The Beast of Caer Baddan (13 page)

“Oh!” Ardith gave a muffled cry. “Look!”

Leola’s eyes followed her outstretched finger.

The village down below them was up in flames and glowing yellow from the heat. The piteous complains of man and animal could be heard in the distance. Surely the Britisc had won and were now destroying the whole town.

Twenty years of life, crops, houses, market. All of it gone
.

A piercing scream shook Leola from her thoughts.

The women ahead of them had walked into the advancing Britisc ridends.

The woman with the spear made good her mark, throwing the long weapon into one of the ridends’ head. Another ridend took up his bow and shot an arrow through her heart.

Leola gasped in horror, as the brave woman fell down onto the dirt road and was still.

The other women fled, screaming for their lives. Some ran south toward the woods and others north to the burning town.

Leola took a quick step.

Ugh!

A biting pain shook within her ankle and up her leg. Leola crumbled into a heap on the steps, gasping in horror of the agony.

“Ardith,” she whispered, through her gritted teeth. “Run. That way.”

Leola's pointed hand directed the younger woman to the wood at their right.

“Go. Quickly,” Leola gasped.

She tried to rise but her foot would take no pressure and the seething hurt would give her no rest.

“I can’t,” whispered Ardith.

“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 unsure 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.