The Beast of Caer Baddan (35 page)

Owain’s gaze fell over the rulers who sat around the circular table, resting once more on the confident face of his father.

“There are still ways of settling this, King Iorwerth,” King Irael said to the man who sat at the head of the table.

At thirty, King Iorwerth was fit and healthy, yet Owain knew that the man had never been a great warrior. A duel, such as the one this Lord Wynn was purposing, would certainly end King Iorwerth's life.

“I'm at a loss,” King Iorwerth replied. “Advise me, Clansman, for Lord Wynn shall be the death of all of us.”

“He shows everything that he has at once in order to intimidate you,” King Irael said. “But be assured he has nothing else hidden. He wants praise so dearly that he cannot keep his own secrets. Lord Wynn shall be his own downfall.”

“I need a champion,” King Iorwerth said, bitterly.

A burning desire filled Owain up from the depth of his stomach to to the top of his head. It was a mixture of longing and rage together. His mother had lost her life defending him against a man who had wished to supplant his father. Here now was another man, Lord Wynn, who was trying to do the exact same thing to their clansman Iorwerth King of Lerion.

All the
honor taught to Owain over his mere sixteen years now screamed aloud for

justice
. Honor for clan, family, position, and his mother's gracious memory. Together, they gave Owain a sense of purpose that he had never felt before.

“I shall fight for you, King,” Owain said, at once.

“What?” King Iorwerth cried, his eyes bulging from his face.

“Owain,” King Irael said
, as if to say “Be silent.”

“You are just a boy, Prince Owain,” King Iorwerth replied.

Owain thought he saw a hint of amusement in his clansman's surprised face.

“I am unafraid, King Iorwerth,” Owain replied.

“No, my little Owain,” King Irael said, with a shake of his graying head.

Owain was certain that he was now as big as his father but did not say so.

“Do you believe I cannot best him, Da?” he asked.

“Do you believe that you can?” King Irael replied.

Somehow, Owain knew that his mother was watching him, and he refused to disappoint her.

“I believe that I must,” he said.

Sorrow seemed to swell up King Irael's deep green eyes, and when he spoke, his voice went hoarse.

“I believe that you can best Lord Wynn and his champion both,” he replied, and he sighed. “You may fight, my son.”

“No!” King Iorwerth cried, his own eyes filling with horror. “He is just sixteen! He's only been in three battles! You would pit him against a fierce warrior!”

“Some are born to fight,” King Irael replied. “Owain is such a man, though he
be a but a child still. He shall fight for you.”

King Iorwerth was not convinced, but Owain did not care what that man believed. The fact that his father thought him capable of winning anything gave Owain added confidence and resolve.

“You may send the messenger to Lord Wynn with acceptance,” Owain said.

Chapter Twenty Eight: A Commoner and a Slave

Leola watched as the servants scurried about the room, warming the fire in the hearth and setting one of the small wooden
table for her dinner. She assumed that they did not know how to speak in Saxon but wondered what they would say to her if they had. Gytha alone could speak to her, and Leola was more than happy to communicate with the girl.

“I'm so tired,” Leola said. “And my head hurts now.”

“It is these things in your hair, Mistress,” Gytha replied. “Here, let me.”

Gytha slid the bone combs out of Leola's hair and let it unravel itself.

“So much better,” Leola said, rubbing her fingers over her scalp.

“You have never worn your hair up before, Mistress?” Gytha asked.

“No,” Leola replied, promptly. “Always braided. I never realized there were other ways to wear my hair.”

Yet as she said this she realized that even in the small town and villages of Gewissae there were what might be considered different hair styles. Unmarried woman wore a single braid, married women had two braids, and many older widows knotted their hair at the back of their necks.

Gytha jumped and looked around, as if searching for something.

“What is it?” Leola asked.

“I thought I heard something, Mistress,” the girl said.

There came a clacking sound, as if someone was knocking on hallow wood.

“I hear it,” Leola replied. “It is right outside the window.”

Gytha went to one of the windows and opened the lattice shutters. “Nothing,” she said and went to another.
“Nothing. Oh!”

The child was peering up out of the bushes through the window at them.

“Gratianna?” Leola said.

The child sprang to her feet and stared at Leola in surprise.

“Is that your name?” Leola asked, and Gytha repeated it in Brythonic.

“It is,” the child said. “I am Gratianna,” but she spoke in Latin which Gytha did not know.

“It is all right, Gytha,” Leola said. “I think I can understand her. God keep you, Gratianna. I am Leola.”

Gytha translated this last part into Brythonic, but Gratianna replied once more in Latin.

“God keep you, Leola,” she said.

“How old are you?” Leola asked.

“Three,” Gratianna replied, in Latin. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” Leola replied, for she was sure that she had not yet turned twenty.

“What is that?” the child asked, a confused expression consuming her little face.

“It is a lot older then you are,” Leola replied, with a giggle.

“Oh.”

“What is that in your hand?” Leola asked.

Gratianna held a cloth doll through the window for them to see.

“Does she have a name?” Leola asked.

“Doll,” Gratianna replied.

“I see. Well then, God keep you, doll.”

The child began to giggle. “That's funny!” she cried, and ran off into the thick of the garden.

The next day brought with it a renewal of the rituals from before. The bathing, dressing, and hair styling of the previous morning was completed with precision on the part of the servants, and boredom on the part of Leola.

Do these Britisc aethelings ever do anything without first taking a bath?

When Gytha was satisfied with her appearance she held up a small silver mirror for Leola to see. Leola had to agree with the treatment then, for she thought her reflection was nice, although much of it she owed to having a real mirror at her disposal.

Queen Severa came in. “Are you feeling well?” she asked, and Gytha translated.

“Yea, I am,” Leola replied. “Do you know Gratianna?”

“Owain's illegitimate daughter,” Queen Severa replied. “What of her?”

Something deep within her told Leola that she should not ask. “Why did she not stay with her mother?”

“She is illegitimate,” the queen replied. “Her mother did not wish to keep her, as she had newly married. She did not want her new husband's house to be clouded by the connection.”

“Why did she not marry Owain?”

“Because it was not a good match for Prince Owain. She was nothing but a Trinovanti. Her father was a prince of no land or position. Her mother's brother was a mere chieftain. A woman like that is not a fitting wife for an Andoco, for the Prince of Glouia, for the Champion of Albion, for the dominae. She was a…” but here, the queen shut her mouth. “Do you need a change of rooms?”

Leola was startled by the change in conversation and knew not how to respond.

“No,” she said, at last. “I like these rooms. Thank you.”

“Thank King Irael.”

To Leola's shock, Queen Severa rose and departed without another word.

What an arrogant woman she is! And I am nothing at all!

For she felt that her own position must be so far beneath that of Gratianna's mother for the queen to even look at her.

I wish I was in Anlofton with my aunt
.

Leola rubbed her belly.

“You would like my aunt far more than your father's aunt,” she said. “For Redburga has the greatest of hearts.”

She missed her aunt and cousins, for they were the only family she had left. Even Fridiswid, young Drudi, and the women of Anlofton who had shunned her were now remembered with a fair eye.

They were her people, common people, ordinary people, and she belonged with them. She did not feel comfortable here with strange hair styles and critical people looking down on her.

Leola was aware that she could not return to Anlofton, for the village women's shunning her would probably continue at the detriment of her aunt and cousins. She also knew that her feelings of loss and turmoil had followed her from Holton.

Leola wondered at her emotional heart, that she should never feel satisfied and at peace. To her, the harmony and sanctuary of home only existed with her mother and father. Perhaps the baby in her womb would give her the purpose she had not had since she arrived in her aunt's village over six months before.

“I shall try to focus on you, my love. We shall survive together.”

It was still early when Leola finished her breakfast and went out to the garden. The air was cool, and the trees smelled fresh and clean from the morning dew. Leola found a comfortable bench to sit on and basked in the sunlight.

“God keep you,” a little voice said in Latin.

Leola opened her eyes to find the child, Gratianna, standing a bit away from her.

“Did I surprise you?” Gratianna asked.

Leola was unsure how to answer in that language and thus nodded an affirmation.

“I surprised you!” the child squealed in delight.

Leola beamed at her glee.

You are so darling! How could your mother ever leave you?

Leola then gazed at the child with a keen eye, searching for any likeness to Owain. She saw him in the little girl's deep emerald eyes, curly red hair, and broad confidant smile.

You are so beautiful
.