The Beast of Caer Baddan (42 page)

Leola was actually amused by these words. “Gewissae or Dobunni does not matter. You relish in bloodshed. It is of little relevance who the people are whose lives you take.”

By the shame on his face, she saw the truth of her words.

“The Gewissae deserved what they got,” Britu said, as if to muster some last defense.

“The women of Holton deserved to be sold as slaves?” Leola asked. “The boys of Anlofton deserved to be murdered?
For what? What did they do to you? I only remember one woman raising a spear against the Britannae and she is dead. What did the rest do?”

“Neither Hol nor Anlof suffered the fate of Donwy,” Britu said, ignoring her questions.

What of Donwy?

She did not have to ask aloud, for even as her thoughts formed the question, his lips gave her a reply.

“The Gewissae marched on that town seven years ago,” he said, “and nothing was left of it but ruin. Old people, priests, women, and every little child, all butchered like some bloody sacrifice. Their naked bodies hacked into pieces and spread out on the field. Everywhere there gathered pools of blood. And the stench from a week of rotting was enough to drive any man mad. The only survivors were eight young girls who were taken to the Town of Hol. By the time the General caught up to them, all of them had been raped and five of them were dead. Now I ask you, what right do the Gewissae have to do that to the Atrebatae people?”

For a moment Leola was silent, too shocked to answer.

She knew of Holton’s victory over Donwy, but had never heard the Britisc’s side of the story. Now, she saw in Britu’s eyes that his words were honest. 

Britu set his lips in satisfied disdain and turned to leave the room.

“Then you have had your revenge,” Leola replied. “This was the work of the Earlmann of Hol. Not of Tiw or Anlof or any other town. Only of Sigbert Earlmann of Hol, and he is now dead.”

“I know he is dead,” Britu said.

“Then why continue to punish the Gewissae people for what he did? Why continue to punish every people you are in conflict with for what a dead man did? You have your revenge already. Be at peace.”

Leola saw Britu's anger in his burning eyes, before he spun on his heels and stomped out.

Chapter Thirty Three: Contemplation

The gentle rain began to fall, rapping against the wooden shutters that covered the windows. Leola hardly paid it any heed, for her mind was now far too consumed with Britu's angry words for her to do anything at all.

She thought of how Sigbert Earlmann had shown so much kindness towards her family. He had paid her father’s court debt and allowed him to repay it in installments over many months.

He could have seized my parents’ land, especially when they died, but he did not. He let me work in the mead hall to finish repaying him.

He had been a good and benevolent ruler to the people of Holton and a loving father to young Ardith. Leola did not know if an injury, real or imagined, had produced such a response on the sorry town of Donwy.

I shall not judge Sigbert Earlmann for what he did.

But she knew in her heart that that meant she could not judge Britu either.

Seven years ago would make the prince about fifteen, perhaps a warrior in the army yet still a very young impressionable boy. His account of Donwy was too personal to believe he had gained the story from another. Leola knew that he must have been among the discoverers of the destruction.

He has seen horrific things. I cannot blame him for his anger.

Her thoughts traveled to the terror she had felt the night the Britisc destroyed Holton. The putrid smell of burning human flesh. The smothering feeling of dread in the confinement of the mead hall. The woman slain in an instant but a few paces from the steps of the entrance. The darting pain of her swollen ankle, as Leola tried to run in her escape. The look of complete fear on Ardith’s face.

Ardith, the earlmann’s daughter, who had treated her kindly even though she had to work as a servant to pay back the money her father owed the earlmann.

Oh, Ardith!

She had hardly thought of the earlmann’s daughter since that night, when she had pushed the girl away and yelled at her to run.

What a selfish person I have been! Ardith was my friend, and I, not knowing if she managed to get away from the Britisc or even if she lives, have hardly given her another thought for all these long months! Oh, God, wherever Ardith may be, I pray that you protect her from harm.

The rapid beating of the water on the window shutters seemed to pound in Leola’s head like a relentless hammer.

“I must go to bed,” Leola moaned.

She pushed herself up to a standing position and slowly walked back to her rooms. As she went, she felt a pang within her abdomen which grew deeper and sharper with every step.

There is something wrong!

Leola held her stomach and lowered herself on to the cushioned bench in her outer room. Her tired eyes traveled to the rugs at her feet.

“Gytha!” Leola moaned. “Gytha!”

Gytha came running in. “Mistress?” she said. “Are you ill?”

“I’m bleeding!” Leola gasped.

It was her most dreaded nightmare come to life in a single painful instant.

Gytha glanced down at the dark red blood on Leola’s slippers and yelled something to another servant, who rushed back to the hall.

“There, Mistress,” Gytha said to Leola. “She’s called for the midwife. She shall soon be here. Then you shall be fine,” but her face showed her fear.

Fine?

Time passed, and Leola could do nothing but gasp and whimper. Her head turned hot, as if baked in a pot, and her whole body trembled with pain.

The rain outside became forceful and aggressive and the wind groaned some complaint. They seemed to be an extension of the turmoil that raged within her body.

Oh God, give me courage.

“That is Taranis venting his wrath, I think,” came the absent voice.

Owain listened to the wind beat the rain but nothing around him grew wet from the water. He was certain that his skin felt damp from his own perspiration.

“Da,” Owain moaned.

“You are tired, I think,” the voice said. “You must rest, you must.”

The rain beat heavy on the window shutters.

“Grandfather,” King Irael whispered.

Owain looked through the darkened room at an old man who lay comfortably in bed. The man was King Rheiden, his great-grandfather, who had walked that land for over eighty years. King Rheiden had been a fierce warrior and a just ruler of three kingdoms. He had bestowed these lands on his three children, two of which he now out lived.

Although King Rheiden had been a strong man, even in his advanced age, a strange ailment had put him in his bed for the last four months.

“Irael,” King Rheiden said, and chuckled. “You are getting gray hair.”

King Irael laughed. “I am no longer a young man, Grandfather,” he said. “My own child is sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” King Rheiden mused.
“And a great warrior already. That is rare. Where is he?”

“Owain,” King Irael said.

Owain felt his father's eye on him.

“Ie, Da,” he said.

“Come over here, Son,” King Irael said.

Owain stepped forward to the bed and took his great-grandfather's hand.

“I am here, Forefather,” Owain said.

“Listen, Owain,” King Rheiden said. “Listen to the storm, Boy.”

Owain listened to the violent wind and rain.

“That is Taranis god of the sky, the sun, and the thunder,” King Rheiden said. “He demands homage for he is a great and power god, worthy of our respect. But he does not always rage. Most of the time, he shine his sun down on us. That is balance.”

“Ie, Forefather,” Owain replied.

He wondered why his great-grandfather would bother talking about an ancient god that Owain didn't even believe in.

“My daughter, your grandmother, said that you were given the soul of Mascen,” King Rheiden said.

“Ie, Forefather,” Owain said.

He remembered his grandmother's words very well for she had repeated them throughout his childhood.

“The soul of an emperor,” King Rheiden said. “That is not to be taken for granted, Boy.”

“Of course not, Forefather,” Owain replied.

Owain felt that somehow his father must have communicated his own fears on King Rheiden to make his great-grandfather say such things.

“I hear that our clansman, Iorwert King of Lerion, has granted you Calybs,” King Rheiden continued.

“Ie,” Owain said. “He did.”

“The greatest sword for the greatest warrior,” King Rheiden said. “I found that sword in the sacred lake, when I was not too much older than you are now. I was not worthy of it and neither was any of my generation. But I knew that the time would come when a hero would rise up and save this land. I am glad.”

Owain felt proud at these words, that his forefather should recognize him above all of the powerful princes that had walked that land throughout his long life.

“When you dueled Lord Wynn,” King Rheiden said. “How many men did you fight?”

“I... I'm unsure,” Owain replied.

He had not thought of that before and therefore did not have answer.

“Your father says it was six, Boy,” King Rheiden said, his eyebrow raised.

“It was six,” King Irael replied.

“Six, then,” Owain said, confused as to why it should be important.

“Six,” King Rheiden mused. “Six you have conquered and thus six you are.”

Owain was sure he had beaten many more men than that in the three battles he had already fought but decided against arguing with his great-grandfather.

“Six,” King Rheiden mused.

“Ie, Grandfather,” King Irael replied.

“You are the Rowan,” King Rheiden said, to Owain. “Though you burn with an unquenchable fury, you are loyal and protect those you love.”

King Rheiden touched Owain's forehead with his outstretched forefinger and traced the symbol for the rowan there.

“You are the Oak,” King Rheiden said. “Strong, enduring, withstanding all tribulation.”