The Beast of Caer Baddan (21 page)

“Oh, they are up with all this commotion!” Redburga said. “Come out! Your cousin is here.”

The curtain slid back and two blonde girls came out into the living room. They stared at Leola with wide blue eyes.

Redburga pulled them over to her. “These are my youngest two, Erna and Ead.”

“Greetings, Erna and Ead,” Leola said. “My name is Leola.”

“You’re our cousin?” Erna asked
, her face showed her doubt.

“Yea, I am. My mama and your mama were twin sisters.”

“We’re twins too!” Ead cried. “Erna and I!”

“How old are you?” Leola asked.

“We’re eight,” Erna said.

“That is a good age to be.”

“Now, both of you, back to bed,” said Redburga. “Go.”

They went, stealing backwards glances at Leola until they were out of sight.

Leola did not remember ever seeing the little girls before, even when they were infants. What she did remember was cleaning the scrapes and bruises on the knees of her three boy cousins.

“Where are your sons, Aunt?” Leola asked.

Redburga went to the fireplace.

“Here!” she said, abruptly. “It looks hot now. Eat.”

She spooned some stew into a bowl and set it on the table in front of Leola.

Leola was too tired to question her aunt's odd response, and thus ate what she was given and was soon asleep.

Chapter Seventeen: Passing the Sword

The great hall felt dead around Britu as he strode in with Swale and Annon by his sides. The walls seemed to echo the sad news with their every step.

“Owain is dead!

“The heir of the Kingdom of Glouia is dead!

“The Dominae of the Army of Albion is dead!

“The greatest of the Andoco is dead!

“The pride of the Catuvelani is dead!”

Britu saw his own parents, King Gourthigern and Queen Severa, sitting at the far end of the hall. They looked solemn and tired, and from her red eyes and ghostly face, he knew that his mother had been weeping.

Another man sat with them. He wore similar colorful robes and had a thick gold chain around his neck. His graying head was buried in his hands. Britu recognized him as Irael King of Glouia, his mother’s brother and Owain’s own father.

As Britu gazed on his uncle, his soul panged for the man, whose face was aged far beyond his six and forty years. There was a marked expression of loss, sadness, and hopelessness in his eyes, that Britu was sure had never been there before.

“Aurelius,” Queen Severa whispered to King Irael, using his Latin name, “they are here.”

King Irael looked up at the princes, and Britu felt his own wounded heart ripping in two.

“Where is my son?” King Irael said, his voice as broken as his spirits. “Where is my Owain?”

The princes hung their heads.

“What is this?” King Gourthigern cried. “Britu, where is your cousin?”

“His body is lost, Father,” Britu replied, his throat turning dry with every word. “We could not find it in the rain and mud.”

“You should have looked more!” King Gourthigern cried, his accusing eyes cutting into Britu's soul.

“Sir,” Swale said, quickly, as if he might save Britu from his father's contempt. “We searched the battlefield all that afternoon and the whole of the next day. His body is gone. It is lost. The stream had become a river and washed it far away. We do not know where it has gone.”

“Oh, Euginius!” the queen cried.

King Irael gasped for air and clutched his chest, and Britu felt as though his uncle held his heart in his hand.

King Gourthigern moved as if to berate the princes, but his brother-in-law held up a peaceful hand as if to say “Be still.”

“No body to bury!” King Irael gasped. “That is the way it must be. My boy! My poor little Owain!”

“Sir,” Swale said, “today, we are proud of Owain Prince of Glouia. For his death was more glorious then all of his other battles combined. He fought seventeen knights like a mighty hero of old long since. He cut them down and then killed their leader, Tudwal King of the Dumnonni, one of the greatest warriors of the South Country and the mortal enemy of the Andoco. No man however skilled or strong could stand against Owain.”

“That is true,” Annon said. “There is none more brave then Owain. He was the greatest of men.”

“Then how did he die?” King Irael
asked, his voice hoarse and breaking.

Britu spoke before he could stop himself. “God killed him.”

“Britu!” cried King Gourthigern.

“It was a strike of lightning,” Swale said, his sad voice hurried. “He thrust his sword through the neck of King Tudwal and it stuck fast into the trunk of an oak tree. The lightning bolt touched the tree and killed Owain, who was still holding the sword with his hand.”

Britu believed that Swale assumed too much of what they did not know for sure, but knew it was not the time or place to contradict.

King Irael grew silent, thinking of these words.

“My son was worth more than seventeen men or even the whole Army of the Dumnonni,” he said, gripping the arms of his chair and rising to his feet. “He was my only child and now he is gone? Now he is dead?”

Britu thought the very silence of the room pierced him through.

“His sword, Clansman,” Swale whispered, no longer able to speak up.

He
unwrapped the weapon and presented it naked to their clansman.

“The Sword of Togodum,” King Irael said, taking it up for all to see its magnificent blade.
“Forged in Aracon, in the secret fires of the Black Mountains. The greatest sword for the greatest warrior. My grandfather, Rheiden was unworthy of it when he found it in the sacred lake. Nor was any of his family worthy, for they had submitted to the Romans. My brother Victor once thought that he would gain it. Yet he too failed to prove himself. But Owain, my little Owain, in his grief, and guilt, and broken heart, became a hero of all times. Proved himself better than all the rulers of Albion combined. Showed his greatness like the valiant Pendragons of long ago. And when he was granted this fabled sword, he killed a thousand men and saved a thousand thousand people.”

The whole blade glimmered, as if it too was a testament of Owain's superiority.

“Swale Prince of Ewyas,” King Irael continued. “Take it.”

Britu was both shocked and relieved together. He breathed easy that his uncle did not hand the sword off to himself, and with it, the weighted responsibility. Yet he was also surprised by the king's flippancy. The looks on his parents' faces told him that they too were stunned.

Swale backed away from King Irael, horrified out of his usual calm.

“I am not worthy of it, Sir,” Swale replied, his words no louder than a heartbeat.

“Then you must make yourself worthy of it, and wield it when you are,” King Irael replied, still holding out the weapon to the prince. “If you be not, then you must find one who is. Your son, or Britu's son when he should have one, or another of our clan. The island must be protected. The people must not be left to die by enemy hands.”

“Of course
not, Clansman.”

Swale took back the sword and wrapped it up in the cloth once more, but Britu heard the fear in his solemn voice.

“Brother,” the queen said, laying a tender hand on King Irael's shoulder. “He was the greatest ever. You can be proud of his conquests.”

“You mean of battles or women?” King Irael replied.

“Battle, Brother-”

“No, no,” King Irael replied. “Do not try to dampen it. I have no son and no heir. Everything that I have built, everything that he had built, shall fade away. As my nephew said, God killed him.”

Britu was ashamed for his words, and no one ventured to speak.

“I shall order the funeral,” King Irael said.

“Let me help you, Aurelius,” the queen said.

“No, no, little Sister. Be with your son. For you know not what lies in these dark days.”

King Irael walked out of the hall, and although Britu could only see his back, he knew that his uncle was weeping.

Leola remembered Anlofton to be a quiet village, but the hush that now fell over it was not of calm serenity. It was harsh, thick, and fearful, as if the houses themselves were awaiting death.

It was two days since she had arrived, when Leola hobbled out to the well in the center of the village. She had spent the time doing small house work for her aunt and nursing her swollen ankle, yet soon grew weary of indoors and used lack of water as an excuse to step out.

She was hardly to the well, when she found herself surrounded by the village women, who had come out to inspect the newcomer and badger her with questions.

“What happened in Holton?”

“Is everyone dead?”

“How did you get away?”

Leola tried to answer the questions without divulging too much unfathomable information. She did not want the women of Anlofton labeling her a liar and a fantasist.

“What we really need to know is if the Britisc are coming back here,” one woman said, and the rest quickly agreed.

Leola frowned in confusion.

“But what do you mean, 'If the Britisc are coming back?'” she asked. “Were they here as well?”

“Did Redburga not tell you?” one woman asked.

“The Britisc ridends came through four days ago,” another woman said. “Villains.”

“They took all of the boys who were over eleven who had not gone with the army.”

My cousins! Redburga's sons!

“What has happened to them?” Leola asked
, afraid for the answer that she knew would come.

The women grew silent, and Leola could hear her own heart pounding in her breast.

“We think they are dead,” one said, at last. 

“My poor aunt,” Leola gasped, trying to contain herself. “They were just boys.”

“Well, at least she has the girls. Bebbe over there, she has no daughters.” She pointed to a woman sitting on a barrel in front of her hut.

“You are Alburga’s daughter?” another woman asked, her voice hurried as if she wished to change the subject.

“Yea,” Leola said, absently.

“We were so sad to hear that she was dead.”

Leola did not want to think of her parents and forced the conversation away from that topic as well.

“What children are still here?” she asked.

“My Drudi is almost your age,” one woman said. “You shall be good friends.”

“Ah! Here is the dryhtcwen, Fridiswid,” another woman said.

Leola heard the malice dripping from her words.

“The
wife, or I suppose widow, of our earlmann,” said another woman.

Leola knew that in such a small village, Fridiswid must be the only noble woman around. She was apparently the only woman who still wore nice attire. While the rest of the village must have given up their metal adornments to see their warriors equipped for battle, the dryhtcwen had kept her long necklaces, circular breastplates, and colorful overskirt.