The Beast of Caer Baddan (14 page)

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 great, 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.

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.