The Beast of Caer Baddan

by Rebecca Vaughn

  He laid it down at the bronze feet of his mother's statue and turned too leave the armory.

  His eyes caught the one figure that had been added since his death. There, in the most prominent place in the room, stood a statue as big as Owain and exactly proportioned to him.

  He stared at a bronze version of himself.

  The wide neck and strong jaw Owain still possessed, but the lips and smooth face of the figurine he knew had been destroyed on his own flesh.

  “Agh!” he cried aloud, anger and frustration building up within the shattered pieces of his heart.

  Shifting his weight onto his left foot, he brought his right leg high up above the statue's base. As he turned his body, his armored shin collided with the bronze legs.

  The metal cracked, severing the wood within it, and the whole statue tumbled down. It hit the tiled floor with an echoing smash and rolled to the corner of the room.

  Owain marched off, leaving it where it lay.

  A thorough wash was needed after any war, however small that fight might have been, and Owain was particularly grateful for the warm, clean water. It seemed that an eternity had passed between his purposeful entry into battle against the Dumnonni and his return to Baddan two nights before. Two nights and two baths could not erase the pain from his soul.

  When Owain was dried and dressed, he walked up stairs towards his rooms, but stopped as he noticed Gratianna's door further down the passageway. He knew that he should go in and kiss her before she was asleep, but his tortured soul would not allow it. His hand pushed his own door open and he went in, without another thought.

  All of his things were the same, his clothes, his furniture, everything, yet he was so different. He had been admired by everyone. Now he was feared, hated, and abhorred. Where he had seen love and respect in the faces of the people, he now saw pity or revulsion.

  Owain threw off his embroidered robe and fell onto his bed.

  He slept in that bed only a few dozen times every year, for most of the seasons had been spent traveling with his Army. Now, he did not wish to rise from it.

  Owain saw the Dumnonni king before him, their swords clashing wildly in the shrinking space that separated them. His own weapon caught the king's and pushed it out of the way. He jammed his iron-clad forearm onto the leather gorget that protected the man's neck, and forced the king up against the wide trunk of an old oak tree.

  The Dumnonni king was Owain's foe, an enemy to his clan, and had been so since long before either of their births. King Tudwal's father had set fire to Cear Corin the Capital of Glouia. Prince Victor, Owain's uncle, had sacked Caer Dore the Capital of the Dumnonni people. King Tudwal had kidnapped Owain's aunt, Gratianna, and forced her to marry him. Owain's father had rescued her and killed King Tudwal's father in the process. The list went on, with neither meaning nor end.

  And then Owain, in some fleeting whim, felt that he could destroy that long held tradition.

  “Surrender!” he ordered, somehow believing in his conceited heart that the Dumnonni king actually would submit to him.

  “Never!” King Tudwal replied, for it was not in Owain's power to end the feud between their clans.

  As Owain pulled his arm back to run the king through, he felt the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck stand, as if they sensed some unseen danger. The air around him seemed to fill with fright.

  He did not stop but thrust his sword into the King Tudwal's neck, even as the king raised a defensive arm against him. Owain felt the weapon halt, stuck firmly in the body of the tree behind his enemy, and the king's iron armplate push up against his face.

  At that same moment, the world went white.

  Owain's eyes stung, and his attentive ears caught no sound at all. A violent shiver rushed through his whole being, making his teeth chatter. The heinous odor of scorching flesh seemed to smother him, and in one flashing thought, he knew that it was his own body that burned.

  He was lifted up high into the air and thrown up against what he thought must be another tree trunk. His body then dropped to the ground and he touched the earth beneath his hands. He trembled, as he felt the cold rain fall down and beat on the iron scales that covered his back.

  “Am I dead?” he muttered.

  Then darkness took him.

  Owain sat up with a start.

  He was still in his room, on his comfortable bed. He was at home in Caer Baddan, the place of his birth. Everything around him was unaltered, yet he himself was so changed because of his death.

  For if anyone had ever died, surely that was Owain.

  Died and gone to Hades and now returned to this retched life, half dead and rotting as the dreaded Ankou. Had he not dealt death out to man like an agent of the god of the underworld? And stripped of any goodness he might have had within him, he now was beaten and broken, left to the people's disdain.

  When morning came, Owain was exhausted and upset. He could not remember a day since his childhood, when he chose to remain in bed even after the sun rose up. Yet that morning, he wished to stay where he was, with the covers pulled up over his head. He heard Leir bring in fresh water for his basin, but he refused to rise and wash his face.

  “I am an Ankou,” he said to himself.

  Soon, Owain realized that he must eventually face his father. He had kicked down a statue that the king had placed in the armory with those of their family and ancestry. Owain had no doubt that his father had done so in loving memory of him and not as a gnawing reminder of his former perfection. Owain also suspected that the king would not chastise him for breaking the monument, for he could not actually recall his father's anger being directed at him for any reason.

  Owain forced himself out of bed and went to the wash table at the other end of the room. As he rubbed the warm water over his face, his calloused hands felt the rough scar tissue on his lips and cheek.

  He looked up and stared into the intricate silver mirror that hung by its handle above the table. His eyes took in every ghastly detail.

  Neck creased with a crusty red jagged line, as if it had been carved mercilessly with a dull knife.

  Lips burned an odd hue, crossing from black to a sickened purple.

  The space between the lip and chin marked with a strange black puncture, as if fire itself had raged through him and burst out of his face.

  Right cheek burned a dark red, as if part of his face had stuck to King Tudwal's iron armplate and what was left was the underlying skin that was never supposed to be exposed to the outside world.

  Owain had put ointment on these same scars the first night that he was home, but somehow, he knew that it was in vain.

  He really was a frightening being from the realm of the dead and there was no remedy for it.

  His ears caught the sound of Leola's quiet voice behind him.

  “Master?” she said.

  That word again.

  Owain thought it sounded hallow and dead in her voice.

  “Please come, Master,” she said. “There is breakfast ready for you, and your father is concerned that you do not eat.”

  “I am a monster,” Owain said.

  The words had been on his thoughts since he had stepped into that solitary village on his long journey home. He could still hear the children crying out for fear that he might eat them.

  “Everyone is afraid of me because I'm scarred,” Owain said.

  He was not even sure why he should speak to her thus, but he felt he must.

  Even though his back was too her, he could see Leola's face clearly in his thought, her soft cheeks, long hair, and sparkling eyes. He would never again brush his lips over her smooth skin or hold her gaze captive with his own.

  This heinous creature that he had become would always stop Leola from enjoying his affections. What had become a barrier between he and the world would forever keep him from her.

  There was a short pause, as if she was debating in her mind whether or not she should respond.

  “You are not a mon
ster,” she said at last. “You are a prince, and you do what is right for your people.”

  Owain could not help but be surprised.

  He knew the extent of these words, yet had never expected to hear them uttered by her who knew nothing of his struggles.

  For but a moment, Owain thought he might actually relent and go down with her, but another truth came to his mind and burned a whole in his heart.

  Owain knew full well how Leola feared him, dreaded his hideous face. Although she did not believe that he would devour her, she still shunned him exactly like the village children had. Had she not avoided his gaze, his conversation, and even his company? He was certain that her horror had passed though every place in her body. She would not wish for him to touch her again, and thus her encouraging words were meaningless.

  Owain turned around to face her so that she too could see the extent of his deformity.

  She cowered back away from him, her gaze cast down and her head turned away, as if to hide from his watchful stare. But he had seen that fleeting look of dread that flashed in her blue eyes before she could conceal it.

  This was the reaction that he expected, and it confirmed his suspicions. He knew that she was repulsed by his face, just as Queen Deire was. Just as everyone was.

  Leola may have meant kind words, but they were no more than that. Owain truly was a monster.

  “Then why are you afraid of me?” he said, not hiding his amusement over the blatant contradiction.

  Again, she was silent, as his critical gaze searched her face.

  “I'm a monster!” he yelled.

  Why would she not say it? Why did she insist on negating what they both knew to be true?

  He would make her admit it.

  “You cannot say that-” she started.

  “Why not?” his voice turned as harsh as the pain within his heart. “Everyone knows it! Everyone sees it! Everyone! Do not deny it!”

  “You are not,” she said, her own voice cracking with tears.

  “Then why are you so afraid of me!”

  “Because you are a prince,” she said, at last.

  Owain was dumbfounded.

  “What?” his lips moved to form the word, but he was too shocked to make a sound.

  Her statement was nonsense, for Owain could not fathom what the status of his birth or his position in society had to do with her fear.

  As he looked on her, he saw the honesty in her eyes and knew that she was not inventing these thoughts.

  “What do you mean?” his voice becoming quiet.

  Tears spilled down her redden cheeks, and her firm jaw began to tremble as if in some great anguish.

  “You are a prince,” she said, and her voice cut through his heart. “You were born with power. You were raised to rule others. You go wherever you wish to go, doing whatever you will. No one can tell you ‘Stop.’ No one can tell you ‘No.’ No one can contradict you. You do not have to care what others think or feel. You do whatever pleases you and nothing more. You are a prince, Master. A prince. How could I not be afraid of you?”

  Owain's mouth dropped open and his eyes simply stared at her. He had not anticipated such a reply and was at a loss as to how to understand her, much less respond.

  Leola did not give him time to collect his thoughts.

  “Please, I beg you will excuse me, Master,” she said.

  She went out into the passageway and closed the door behind herself, leaving him alone to contemplate this new idea.

  Chapter Forty Five: A Prince's Resolve

  For a moment, Owain only stood still and stare at the door where Leola had stood. He was shocked so much by her words, that he could neither move nor speak. It came to him that he had never been made so utterly speechless by anyone before.

  Yet he could not dwell on the surprise or the unbelievability of his strange circumstance, for an overwhelming wave of shame threatened to consume him.

  Owain was foolish beyond contemplation.

  He forced the truth from Leola, and now that she begrudgingly surrendered it, he knew neither how to respond to it nor what to do with the knowledge. Here he had bemoaned himself his scars, and she feared him because he was a ruler. She would have acted the exact same way towards him if he had walked into the great hall clean and uninjured. He felt even more silly when he recalled that she had trembled when he told her to rise from her crouched position on the floor at the far back of the Saxon mead hall. How her eyes had gown large with fright as he revealed to her his princely status. Even when he had told her not to fear him, she had tucked her head and turned away, as if expecting come great calamity. She had seen him one way, and that way had been unaltered by both absence or scars.

  When Owain found his legs to move, he paced the room, as his chaotic thoughts criticized him.

  How disgraceful it was that he should base his success on his looks, and that Leola, who hardly knew him, should see him for exactly what he was, a prince.

  It actually did not matter if he was now ugly. He was alive, strong, and still the greatest warrior on the island. He had been given the honor title of Champion of Albion for just that reason. He was the last Roman dominae, a position that placed the safety of the Britannae people on his shoulders. Not only did the people need him, but the knights and rulers did as well.

  And Owain needed forgiveness.

  “Leir!” Owain called. “My armor!”

  All of his servants were soon arrived with the different protective pieces and fitted them on his body with accustomed precision that attested to their work of the last twenty-one years. Leir rushed down to the armory to find Owain's sword.

  “You are well, Master?” Leir asked, when he returned to Owain's room.

  Owain took the weapon from his servant's hand and gazed on it.

  It was Calybs Sword of Togadum, forged in the secret fires of Aracon. The greatest weapon for the greatest warrior. Only the worthy may wield it.

  Owain would make himself worthy once more.

  “Ie,” Owain said at last. “I am well. I am very well, Leir, and am now off to war.”

  “God keep you, Master,” his servant said.

  “Ie,” Owain replied. “Thank you.” He suddenly thought of what those words actually meant. “I do believe He does.”

  Owain did not bother to look at himself in the mirror before he left his bedroom, for he felt that he had thought enough about his face to last him a lifetime.

  His steps took him to Gratianna's rooms, where he found her quietly eating breakfast with her nurse.

  “Tada!” the child squealed, when she saw him.

  She ran up to him, and he scooped her up in his arms.

  “You are wearing armor, Tada,” the child said, and he heard the disappointment in her tiny voice. “You are going to war.”

  “I am,” Owain said, and he placed a kiss on her forehead. “I'm going off to war. But I shall be back soon. Turn your wishing stone over for me, and practice your harp. I want to hear it when I return.”

  “I shall! I shall!”

  She kissed him a hundred times, and he set her down on her chair to finish her porridge.

  “I love you, Tada,” she said.

  “I love you too, Gratianna,” he replied.

  Owain found his father and Leola at the table in the great hall. King Irael seemed in good spirits but cast a worried eye on Leola, who appeared to have been weeping.

  “Ah, Owain, my son,” King Irael said, as Owain strode up. “You seem to be doing better today.”

  “I believe I am.” Owain replied.

  “Excellent.”

  Owain took his seat at the table on the right side of his father, across the table from Leola. The servants offered him meat but he declined.

  “Porridge for me and raisins,” he said.

  Owain was sure that eight months of eating nothing but the hermit's ill composed substance had left him so malnourished and underfed, he would not be able to tolerate heavy things for a while. He would co
nsume plant foods for now and take foul in the spring time when he would be more healed.

  “You shall be glad to know that the Solstice feast was a great success,” King Irael said. “Everyone loved Leola. They have not stopped talking about her.”

  Owain was certain that his father spoke these words as much for their truth as he did to cheer Leola's sorry mood.

  He looked over the table at her to see what she thought, but Leola did not lift her head either to him or the king. Her cheeks were still burning red and her little nose now matched it. Her hands on the edge of the tables shock just a bit at every word Owain spoke. For all his will, he could not see her eyes.

  “That is good,” Owain said to his father.

  A fierce silence seemed to hover over them.

  “I was surprised that our clansmen did not stay the night," King Irael said, abruptly. “Britu and Swale came and left even before I could greet them.”

  “They must be in Gwent before its capital is sieged,” Owain replied.

  “Oh, I see,” his father said. “I suppose that is not surprising, considering that Demetae girl. All of those men fighting over her, and she no older then little Gratianna.”

  “I had heard something of that last winter,” Owain said, his eyebrow knit in frown. “Do the arguments continue even now?”

  “To be sure,” the king said. “Her parents will not come to a decision as to her betrothed, and so the matter drags on.”

  “A pity.”

  “It is,” his father replied. “But God speed our clansmen. Perhaps they can put an end to that nonsense.”

  Owain did not wait to think of an answer for he had already come to a final decision.

  “And myself as well,” he said. “I'm going to Gwent.”

  His eyes caught his father’s steady green gaze and he felt he could draw strength from their power.

  “You are ready to fight, Son?” King Irael said.

  Owain now considered these words. He was neither worried nor concerned that people no longer loved to look on him. He did not need the attention of many women. He would not stay here, locking himself up in the castle at Baddan, hiding from the world that he was not even afraid of. He would go to Gwent, and if people shrank from him in fear, all the more victory for him. He was a warrior not a coward. He would defeat his enemies.