The tender feeling that Owain held for his clansman, cousin, and closest friend had always stopped him from speaking harshly to him. Yet Britu’s uncontrolled temper had also kept Owain from confiding in him. Now that he held a most personal secret, Owain was by no means prepared to reveal it to his angry cousin.
“It is true,” Owain said, in a calm voice. “I did just that.”
“The rules are there and not to be broken!” Britu cried.
“And when you are battle leader, you shall break the rules as you see fit.”
“This is not necessary, Owain! This is an obsession! And it must stop!”
“Do not worry, Clansman,” Owain replied, his voice gruff and somber. “It shall.”
Britu seemed at a loss as to how to reply. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that it shall stop,” Owain said. “Now, you must leave me, for I have much to do and little time.”
“Very well,” Britu replied. “I shall tell Swale, and he shall take my side of it.”
“Good.”
Britu left the tent then, a confused look on his young face.
Owain emptied the contents of the box he held onto the top of one of the lidded baskets on the floor. Then, he placed a few choice things inside of it, the little bone handled knife that he had found at the Pictii camp, harp strings he purchased in Lerion, and a smooth oval stone he had pickked up many months before on his journey north to Gododdin. These were things Owain was certain his Gratianna would love.
He would not get to see his daughter again, hold her in his arms, or kiss her bright red hair, but perhaps these little trinkets would cheer her and remind her of his unconditional love.
With that last thought, Owain shut the lid. Taking up both the box and a long piece of red chord, he went back into the inner room.
Owain caught Leola's short gasp when he entered the room. It was clear to him that she had eaten everything she was going to consume. He moved the whole platter to the table and set the decorative wooden box beside it.
Owain noticed a small cup of seeds on the table that Leir must have placed there.
He had never thought about the wild carrot seed before, for it was something that women were instructed to eat by their mothers or nurses, without any direction or interference by men. But now, he was determined that she should not touch them.
Owain took the cup off of the table and placed it beneath the used dishes that still sat on the tray.
He felt the pang of guilt from intruding in the female realm yet told himself that it was necessary. Of course, once he was dead, there was nothing to stop Leola from picking the plant herself, for it grew wild all over the island. But perhaps if she did not see it now, she would not think to eat it later. That was his hope.
Leola shivered.
“You need not be afraid of me, Beauty,” he said, speaking once again in Saxon.
Now that he had someone to communicate with in that language, he felt it coming naturally to his lips.
“Yea, Master,” she said, in a quiet voice.
Her head was down so he could not see her expression, but he assumed that she did not believe his words. He sought to convince her.
“I’m going to ask you something,” he said, bending his head down to look at her face. “I want you to think on it before for you answer.”
“Yea,” she replied.
It was a game to him, getting her to
like him, to smile at his words. He had long ago learned to coax affection out of people, and here he would not lessen his determination. He knew that he could convince her to do anything if she would only look up at him and see his eyes.
“Beauty?” he said.
“Yea, Master?” she said.
She would not lift her head to him, and he was unsure what to do to gain her focus. Touching her chin and tilting it up until she was forced to see his face would be the easiest way. Yet he was sure that such a move, even so slightly, would double her fear of him rather than lighten it. Telling her to look up at him, would be just as detrimental. He soon decided that to be direct was the most practical way.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
Now, he had her attention, for she lifted her head up and stared at him, her eyes wide with shock, and her little lips parted and trembling.
Owain smiled and leaned over to her, drawing her gaze into him like one pulls in some trapped baby animal.
“Well, Beauty?” he said.
“What did you say?” she asked.
He knew that it was a mixture of shock and distrust that now cracked her voice, but these did not worry him.
“Will you marry me?” he said again.
His eyes fed her assurance until he was certain that she believed he was in earnest.
“You cannot marry me,” she replied, as if forgetting her caution. “You are an aetheling, a Britisc aetheling.”
“I am,” Owain said, “but I am an Andoco, of the house of Rheiden. I am the Aetheling of Glouia. I am the Champion of Albion. I am the dominae.”
Leola just stared at him in silence, and Owain now wondered whether he had her or not. She seemed a stubborn woman, inteligent and confident, and would not easily bend to his will, but he was sure he had been with those more difficult than she.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
It was not his design to reveal everything he knew to her. Indeed, it was not in his plan to tell her anything at all.
“I do whatever I will, whatever pleases me,” he said, and his voice grew soft and hushed. “And I want you to be my wife.”
“But...why?” she said.
“Shh,” he replied, and he placed the tip of his gentle finger on her lips. “No more questions. Just answer. Will you marry me?”
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 9
