The Beast of Caer Baddan (36 page)

“Is that a baby?” Gratianna asked, pointing to Leola's protruding stomach.

Leola nodded again.

“That's a big baby,” Gratianna said. “God keep you,” and she scurried off.

Leola put her arms around herself and gazed down at her growing stomach.

“You are a big baby,” she said.

Leola felt the infant move one way and then the other within her, as if in agreement. She didn't know why, but her heart felt as though it had filled up with joy.

“And strong too,” she said, “and handsome.”

Leola put her hands through her hair, but her fingers got caught in the combs.

Ugh!

Leola tried to pull them out, and found that they stayed fast in her locks.

What is wrong with these things?

She shook her head from side to side and then picked at the combs until each one released its hold on her hair and came out.

Worthless. I should have worn braids as I always do
.

She fingered her hair until it smoothed out, then parted it down the middle and braided it into two long tails. Her tender head soon felt relaxed with her hair back the way she had always had it.

What is the point of other hair styles when they make your head feel terrible?

When the sun grew warm on her, Leola pulled herself up and slowly walked back inside and returned to her room. She was just sitting down, when the door opened again, and Queen Severa stepped in.

“God keep you-” Leola said, but stopped.

The queen was staring at her, with wide eyes and ashen face. “Fix her hair,” she said to one of the servants.

“My head hurts,” Leola said, when Gytha had repeated it to her in Saxon. “I can't have those things in it. It hurts.”

“You shall wear your hair properly,” the queen replied. “The way you are, you look like a commoner.”

Leola thought this was a very silly thing to say.

“I am a commoner,” she said.

“No,” the queen now spoke in Latin, and although Gytha did not understand, Leola knew enough Latin to decipher it. “You are a prisoner and a slave. You should have been sold at auction, you worthless, ignorant fool.”

The queen went to the door.

“Fix her hair,” she said to the servants in Brythonic and was gone.

The servants hurried to comb and redo Leola's hair until it was up and decorative the way it had been earlier in the morning.

Leola sat there where she was, and stared out into the room.

It was beautiful but foreign, like everything else around her. It was not her home, and these people around her were not her people. The clothes, the garden, and the pretty child belonged to another, and Leola was a stranger in it all.

“Do you want me to rub your feet, Mistress?” Gytha asked.

Mistress
.

“No, Gytha. Please leave me,” Leola replied.

I am no one's mistress, nor can I ever be, but at least I do not have to be someone's slave
.

With that, she rose once more, took up the blanket that was lying idly on the bench and walked out into the passageway.

“You are not dead, I think,” said an unfamiliar voice. “You are not dead, not dead. But you must eat, must eat.”

Owain felt hot food, tasteless and foul together,
slip down his raw throat.

“You are not dead, I think,” the voice continued. “You are not dead.”

A wide open space extended from where Owain stood with his father, their clansman King Iorwerth, and a few knights of Lerion. On the other side of it was Lord Wynn, the lord's champion Prince Teirtu, and some knights who had rallied to his cause.

“Do not give Prince Teirtu a chance, Owain,” King Irael said. “For he shall give none to you.”

Owain walked out into open
field until he stood half way between his own party and his enemy. His steady gaze caught Prince Teirtu's glance and their eyes locked together, as if daring each other to strike. Prince Teirtu then laughed, took up his shield, and strode out towards him.

“Owain is it?” Prince Teirtu asked.

An amused gleam danced in his eyes.

“It is,” Owain replied. “And you are Prince Teirtu.”

“You are a skinny little boy,” Prince Teirtu said. “Do not think I shall be easy on you because of it.”

“My father warned me that you would not be,” Owain replied.

Prince Teirtu drew his sword, and Owain drew his own as well, lest the prince should attack him before he had it ready.

“I'm glad we have such an understanding,” Prince Teirtu said.

The prince lunged at him, but Owain side stepped him and deflected his heavy swing off his shield.

“Good feet, boy,” the prince said, impressed. “But shall they save you?”

He struck again, yet Owain ducked his head and let the attack sail over him.

“And you can dodge well, I see,” Prince Teirtu said. “But you cannot out step me forever.”

Owain brushed another sword strike away with his raised shield.

“I shall kill you,” the prince said. “And laugh over your body.”

Owain hooked the prince’s sword with his own weapon and moved them both away from their bodies. He struck the prince hard across the face with the bronze boss of his shield. Prince Teirtu flew backwards onto the ground, dropped his sword, and held his face.

“Surrender!”
Owain cried.

Prince Teirtu tried to knock Owain’s sword away with his own shield, but Owain hit his mark. He pushed the blade deep into the prince’s exposed neck until blood came gushing from the wound. The prince gasped, blood pouring from his mouth, and then lay still.

Owain dropped to his knees before the dead prince, his heart full with relief.

“Owain!”

He heard his father calling him, but he felt he was not yet finished.

Owain looked over at the congregation of Lord Wynn’s supporters.

“Do you want him?” he cried. “If you want him come and get him!”

“Owain! Don’t!” King Irael cried.

But four of Lord Wynn’s knights were already descending on Owain, their swords draw to fight.

Chapter Twenty Nine: A Father and a Daughter

Leola's determined feet took her out into the front hall. The servants there did not speak to her yet quickly made way for her to pass, and those who were not busy about their work gave her a respectful bow or curtsy as she went. Leola did not pay them any attention but walked on, out the large wooden front doors and down the stone steps into the courtyard.

The warm autumn day's heat brushed her face and seemed to heal a portion of her wounded soul.

Shall I stay or go?

Yet even when she asked herself this question, her heart screamed the answer.

Why stay to be tormented? These people did not want her, did not love her. They were her enemies, hardly willing to tolerate her because she carried Owain's child. She neither liked them nor wished to be with them.

Leola set her shoulders.

I walked out of a Britisc camp. I can walk out of a Britisc mead hall
.

The iron gates were opened for a group of knights to enter, and when the gatekeepers there saw Leola, they held them thus and bowed to her. The knights noticed her clothes and hairstyle and moved aside for her.

And I always feared knights, as any woman does
.

Leola did not dwell on these thoughts, for her feet took her out to the main road, through the busy marketplace.

People bustled around her, buying, selling, or just moving about the city. Leola was surprised to find that even in their hurry, the people noticed her and bowed low, calling her “Princess.”

I am Owain's cwen
.

But being a cwen was of no true advantage. She could just as easily have walked out without their grave bows and honored words. She did not need the whole city to move aside as she passed by.

What she needed was acceptance, love, and peace, things that she was sure she would never receive in a Britisc home.

Out through the city gates, the road offered her a choice: to go northwest, southwest, and southeast. She picked the last of these three, deciding that it would have been the highway they had taken when they originally traveled from Venta to Baddan.

It must soon offer another road south to Tiwton
.

She knew that she would no longer be welcome in Anlofton yet felt that any place would be a distinct improvement over Baddan. Tiwton would also be an ideal place to go, for she remembered that her father had had friends there, other Christians. Although they were of no blood relationship to her, they might feel sorry enough for her to let her stay.