The Beast of Caer Baddan (51 page)

Owain took a step forward into the great hall, but his weary feet felt like rocks as he moved them.

He cast a long look around and noticed everything within the massive room. The chairs, benches, the tables, the banners, everything was as it had been a year before when he last said farewell to his family. He was certain there was no change, and yet he himself was so greatly altered that he did not even feel it was his home.

“Owain!”
King Irael cried.

Owain's tired eyes looked up to see his father rush forward and throw his long arms around him.

“My son! My little boy!” the king cried. “You have returned to me!”

At first Owain shivered in his embrace, shrinking back at the contact that he had not had for so long. Yet his father held him there and would not release him, and soon Owain felt some of his pain melt away in those comforting arms.

“Where have you been?” his father's voice continue. “Where have you been all this long time?”

Owain shivered again.

“You are cold!” King Irael cried. “The night is freezing! Come in! Here is the fire!”

Owain felt his body move into the hall toward one of the great fireplaces along the walls. He was too cold, exhausted, and in grave pain to do anything but allow his father to take him.

“Tuathal!” the king cried. “Tuathal!”

The steward appeared at the door with a host of servants behind him.

“Serve young Master Owain!” the king cried. “He has returned to us once more!”

The steward hurried the servants on to different tasks, but Owain's mind was too heavy to listen to the words.

King Irael pulled his own chair over to the fire for Owain to sit down. Servants brought one of the tables forward and laid it with meat, bread, and wine. Owain hardly noticed until the aroma awakened a deep need within the pit of his stomach. He was sure he had spent many months hardly eating anything but ill composed porridge, only to walk the whole day and half of the night to find Baddan. He was in dire want of substance.

He felt the servants washing his hands in the large basin they set before him. With his rings removed and his nails scrubbed, he began to feel a bit more like himself.

One by one, the servants came to him and told him how glad they were for his safe return. He accepted their good wishes with patience but was so exhausted, he barely heard their words. He gave a long sigh of relief when they were gone back to their work and the hall was quiet.

Owain took a piece of meat, yet although it was soft to chew, it stuck in the far back of his mouth when he tried to swallow it. He choked, gagged, and spit it out on to the table.

“Eat the porridge then, my little Owain,” King Irael said, moving the roast aside. “Here. Take some wine. It shall warm you.”

Owain was now cautious with anything he wished to consume, but as he tried the wine, he felt it slipping down his throat easily and heat his stiff body. He took bread at his father's insistence and then some porridge that was brought in for him.

Unlike the poor hermit's porridge which he had been eating all those months, this was made of new milk and the finest grains. It was hot and at first seemed to burn him, but soon he was soothed by its pleasant scent and taste.

Perhaps a part of him was still human.

Leola watched from the other side of the hall, once more preferring to view the world as an outsider. She did not know whether or not she should participate in the ordeal, and the longer she stayed on the sidelines, the harder it became to find her courage.

What happens now
?

Leola had been so upset to hear of Owain’s death, but now, she did not know what she felt from seeing him here. Owain had been her master for most of the solitary hour she had
known him. He had died, and now after more than eight months, he was alive again. Dirty, tired, battered, and visibly upset, but very much alive.

So what do I do? What shall he do?

She knew that if he did not at once regret their marriage, he soon would, and the thought of that filled her with fear.

She realized that he looked up and saw her standing there, watching him. Her anxiety seemed to bubble up inside of her until she thought her whole being would boil over from terror. When their eyes met, she ducked her head and turned way.

“Excuse me, Master,” she said in Saxon.

Leola spoke so quietly that she wasn’t even sure he had heard her but was too anxious to wait for a reply. She left the hall and went to her rooms, her stomach sick and her heart heavy.

Chapter Forty One: Family Reunion

The babies were sleeping as they always did, and because of the late hour, their nurses were also asleep on their cots by the cradle.

“Did you have a good time, Mistress?” Gytha asked, rising from her own sleeping mat to help Leola undress.

“Yea,” Leola replied, in a daze. “Prince Owain has returned home.”

“That is King Irael’s son?
Your husband? The one who was dead?”

My husband.

Leola could feel the cold metal slave collar around her
neck, hear the sharp beating of the hammer securing the latch in place.

“That’s wonderful!” Gytha cried, softly so as not to wake the babies. “You must be so happy!”

“Yea,” Leola said, and shivered.

Should I be happy?

“Does he look well?” Gytha asked.

“He is very tired and wounded,” Leola replied, forcing the words from her dry mouth.

“What a lucky night this is for you, Mistress,” Gytha said.

“Yea.”

How shall I bear it?

“So, out with it, Da,” Owain said to King Irael when Leola was gone.

“What?” his father asked. “What is it?”

Owain had to smile at what he believed to be his father's willful ignorance. King Irael would never blatantly criticize his son. Had never, as long as Owain could remember. The king simply blinded his eyes to any misdeeds.

Owain sighed.

“I have disappointed you yet again,” he said, with a dejected shake of his head.

“I have you back, my boy,” King Irael replied, his eyes swelling with tears once more. “How could I ever be disappointed with you?”

Owain tried to smile at this, but the heavy load on his heart would not allow it.

“When I dreamed that I saw the old woman washing,” he said, his voice still broken, “the only thing I could think of was how I had upset you by not marrying and having a son.”

“Do not think on that day.”

His father held Owain's broad shoulders a little tighter, and Owain thought that perhaps his cares were nothing at all.

“I married a Gewissae prisoner in some vain hope of giving you an heir,” Owain continued. 

“My boy, do not be unhappy for my sake,” his father said. “I do not chastise you for anything. You were in Gewisland. There is not exactly an abundance of Britannae king’s daughters there. I could not blame you for it, even if I wished to. Besides, in choosing at random, you unwittingly picked the best woman to be your princess. She dotes on Gratianna as if she was her own daughter, and the child has taken to calling her ‘Mama.’ Leola is a dear girl with a good heart. I have been blessed to have her here.
Very blessed indeed.”

“Da,” Owain cried, “you are the most forgiving man alive!”

The king held him and stroked his dirty hair.

“And if you are worried of troubling me for nothing, be of cheer,” he continued. “Leola gave birth to your sons some twenty days ago.”

“What?” said Owain, in surprise. “She- my- my sons?”

He was not sure if that was possible, much less likely, and could not grasp the thought.

“Twin boys,” the king replied. “Very beautiful babies. They are called Euginius and Ambrosius. King Emrys and Queen Madge are their godparents.”

Owain gasped, both laughing and weeping together.

“There, my boy, my little Owain,” the king said. “You shall feel better after a hot bath. Leir!”

The servant was hardly back inside the room when the king gave him the order.

“See that the bath house is heated for Master Owain.”

“Ie, Master,” the servant replied and went out once more.

“There, my son,” the king said to Owain. “Wash this weary off of you. Then go in and see your babies. They are with Leola in your mother’s old room.”

“Sic, Da,” Owain replied.

Yet he did not rise to his feet, but instead, lowered his proud head onto his father's comforting chest.

“There, Owain,” the king whispered. “There, my son, my boy. You are home once more. Nothing else matters.”

Owain could no longer contain himself and clung to his father, weeping.

After a long wash in the bath house's heated pool, Owain made his way down the side passageway to his mother's rooms. His heart skipped a beat as he placed his hand on the door handle. He had not entered these chambers for many years. Owain distinctly remembered his grandmother coaxing him out of them on multiple occasions, but that was before combat training took him into the West Country and gave him a purpose in life.

Now it seemed strange to return to her rooms, as if by going in, he would resume the capacity of a heart broken nine year-old child whose fragile world had just been torn asunder. But enter he must, thus he squared his broad shoulders and pushed the door open.