The Beast of Caer Baddan (7 page)

Owain and his friends were hardly across the border dividing Catraeth from Ebrauc when they found King Vindi with a party of knights waiting for them.

“God keep you, Dominae,” the king said. “You are once more in Parisi land.”

“And glad I am, King Vindi,” Owain replied.

“And Lady Rhian,” the king said, acknowledging her.

There was a hint of admiration in the King Vindi's eyes as he gazed on the warrioress. Owain suspected that had the widower king been twenty years younger, Lady Rian would have returned it with a favorable smile.

“These are my clansmen, Swale Prince of Ewyas and Britu Prince of Atrebat,” Owain said. “And this is my student Annon Prince of Pengwern.”

Once the formalities were concluded, the Parisi king explained his dilemma as they rode.

“Do you remember the Angle king you beat years ago and drove from this land?”

“King Tytmon, of course,” Owain replied.

It must have been six years before that the Angles, a people akin to the Franks and Saxons, had razed three towns to the ground. Owain was still forming the Army yet rushed the few soldiers he had with him north to save the Parisi people. He recalled the ensuing fight on the beach near the kingdom’s capital, their surprising victory of the more numerous invaders, and King Tytmon’s tactical departure.

“He has returned and demanded a duel, my champion against his,” King Vindi continued. “My champion is injured, a fact that I'm sure he is aware, but there it stands. I would fight the man myself, but I am too old to duel.”

Owain had to agree, for the king was nearly fifty, the age where most warriors retire from combat.

“Then, I shall have the pleasure, King,” he replied.

“You will fight for me, Dominae?”

Owain did not like the idea of the Angles, whom he had vanquished in a massive battle, returning to trouble them once more. It seemed to him that the Angles must think that they are making a challenge on King Vindi’s ability. Yet the truth was that their actions were a challenge to Owain, to his position as dominae, and to the validity of his defeat over them so many years before.

Perhaps the Angle thought that Owain and the Army were still northwest in Gododdin, fighting the Maetae Pictii, or they had a new champion whom they wish to parade about. Owain did not know why the Angle King chose that time, but he did not care. This was another war to win.

“I shall,” he said, “and count it as a privilege.”

They found the Angles gathered on a beach a few miles northwest of Petuaria Capital of Ebrauc. Owain estimated their number to be thirty, about the same as King Vindi's knights.

“King Tytmon!” King Vindi said to one man who stepped forward towards them.

The Angle King was shorter than the princes, but against their slender frames he looked enormous. His wide shoulders were accentuated by the wolf fur that he wore draped across them. Blond hair fell about his shoulders, and a thick mustache was tied in two long tails. The large bones in his hands and face gave him a powerful appearance.

“King Vindi! Do you have a champion now?” the Angle King said in Brythonic.

“Ie, to be sure,” King Vindi replied. “Prince Owain. And yours?”

“Horik Ridend,” which was
“Sir Horik.”

The barbarian word fell easily on Owain's ears, for at his father's insistence, he had learned two foreign languages and many dialects as a young boy. Besides the required Latin and Brythonic, Owain studied the words of the Pictii and the barbarians, and with so many wars and constant travel, he soon had found these additional languages invaluable.

Owain looked on Sir Horik and was amazed.

The man was large boned like the other Angles around him, with a wide square jaw and small but sharp features. His long hair and mustache were blond and his piercing eyes shone blue. Yet instead of tanned, he was pale as any Britannae and towered over his fellow men like a grand yew tree. Perhaps the knight was more Dane than Angle, for Owain was sure he had never seen an Angle that size.

Owain was impressed but too determined to relent. He was certain that his mother watched him and would show her that he was worthy.

Both men drew their swords and readied their shields, circling each other. Owain felt the knight's gaze burning in his eyes.

Sir Horik darted forward, and Owain moved back out of the way, letting his enemy's heavy swing strike the air before him. The knight swung again, yet Owain stepped aside, as the blow hit the beach and threw sand into the air. Owain darted down, as a third strike went flying over his head.

The knight's right now exposed, Owain found his mark. In one movement, he sliced through his neck and forearm. Sir Horik spat blood, and his whole body trembled until he sank to the ground.

Owain looked up at the group of Angles, standing a distance away, and noted their tension and uncertainty.

“Come then and fight me, all of you,” he whispered.

Then the Angle King motioned to two of the men who then went forward and lifted the body away. The group walked off to their waiting long boat, and soon disappeared into the distant water.

The knights erupted with cheers.

“Owain! Owain! Owain!” they cried.

Owain lowered his weapon and breathed deeply of sea air.

The next six days were filled with marching, bringing the Army south, out of the cold North Country and down into the Kingdom of Lerion. Owain spent the mornings teaching young Annon, the afternoons riding ahead of the marching soldiers, and the evenings with different partners. He found that the women from the cities were impressed by his newest heroics, and those from the countryside seemed glad to have any attention.

“You should marry, Owain,” Swale said, as they sat around the table eating breakfast.

“You only say that because you are,” Owain replied.

Annon laughed aloud then covered his mouth in embarrassment.

“It is true that I am married,” Swale said, quietly mocking a solemn confession, “but that does not change the validity of my suggestion.”

“Marriage cannot keep him from chasing women,” Britu said, his irritation plain on his freckled face. “Only death shall do that.”

It was now Owain’s turn to laugh.

“You are five and twenty, and we have long known that your father wishes it of you,” Swale said, obviously ignoring Britu. “And now, we are once more in Lerion, where most of our Andoco clan still abides. Just pick a lady and ask her to marry you. I can guaranty, she shall not say no.”

“That's what he fears,” Britu said.

“Message for Britu Prince of Atrebat,” said a servant, who stood in the doorway of the meeting tent.

The servant stepped forward and placed the rolled parchment on the careless palm of Britu’s outstretched hand.

The meat was brought in, and they helped themselves to hearty portions.

Britu read his letter, while Swale talked on.

“You think too much of the soldiers and war,” Swale said to Owain. “You need a wife to go home to.”

Although many of their clan had prompted Owain to marry, Owain could not recall Swale ever speaking of it.

“I'm certain my father has convinced you to say this,” he replied, with a sly smile. “It is not like you to play the go-between.”

Swale laughed but did not deny the accusation.

“But I must consider the soldiers,” Owain continued. “I neither have the time nor the inclination for a wife. I alone am accountable for the men. No one was made a dominae, besides
myself. It is my responsibility. I'm only grateful to be out of the bitter cold. I did not like the supplies being interrupted.”

“But they got through,” Annon said. “And nothing was lost.”

“And until they did, the Brigantae fed us well,” Swale said.

“Too well,” Owain said, with a serious thought. “They had to feed us, but because they did, they were not nearly as generous with gifts as they would have been. Fewer gifts
means that, once more, I'm in danger of not making the soldiers' pay.”

“Now you are worrying again,” Swale said. “The Parisi gave us much, and you have never actually missed paying the men.”

“But it did come very close, and I do not like that. If I was the emperor, I could levy tax, and then the Army would never be short of funds or supplies-”

“If you were the emperor!”
Annon cried, and his eyes grew wide as if he was seeing stars.

“Hush!” Owain said. “I was trying to make you realize the difficulty. I shall not follow after my grandfather’s path.”

One thing that Owain knew he must always fight was the actions of Mascen, his paternal grandfather, who had died the night of his birth. It was supposed by his grandmother,
Ceindrech,
that Owain had received Mascen’s soul. If that was so, then whatever had caused his grandfather to kill the reigning emperor, take control of the Three Cities, and wage a fruitless war in faraway Gaul, must also flow through Owain. He considered Mascen to be a monster who had ruined beautiful Albion for his own vanity. What every he was or did, Owain was determined to be nothing like him.

“But, Prince Owain!” the boy protested. “You could take possession of the treasury in Caer Gloui! You would control the Three Cities and all of the emperor’s fortresses that still stand around the island! The Kings of Albion would have to bow to you!”

“Annon! Silence!” Owain cried, his brow knotted in a stern frown.

“But, Prince-”

“The people still suffer because the unnecessary wars that my grandfather created when he declared himself the emperor of these lands. He destroyed this great island. I protect it. That is all.”

Annon grew silent at the rebuke.

Swale shook his head as if baffled at Owain’s persistence.

“You make the Army your excuse for not marrying,” he said, returning to the original conversation. “But the truth is what both Britu and I suspect. You fear a wife shall force you to stop chasing other women.”

Owain just smiled.

It did not bother him that Swale would not understand. Owain never confided in any of them, although they were his closest friends, and so did not expect them to be able to empathize.

“After the Eire return to Glouia to sack Caer Corin, and you know full well they shall,” Owain said, “and assuming that I am once more able to defeat them, speak of it again. Perhaps you shall have better fortune in persuading me.”

“We must go to Atrebat,” Britu said, in a daze.

He set his letter down on the table and stared at his food.

“Oh?” Owain said. “Your father wishes you back?”

Yet once he had spoken thus, Owain knew that it was far more serious than his cousin's ordinary paternal troubles. Britu’s face had gone white from horror.

“Britu,” Owain said, his eyes growing in concern. “What is it?”

“The Gewissae,” Britu said, his own face filling with fear and rage at once. “The Gewissae are rebelling.”

“What?” Swale cried. “No!”

“They are,” Britu replied. “My father has had spies watching those people for seven years. They are moving men. Not livestock, not families, but men, warriors. They are preparing for war.”

Owain knew what that meant. He must have been eighteen when the Gewissae last crossed out of their designated land and into his uncle's kingdom, Atrebat. Owain had been in the Kingdom of Gwent, fighting invading Eire when news came of the destruction, but he had long understood that Britu witnessed the wreckage for himself.