The Beast of Caer Baddan (31 page)

“Very well, Britu,” the queen replied, with an understanding although unsympathetic nod. “I must see to her, this Leola.”

She went up the stairs, leaving Britu more wretched then before.

Leola sat at a small table while the servant women combed out her long hair and twisted it in to some strange pile in the back of her head. There was nothing for Leola to do but stare ahead at the silver mirror which hung from the wall. It was the first true likeness that she had ever seen of herself, for she had not paid any attention to the mirror hanging in Owain’s tent. The reflection she saw before her, indeed, the very thought of a reflection, fascinated her. She touched her cheeks and hair, and smiled at it.

“Mistress?” one of the servant women said in Saxon.

“Yea,” she replied, surprised at the title given to her.

What I called Ardith for so many months!

“I am Gytha,” the servant said.

“Gytha?” Leola said, in relief. “You are Gewissae.”

“Yea, Mistress,” Gytha replied. “I am told I shall stay with you and translate the Britisc words for you.”

Leola smiled brightly, as her body filled with ease.

Until then, none of the servants had been able to actually communicate with her, for they conversed in Brythonic, which she neither spoke nor understood. To see a Gewissae, one of her own people, and speak in her own language was a great comfort.

“I am sure I shall need that,” Leola said. “I never seem to know what is going on.”

“It is very different here than in Gewisland,” Gytha said. “But it is not too hard to get used to.”

The doors opened, and the servant women moved aside and bowed to the woman who entered.

Leola marveled, for the stranger was both the tallest and skinniest woman she had ever seen.

“I am Severa Queen of Atrebat, Prince Owain's aunt,” the woman said in Brythonic.

Gytha quickly translated the words into Saxon.

“Greetings, Queen Severa,” Leola said. She rose to her feet but could only bow her head.

The queen glanced at one of the servants, asked something to which they answered.

When the queen was satisfied by their response, she sat down on one of the cushioned chairs and indicated to Leola to take the one across from her.

Leola set herself down with care and breathed a sigh of relief, for sitting was now a great comfort to her aching feet and sensitive lower back.

I shall blame those stairs. Why have so many in a mead hall?

“You are very far along,” Queen Severa said, with arched eye brows.

“Not very,” Leola replied. “About six months, I think.”

The queen gazed at Leola long and hard, as if she might just by looking in her eyes, open up her thoughts and discover some lie.

What is it? What is wrong with you?

“My nephew, Prince Owain, is dead,” the queen said.

Leola's heart stopped its rhythm, and she felt the blood draining from her face. When she tried to pull air into her lungs, her head went light and dizzy, as if the room were spinning around her.

What did you say?

Owain could not actually be dead, but as Leola looked on the queen's serious face, she knew that she meant her words.

With some short forced gasps, Leola steadied herself and tried to speak.

“When?” was all she could manage.

“He died that afternoon, after your marriage,” the queen replied.

These icy words stabbed Leola in the throat.

“Emrys King of Pengwern has agreed to take you,” the queen continued. “You shall stay with his wife Queen Madge until your labor, and then we shall find a suitable place for you.”

But Leola could not process these things, for one thought stayed foremost in her mind.

“What?” she said. “I do not understand. What has happened to him?”

“Prince Owain is dead,” Queen Severa said.

“But how?”

“That is all,” the queen replied, rising to her feet and departing as abruptly as she had come.

Leola looked around the room, but her eyes would not rest on anything. Her head felt hot, and her stomach twisted within her.

“No! No! No!”
her heart screamed.

Owain was not
be dead. He simply could not be dead. He had to be alive.

Leola put her head in her hands and wept.

Oh, Owain! Why?

“Die! Die! Die!” Owain screamed.

His voice was harsh and broken from yelling, and his arms so tired that he thought they might fall off, yet the ferocious beating in his chest would not allow him to stop.

He hacked at the pile of crumbled man at his feet, hardly seeing the blood he flung high in the air or the putrid odder that seeped from the body
.

Die! Die! Die!”

Chapter Twenty Five: Hope for an Heir

King Irael stared into the blazing hearth and took no notice of the servants' movement around him.

“Prince Inam of the Dobunni is here to wait on you, King,” the steward said.

“What? Again?” King Irael replied, hardly taking his eyes off of the fire. “Very well. Show the man in.”

A moment passed, and a sturdy young man, clad in scale armor and a colorful cape,

entered the sitting room. His eyes and hair were dark brown and his neck was thick, traits often seen in Dobunni people. He bowed to King Irael, but the king did not rise to greet him.

“What do you want, Prince Inam?” King Irael asked. “Or rather, what does your brother, Lord Eisu want?”

For King Irael knew that no journey to see him was of the prince's own volition, as his role had always been a messenger for his older brother, the ruler of the Dobunni people.

“Eisu, Lord of the Dobunni-”

“Ie, Ie,” the king said, tired of false nobility. “Waste not my time and yours on ceremony. Be out with it.”

“You chose the Mayor of Gloui from among the Silerae people.”

It was that old debate. Questioning who should be given power over the Three Cities, Baddan, Ceri, and Gloui. These selfish lords had protested the appointment of the Mayor of Ceri, a conclusion that had taken the king seven months to reach. Now they were challenging the latest appointment, the Mayor of Gloui, the largest and most prestigious city in Albion.

“That decision was not one completed over night, Prince,” King Irael replied. “I chose the Mayor of Gloui from among capable men.”

“But not among Dobunni men.”

The king was far too weary to be patient with the prince. “Obviously, there were no men better suited among the Dobunni,” he replied. “I placed the best man in the position.”

“This is a grave affront to my people, people who call you their king.”

King Irael marveled at the blindness and conceit that he saw in the prince. “And you believe that there are no other people in Gloui or in the countryside of Glouia but the Dobunni? You believe yourselves to be all? You have much to learn of the world, Prince Inam, for it is a vast place with many, many different people.”

Prince Inam's eyes burned with anger. “And yet the Mayor of Gloui is a Silurae. In fact, a clansman of your own wife.”

King Irael thought on these words, for although they cut him deeply, he would not disregard them. But even when he examined his heart, he knew that he was right. If he had wished to placate his wife's family, he would have given the position to someone more prominent within the clan or to someone of a closer relationship to her. The truth was that he picked a man who was honest and trustworthy, traits that were hard to come by in any tribe.

“This is not a large world, King, but a very small one,” Prince Inam said. “The Dumnoni know full well how you punish us for her death.”

“Prince,” King Irael replied. He tried to keep a steady voice, but the agony that those memories brought were now tenfold from his son's death. “The appointment has no connection to my wife or the circumstances of her murder. I do not punish anyone for that crime, as devastating as it was.

Prince Inam seemed impressed by these words, but it was obvious that he was not finished protesting.

“King Irael,” he said, “if you would but consider the wise men of our tribe, the good, capable men that-”

“I am the king. I do as I see fit.”

“But, King-”

“Go.”

“As you wish.”

The prince bowed, yet even then King Irael would not acknowledge him. His gaze was fixed on the firelight and could not be moved. Bitter tears soon ran down his rough cheeks.

“Owain,” he whispered. “Owain. My boy. My son. Why were you taken from me?”

King Irael sat in the same place the next morning, his eyes ever on the consuming flame. He heard the door open and little feet rush in, and knew that it was Owain’s child, Gratianna.

“I have caught a butterfly, grandfather!” she squealed with joy.

The king gazed on her with a sorrowed heart. She looked so much like her father, his
son, that it pained him to look on her. His wounds were still too fresh, and he knew not how to reach out to a small child.

The door opened once more and a nervous nurse entered and curtsied to him.

“Forgive-“ she said, but he interrupted her speech.

“Go on, Gratianna,” he said, kindly, and to the nurse. “Give her some cake or something.”