The Beast of Caer Baddan (57 page)

Owain found his father and Leola at the table in the great hall. King Irael seemed in good spirits but cast a worried eye on Leola, who appeared to have been weeping.

“Ah, Owain, my son,” King Irael said, as Owain strode up. “You seem to be doing better today.”

“I believe I am.” Owain replied.

“Excellent.”

Owain took his seat at the table on the right side of his father, across the table from Leola. The servants offered him meat but he declined.

“Porridge for me and raisins,” he said.

Owain was sure that eight months of eating nothing but the hermit's ill composed substance had left him so malnourished and
underfed, he would not be able to tolerate heavy things for a while. He would consume plant foods for now and take foul in the spring time when he would be more healed.

“You shall be glad to know that the Solstice feast was a great success,” King Irael said. “Everyone loved Leola. They have not stopped talking about her.”

Owain was certain that his father spoke these words as much for their truth as he did to cheer Leola's sorry mood.

He looked over the table at her to see what she thought, but Leola did not lift her head either to him or the king. Her cheeks were still burning red and her little nose now matched it. Her hands on the edge of the tables shock just a bit at every word Owain spoke. For all his will, he could not see her eyes.

“That is good,” Owain said to his father.

A fierce silence seemed to hover over them.

“I was surprised that our clansmen did not stay the night," King Irael said, abruptly. “Britu and Swale came and left even before I could greet them.”

“They must be in Gwent before its capital is sieged,” Owain replied.

“Oh, I see,” his father said. “I suppose that is not surprising, considering that Demetae girl. All of those men fighting over her, and she no older then little Gratianna.”

“I had heard something of that last winter,” Owain said, his eyebrow knit in frown. “Do the arguments continue even now?”

“To be sure,” the king said. “Her parents will not come to a decision as to her betrothed, and so the matter drags on.”

“A pity.”

“It is,” his father replied. “But God speed our clansmen. Perhaps they can put an end to that nonsense.”

Owain did not wait to think of an answer for he had already come to a final decision.

“And myself as well,” he said. “I'm going to Gwent.”

His eyes caught his father’s steady green gaze and he felt he could draw strength from their power.

“You are ready to fight, Son?” King Irael said.

Owain now considered these words. He was neither worried nor concerned that people no longer loved to look on him. He did not need the attention of many women. He would not stay here, locking himself up in the castle at Baddan, hiding from the world that he was not even afraid of. He would go to Gwent, and if people shrank from him in fear, all the more victory for him. He was a warrior not a coward. He would defeat his enemies.

“I am,” Owain said, at last.

King Irael took him by the hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Then God speed you as well,” he said. “And God bring you back to me once more.”

The porridge was brought in, and Owain ate quickly, knowing he had a long journey and that his clansmen already had a good start ahead of him.

“Leola,” Owain said.

He heard her faint gasp when he spoke her name.

“Beauty,” he said in Saxon.

He wanted her to raise her head and look up into his eyes, but when she would not, he smiled on her persistence.

“Yea, Master,” she replied.

There was that word once more, and with it, he could hear the dread within her heart. Owain still did not like his woman afraid of him, for that was exactly what this Gewissae girl was. She was his woman, his wife. If she feared him because his position was above her own, he would simply make her his equal.

“You must stop calling me ‘master,’ Beauty,” he said, gently. “I'm your husband now. Call me by my name.”

Her head shot up, and her tiny mouth fell open. Her whole face screamed her surprise and disbelief.

“Call me 'Owain,'” he said.

His gaze captured her shaking blue eyes and held them prisoner.

“I shall return when I have seen my soldiers safely back to Gloui,” Owain said.

He did not waiver, and soon felt that she could drink of his assurance.

“Owain.”

That seemed to be the only thing she could utter, but that was all he needed her to say. He saw the calm content seep into her face and felt an immense satisfaction from it.

“I must go,” Owain said in Latin. “Battle waits for none.”

“I shall walk out with you,” King Irael said.

They rose and went to the courtyard where Owain’s servants and the mounts were waiting for him.

“I'm sorry about the Dobunni,” the king said. “I should have done something to Lord Eisu. Britu warned me but I thought he was only begging for more war.”

“Britu does do that a lot,” Owain replied, thinking of his young cousin. “But do not worry about what might have happened.”

“Leola might have died,” the king said, sadly.

“But she did not, Da,” Owain replied. “You must focus on that.”

“I have already increased the guard,” King Irael said.

Owain thought under the circumstances that was a very wise move.

He nodded and wrapped his arms around his father.

“Come back to me, my little Owain,” the king said.

“I shall, Da,” Owain replied. “I shall.”

Without another word, Owain released his father, mounted his war pony, and led the precession out of the castle gate.

Leola sat in the great hall and stared passively at her breakfast, as her thoughts consumed her.

I am his wife, his cwen!

She burst into a flood of tears, as the wound in her heart closed up until it was whole once more.

“What is it, Leola?” came King Irael's concerned voice. “Are you well?”

“Yea,” she replied, for a moment was so relieved that she forgot to speak in Latin. “I’m fine, Father. I am.”

“Well, here, use my sleeve,” and he dried her wet cheeks with the red sleeve of his tunic. “I don’t know what you said to him up stairs, but whatever it was it has cured him of his melancholy.”

“I hope so,” she said, gasping for breath.

“It has. You are a miracle, Leola,” he said, and he patted her on the shoulder. “I would not trade you for all the ladies on the island.”

At this, Leola wept once more.

The king, must have then realized that they were happy tears, for he began to laughed as he comforted her.

Chapter Forty Six: Hero’s Welcome

Swale and Britu stood on the hillside overlooking the field between the camps. On their side were the Army of Albion and the Army of the Silurae, and on the other lay the Deisi, an Eire people.

For over fifty years, the Deisi had traversed the sea from the Island of Eirenn to that of Albion. They had settled, wave upon wave of migrations, in the Kingdom of Dyfed, they and their cousins the Demetae. Both tribes had been granted permission by the emperor to stay in the land.

Now, the Deisi moved east, expanding their way into Gwent, the ancient territory of the Silurae. The Silurae were determined to resist the Deisi’s spread, but were of smaller numbers than their enemies. Both Swale and Britu were unsure of why the Deisi had picked such an odd time of year to attack, but they were determined that the war should end there.

“Well there they are,” Britu said, as the two of them looked off to the approaching enemy.

“I feared this day,” Swale said.

“Feared? You?” Britu cried. “Why?”

“Fighting a major battle without Owain,” Swale replied. “I expected it all summer, as we waited on the Dumnonni boarder, but it did not come. Once we had the Solstice feast, I thought that it never would. And now that Owain is found alive, it has arrived.
A major battle against a strong and numerous enemy, and us without our champion.”

Britu was struck by these words and was sorry then that he had been so harsh towards his clansman when he felt that the man had pressured Owain too much.

“We are great warriors, Swale,” Britu said. “We shall win this with or without Owain.”

“I know, and yet, how much more relieved I would be if he were here.”

“Riders! Northeast!” a scout cried. “A quarter mile out!”

“Who could that be?” Swale said.

“Not Owain, surely,” Britu replied.

“Probably reinforcements from my father,” Swale said. “But here is to hoping.”

They laughed but sobered as a  man, dressed in the costly scale armor, strode up to their chosen counsel and saluted them.

“King Erb,” Swale said to the man. “This is my clansman, Britu Prince of Atrebat. Britu, this is the King of Gwent.”

“Prince Britu,” King Erb said, nodding in greeting.

“God keep you, King,” Britu replied.

“Well,” the king said, directing their thoughts back to the distant Deisi camp and the slowly approaching warriors. “Now that you have assessed my predicament, what is your diagnosis?”

“They have a weak front but are more mobile than we are,” Swale said. “We shall strike hard in the center. If you take their right at the same time, they cannot surround us. Sir Vesanus shall bring the knights into the left and cut off any who would escape.  Prince Annon is with the reserves. He shall send them out to their left if we are overpowered.”

“Good,” King Erb replied. “And God be with us.”

He left them to return to his own army to the far left of the camp.

“God be with us,” Britu said.