The Beast of Caer Baddan (5 page)

Even as she went to her work, his eyes seemed to burn into her mind as if there was something very evil behind them.

Leola's right hand slipped behind her to the apron knot once more. Her knife was there, where she had always kept it, and if this Cadfan Aetheling came near her, she would stab him dead. It may take all the courage within her, but she would do it and have no regret.

Chapter Four: The Maetae Camp

Mounts were brought for the knights, and both Swale and Britu came to the front to find Owain.

“Are we going to make chase, Owain?” Britu asked.

He was holding the reigns of eager to be gone.

“That we shall,” Owain replied. “We shall harry the Maetae.”

The knights each climbed onto a war pony and were ready to depart.

These were not Roman horses, but strong and intelligent creatures, born in Albion just like their human counterparts and bred to withstand the strenuous and variant terrain. The knights and princes alike had full confidence in these mighty animals.

A servant brought Owain his own mount, and their party was soon off. They were wary of any ambush and so stayed away from the trees but rode on quickly after their fleeing enemy.

Owain noticed when they crossed over broken piles of white bricks scattered about in the heather and grass. He knew they had come on one of the old Roman walls, the fortification that had for only a few years divided the Britannae of the North Country from their more northern foes.

“We are in Maetae land now,” Owain said. “Be aware.”

He did not wish to lose a knight in that unforgiving place.

“So close!” Britu cried. “And here they are!”

Just before them lay the whole of the enemy camp.

Owain could see the ill clad servants running off in a panic and the warriors only just arriving at the tents.

Owain drew his sword once more and gave its blade a fleeting glance.

It was the greatest weapon on the island, the fabled Calybs the Sword of Togadum. He had been granted it by its keeper, the King of Lerion, and was the first to wield the weapon in hundreds of years. It was said to have cursed all who dared use it but were unworthy of its power. Owain had fought with it for over six years and felt blessed.

The Pictii warriors who were still left in the camp saw them riding up and prepared a quick attack. They came up close to Owain's mount and tried to jump up and knock him off. He cut them back away from him with swift strikes, slicing through their arms or across their exposed chests.

The enemy fell back and fled, and Owain followed after them, striking them down with blade or pommel.

Owain saw the quick spring of a warrior to his left and blocked the man's blow with the bronze boss of his shield. The weight and momentum of his adversary knocked Owain completely off of his mount. He tucked his head and rolled over onto the ground. The Pictii fell to the dirt as well, and the two sprang up at once, facing each other.

Owain held his shield and sword, while his enemy faced him with war club and a newly draw long knife.

Owain saw his enemy's gaze back at him, daring him to attack, but Owain had not risen victorious over every foe from being impulsive. He waited, watching his enemy before him, until the man could hold back no more. The warrior sprang at Owain, his arm lifted high for a decisive club strike. Owain could see the defense of the man's body open as the arm was rose high above the head. Owain thrust his sword forward into the center of the warrior's armorless chest and brushed aside the man's blow with a jerk of his curved shield. The enemy fell at his feet, convulsed, and then was still.

Owain looked up from the body of the warrior, gazing around and listening for another assault. None came, for the princes and knights had vanquished the remaining foes.

Owain's foot kicked something in the dirt, and he knelt down to pick up a small bone handled knife. It was a very pretty little trinket, and Owain thought it would make an excellent present for his little daughter.

There came a short gasping sound from with the tent before him. Owain glanced in, finding two bright eyes that stared back into him own. Owain pulled the tent flap up and knelt down on the hard ground.

There within, he saw a Pictii girl huddled back at the far side of the tent. Her slender legs were pulled up to her chin as if to protect herself from some assault, and she shivered more from fear than from the cool morning. She looked like she was just thirteen, too young to be in the camp for any reason.

“/Tain uscon/” Owain said, in the Language of the Pictii.
“Come.”

The girl did not move, but stared at him with huge gray eyes.

“/Ta ruith, eortot/” Owain said, holding out an empty hand for her to take.
“You are safe, Child.”

One of the knights yelled something, and the girl jump in fright.

Owain's quick ears caught her panicked voice.

It was either “/Ranruith ga/” or “/Taruith ga/” for he was uncertain, yet he did not think it mattered if her words were an appeal to a deity or to Owain himself. This was a field of blood, no place for a young girl, and he would get her out of it.

Owain looked on her, cocking his head to one side and turning his body away in order to appear smaller then he actually was.

“/Tain uscon, eortot/” he said again, his own tone quiet and easy. “/Tain uscon/ Ta ruith/”

She crept forward towards him and soon reached out and took his hand.

He helped her up then and led her over to where the warriors had left some of their ponies. Owain chose one that seemed gentle and lifted her on it.

“/Taorciu uscon, eortot/” he said.
“Go, Child.”

She took the offered reins but just continued to stare at him.

“/Taorciu uscon/” he said, and stepped back away for her to pass.

She smiled and then beckoned the mount forwards.

Owain did not wait to watch her ride away, for his cousin’s harsh voice called him back to the war.

“Owain!”
Britu cried. “What are you doing?”

“What is it?” Owain asked, ignoring the question.

“We wait for your orders,” Britu replied, his irritation clear in his harsh voice.

“Burn the camp,” Owain said.

“Burn the camp,” Britu repeated.

The knights hastened to obey and lit up the tents until the flames danced high in the air.

For a moment the party watched the massive bonfire they created, as if it too was a part of their victory celebration. Then Owain ordered them mounted, and they took their way south but a little west of the way they had come, lest the enemy had planted a trap for them.

When Owain and his party arrived back at the main battlefield, the soldiers were already cleaning up the pieces of broken shields and weaponry and the servants were running around, tending the wounded.

“Owain! Owain! Owain!” the soldiers began to chant, as Owain rode passed.

His heart swelled with pride. This was the third battle he had fought against the Pictii, and all three proved victories for him.

“Prince Owain!” his ears caught the rumbling voice of their host.

“King Coel,” Owain said. “We have won. The enemy is subdued, and your people are safe.”

“I'm eternally indebted, Dominae!” the king replied.

Owain could see the peace in the king’s mien.

“I leave you then, King,” Owain replied. “God keep you.”

King Coel’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in shock.

“What?” he cried. “What do you mean? You have risked your life a thousand times today! Stay! I shall give you another feast!”

“I'm expected in Lerion, but I thank you for your hospitality.”

Owain did not mind lying to King Coel or to anyone else who was not of his own clan. The truth was far from diplomatic, and he knew that the powerful King of the Brigantae was a valued ally even if their tribes were traditionally enemies. It would just be unwise to say “I have grown tired of the North Country and am going home.” Prudence demanded that Owain keep peace between himself and the Brigantae king.

There was a delicate balance that his own great grandfather had spoken of just before he died. On one side lay loyalty, endurance, and might, while the other had prudence, passion, and unity. Owain had learned long ago to be guided by them intertwined within him, and armed
thus, he was a force like no other.

Thus he thanked his host and the princes of the Brigantae and left the field of carnage. He was not yet to the bath house when one of the centurions caught up to him.

“What are your orders, Dominae?” the man asked.

“Cut off their heads and burn the bodies,” Owain replied, without hesitation.

He was sensitive towards the long standing rituals left with them from ancient times. It was said that man’s power housed in his brain, and thus by removing the heads, the soldiers claimed their enemies’ power. Although the belief had long ago died out, the tradition remained, and Owain would not change it.

“Then strike the winter lodgings,” he continued. “We leave Gododdin tomorrow.”

The centurion went, and Owain was left with his musings and his bath.

The servants came and removed his heavy armor piece by piece, and his back felt weightless at the change. He looked on his sword, tracing the carvings in its blade with the tip of his forefinger, before he surrendered it over to his servant’s care.

“Are you well, Master?” his servant asked.

“Ie, Leir,” Owain replied. “I simply think.”

At that moment, he wished to dwell on nothing at all. No war, no debt, no death, only the warm water at it washed the sweat and blood from his body.