The Beast of Caer Baddan (2 page)

At least, Owain felt she would have been.

“Prince Owain!” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

A faint, enticing smile lingered on his lips, for he recognized the haughty little voice of Lady Gwawl, the eldest daughter of their distinguished host. She had sought him out, just as he had wanted her to.

Owain turned around to see her rushing down the passageway.

“Prince Owain!” she gasped as she came to a stop before him.
“Dominae!”

“Ie, Lady,” he replied.

“You are sneaking away from the feast,” she said, in mock reproach. “You should have said something.”

“I apologize, Lady.”

He felt no remorse yet had spoken thus because he knew that it would please her. He looked down at her wondrously, and she in turn grinned at his attentions. She was a confident young woman, who knew what she wanted, and Owain would be pleased to give it to her.

“Lady Gwawl,” Owain said, taking a step closer to her.

Over her head, Owain saw the figure of King Coel standing at the light of the doorway to the great hall.

“Gwawl!” the king cried, his rumbling voice echoing in the passageway.

Gwawl jumped in surprise.

“Ie, Da!” she said, a look of irritation covering her pretty face.

King Coel held out his hand to her, bidding her come, and she walked over to him with her head down in defeat.

“What are you doing?” he said, his brow knotted in a deep frown.

“Nothing, Da,” she mumbled her reply.

“Nothing?” her father said.

His eyes rose to Owain, who read the anger and suspicion contained in his gaze.

“Pack your things,” the king said. “You are going to your uncle’s house in Venedotia.”

“What?” she cried, her own voice turning harsh, as if she was trying to stifle a boiling rage. “Why?”

“Now,” was his only
answer.

With a backwards look at Owain, she stormed off down another passageway.

“You have a reputation, Dominae,” King Coel said, giving Owain his highest and most reverent address.

“I am aware of all of my reputations, King,” Owain replied, with a sly smile.

King Coel seemed to look him over with a sorrowful eye.

“I'm grateful for your help and that of the Army of Albion against the Maetae Pictii,” the king said, “and I respect you as a dominae, but I do not want you near my daughter.”

“As you please, King,” Owain said, with a formal bow of his proud head. “I shall go to bed. Excuse me.”

He turned his back on his host and strode out to the stairwell.

It did not bother him that King Coel had interceded, for there were many other women on the island.

Once in his room, Owain’s eyes caught sight of the large silver mirror that hung on the far wall. His refection within it stared back at him, as his gaze took in his thick red hair that curled in broad waves around his face.
His wide jaw and muscular neck. His piercing green eyes, dark and sparkling like rare jewels. He knew, had always known, that every curve of his body was perfect.

Owain washed his face at the basin set before the mirror.

“Leir,” he said.

A tall young man rose from his sleeping mat and brushed himself off with a careless hand.

“Ie, Master,” he said in Brythonic, the language of the land. “A grand feast, Master?”

He began to remove Owain’s attire piece by piece, beginning with his flaming red cape and the gold chain that secured it in place. Then he took off Owain’s belt and heavy wool brat.

“All the princes of the Brigantae and the northern tribes were there,” Owain replied.

“Fitting for the dominae,” Leir said.

Leir unfastened the metal armplates and legplates and set them aside, then pulled the leather sleeves off of his forearms. Owain held the scale armor breastplate to himself, as Leir unlatched it at the shoulders and under the arms, and lifted the back piece away.

“Fitting, Ie,” Owain replied, his voice quiet as his thoughts began to turn within him once more.

He felt that a feast, no matter how distinguished the guests or grand the delicacies, could in no way dampen the throbbing pain in his heart. Nor did the striking victory against worthy foes ease his misery, but win every battle was what he must do. He had to fight on, for he felt that if he should stop, his mother would know and be disappointed in him.

Owain looked around to see one of the Brigantae servant women enter the chamber, lugging a stack of wood in her arms.

A distraction was exactly what he needed now, lest his troubled heart be crushed under the weight of misery.

He watched, as the servant woman knelt at the hearth, laid half of her load aside, and placed the other half carefully into the fire. When she rose to her feet, she moved as if to slip out of the room.

Owain stepped in her way.

“Oh!” she cried, in surprise. “I beg your pardon, Prince.”

She curtsied and moved to the side to let him pass.

Owain stood still and gazed on her. He saw her own eyes trail up to his in confusion and then over the whole of his pure white tunic and its lavish embroidery.

“Prince,” she said under her breath. Her wide eyes told him that she had never been that close to any ruler before. “Prince,” was all she said.

“Ie,” he replied. “If you wish to go, go. I’ll not keep you.”

He moved aside from the door to give her space, but his tender eyes kept her frozen where she stood.

“Prince, you-” but her voice trailed off to nothing.

Owain smiled on her, and she in turn smiled back. When she didn’t leave, Owain stepped towards her and whispered in her ear.

“You need not be afraid of me, pretty girl,” he said.

Chapter Two
: War

Dawn found Owain fully armored, marching out to the vast open fields to the north of the stronghold. Young Annon staggered up after him, with the knights trailing behind.

The frigid cold of an early spring morning felt fresh to him after the snowy winter. He lifted both hands in veneration, as the mild wind kissed his handsome face.

“God keep you, Mam,” he whispered.

Annon yawned.

“Wake up, Sleepy,” Owain said, an amused smile dancing on his lips.

“It is too early,” Annon whined. “And I danced three times.”

“A warrior rises with the sun, no matter what he did the night before.”

“What did you do last night?” Annon asked, with the look of a skeptic.

“Some things a warrior never reveals.”

“Well,” said the boy, yawning again. “What is this new counter?”

“Sir Vesanus,” Owain called to one of the knights.

The knight stepped forward and drew his sword in preparation.

“Now, Annon,” Owain said. “Annon?”

The boy was looking off to Owain’s right and seemed lost in his own thoughts. Owain followed his gaze out to the empty fields of the west.

“You know that you cannot see Alt Clut from here, boy,” Owain said.

“I know, Prince,” Annon said, absently.

“And that the Attacotti are confined to the hills there, so there is no possibility of their arrival here in Gododdin.”

“Of course
not.”

Owain stepped closer to the boy and whispered in his ear so that the company of knights surrounding them could not know his words.

“The Attacotti shall never come near you again, Annon,” he said. “They shall not hurt you ever. I'm between you and them, and they cannot cross me.”

Annon’s crystal eyes crept up to Owain’s, and Owain knew that the boy read the confidence on his face. There was no one who could better protect Annon than the man who had sneaked into the secret Attacotti hillfort and carried him out slung over the shoulder.

There were many reasons the people bestowed Owain with the honor title Champion of Albion. Owain had defeated the self-proclaimed Champion of the North, a famous Brigantae from Rheged. He had bested four skilled knights at once when he himself was still a boy. He had even beaten a Pictii prince called Talorc, whom the Brigantae soldiers swore could run on air.

Above these was his daring.

No one presumed to enter the Attacotti hillfort with an army. Yet, as one man, Owain had climbed the cliffside, slipped through the passageways, slaughtered the guards, and taken Annon down from their wall of shame. He had deprived the Attacotti of their prisoner, an act which had earned him the admiration of even his most fierce adversaries.

Surely, a man with such audacity could defeat anything.

“Annon,” Owain said. “You are safe. Now back to your lesson. We do not want to disrespect the knights, for they have come out to help you learn and could be off hunting at this hour.”

“I know, Prince,” the boy replied. “I’m sorry.”

“Dominae,” Sir Vesanus said. “The scouts return.”

Owain looked over to see six men riding hard towards them.

“What is it, do you think?” the knight asked.

“They are coming from the north,” Owain replied. “And at a rapid speed as well. It must be news of the Pictii.”

“But they were vanquished!” Annon cried.

“It seems we may have to defeat them once more,” Owain said.
“Sirs!”

“Dominae!” the head scout
cried, his voice hoarse from heavy breathing in the cold morning air. “The Pictii are here!”

“When?”

“They are on us now!”

Owain thought quickly. Although it was rough terrain, the enemy were accustomed to that land. He was certain that he had less than an hour to prepare for an attack.

“Tell Prince Swale and King Coel that the Pictii shall be here in half an hour,” Owain said. “And take Prince Annon with you.”

“But I want to see you fight!” the boy protested.

“From a safe distance still, Annon,” Owain replied. “Now go.”

Annon climbed on to the war pony behind the head scout and the riders took off up the slope towards the Brigantae castle.

Owain closed his eyes and listened to the wind.

“This is for you, Mam,” he whispered.