The Beast of Caer Baddan (8 page)

“We shall leave immediately,” Owain said.

Swale gave a silent nod.

“The Army cannot move fast enough,” Britu replied, his eyes burning with dread.

“We shall go now and take the knights with us,” Owain replied. “The soldiers shall follow as quickly as they can.”

“Good,” Swale replied. “I shall give Sir Vesanus the order.”

As he went on the errand, Owain left the meeting tent, pulling Annon beside him.

“Although you shall not be fighting this war, Annon, I want you to take care that you watch intently,” he said. “The Gewissae have a different fighting style to the Pictii, and you shall gain as much from this battle as you did from the ones against Maetae.”

“I shall!” the boy cried, his treble voice ringing with fervor.

“Get ready to ride.”

Annon ran to his own tent, and Owain smiled over his playfulness. He recalled his own combat training which had not been as joyous as his young student’s had quickly become.

“Leir!” Owain called, when he entered the large front room of his spacious tent.

“Ie, Master,” his servant replied.

“Pack my things. We are leaving for Venta.”

Leir brought out Owain’s cape.

“Pack, than take down the tent, Boys,” Leir said to another five servants, who quickly obeyed.

“The Kingdom of Atrebat, Master?”
Leir asked of Owain, as he secured the cape on his shoulders. “News from your uncle, the king?”

“Ie.
Good news, in fact. War.”

Another battle meant another opportunity to honor his mother with a brilliant conquest.

“I found this among your tunics, Master,” Leir said, bringing out a long pure white garment.

Owain did not have to look long on it to identify what it was.

“A lady has left an underdress,” he replied, although he could not say to whom it belonged.

“I know not who to send it to, Master,” Leir said.

“Nor I. Worry not on that. Pack it with the rest of the supplies.”

Owain gave one final look at himself in the silver mirror. 

“Good news, indeed,” he mused.

Chapter Seven: Rumors of War

Once Owain gave the orders to centurions, their company was off down the southerly road into the woods. They consisted of four princes, fifty knights, and over one hundred servants, trailing through the forest. The spring air was crisp with the scent of the budding primrose, but their haste would not allow them to enjoy it.

It was evening before they arrived at the castle of Venta Capital of Atrebat. Owain took Annon into the library, while Britu inquired after the king and queen.

“My parents are still out,” Britu said to Swale.

His restless being at last breathed a sigh of relief. Now that they were in Venta, and Britu could see that the city was not yet under attack, he felt his fear over the upcoming war subside.

“I should have known they would not be back yet,” Britu mused. “It is Sunday.”

Swale gave him a puzzle look as if to say “what does the day have to do with them being out?”

“
It is Sunday,” Britu said again, annoyed that he should have to explain his parents' enthusiasm towards religion. 

“They are in church,” Swale replied, with a knowing laugh. “We should have stayed longer at breakfast. And now we are sore.”

“It is better to be here and wait for my father, then for him to wait for us,” Britu said. “Come. We shall go tell Owain.”

They walked down the wide passageway and into the library at the far back of the castle, where they found Annon sitting alone at the round table by the hearth.

“Where is Owain?” Britu asked.

“He went out for a moment,” Annon replied. “He shall be back.”

“He is out chasing some girl,” Britu said.

He knew that this was his conjecture yet strongly believed it to be accurate.

“You sent Prince Iestyn out to find King Gourthigern?” Swale asked of Britu. 

“I did,” he replied. “My father could return at any moment, and when he sees Owain is not present, he shall blame me.”

“Really, Britu,” Swale replied, his brow knotted in a disapproving frown. “You assume too much.”

His clansman’s steady voice did not sooth Britu, and before he could answer the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the hall were pulled open, and another man walked in.

“My father,” Britu grumbled.

King Gourthigern was just five and forty but had all gray hair tied in a tail at the back of his neck. His brown beard was trimmed in style, shaved clean on the sides and worn long at the chin with a large curved mustache. He had no armor or brat but was covered in a long colorful robe. Linen slippers were tied on his feet so that he made not a sound as he strode across the hall to the table.

“Britu,” King Gourthigern said to his son.

Britu came forward and kissed him on the cheek.

“God keep you, Father,” he replied.

“You are gone too long in the North Country,” the king said, in reproach.
“The entire winter to be exact. See that your future expeditions do not take nearly so long.”

“As you wish, Father,” Britu said, accepting the rebuke.

“Prince Swale,” King Gourthigern said.

“King Gourthigern,” Swale replied, with a respectful bow of his head.

“Your parents are well, I trust?”

“They are, King.”

“And who is this young one here?”

“This is King Emrys' son, Annon Prince of Pengwern, Father,” Britu said in rampant haste. “He has come with Owain to finish his combat training.”

“Ah,” the king replied. “God keep you, Prince Annon. Lucky you are to have such a teacher.”

“I know that well, King Gourthigern,” Annon said, his own hurried voice revealing his nervousness.

“Where is Euginius?” King Gourthigern asked, using Owain’s Latin name.

“He has stepped out for a moment but shall soon return,” Swale said.

“I am impatient to be done,” King Gourthigern replied, with a frown to Britu.

Britu glanced from the king’s impatient face to Swale’s perplexed expression, giving the latter a knowing eye.

“I shall find him, Father,” he said, and departed on the errand.

Owain sat on a bench on the long patio, facing the garden. He pulled out his sword and laid it broadside across his lap. His rough fingers rubbed along the smooth carvings in the steel, tracing the ancient symbols his had long ago committed to heart. It was his sword, the most honored weapon in the whole island since its creation over four hundred years before. It had been forged in secret fires of Aracon for the great and powerful King Togadum and called by him Calybs.

It was with this sword that Owain had gained victory over his enemies, for he was worthy of it.

“But not yet worthy of her sacrifice,” Owain whispered to himself.

Owain glanced up to divert himself and looked out into the yard where the servant women were washing clothes. His deep-set eyes caught sight of one young woman who bent over her work. Her form and figure interested him, and he was glad for a distraction from his gloomy thoughts.

“Prince Owain,” said a voice.

He rose to his feet to see one of his young cousins, the sister of Britu, approach.

“God keep you, Lady Scothnoe,” he said, remembering her.

She was pretty, just fifteen, and loved to get his attention, a habit that was quiet amusing to him.

“God keep you, Prince Owain,” Lady Scothnoe replied, smiling broadly. “I thought you were in a conference.”

“Not as yet, Lady,” Owain replied.

Lady Scothnoe appeared to be thrilled for gaining his notice but did not seem to know what to do with it. Thus she smiled and looked every way but his.

“You have been to Pengwern?” she asked, more as something to say than from real curiosity.

“I have,” he replied, for he had been to every kingdom on the island from Bryneich to Dumnonnia.

“Is it covered in rocks?” she asked.

“Part of it is, Lady.”

She listened attentively as he described the geography of different kingdoms, and he answered her questions with the humorous thought that she would not have been half so interested in roads and hills if the speaker had been her elder brother.

She was too young and too naive for him, but more than that, she was his clanswoman, and a man did not seduce his own clanswoman. Thus he spoke to her kindly and tried to excuse himself only to find her more persistent than any other woman he had met.

“Is it true that you beat an Angle champion?” she asked.

“It is,” Owain replied, amazed that word of his latest feat had spread so quickly. He wondered what other events of his that spring were people were already talking about.

“My servant woman had it from the knights,” she said, blushing over his suspicion.

Owain was about to reply when he heard Britu's agitated voice calling his name.

“Owain!” Britu cried, coming out of the house and walking over to them.

“Clansman,” Owain said. He caught the ire in the younger man’s voice and sought to pacify him. “Are they now assembled?”

Lady Scothnoe was silent, shifting her gaze down as if to avoid looking up at her elder brother's disapproving eye.

“They are, Owain,” Britu said. “Father is waiting for you and grows anxious at your tardy.”

“God keep you, Lady Scothnoe,” Owain said.

She curtsied to him but said nothing.

Owain followed Britu back into the house and down the passageway to the hall. They were half of the way there, when Britu seized him by the latches of his breastplate.

“What are you doing with my sister?” he cried.

“Calm, Clansman,” Owain said.

He was undaunted by the outburst and chose not to knock Britu’s hands off. He wished to pacify his cousin rather than fight him.

“Do not dare seduce her,” Britu said, through his clenched teeth.

“I am not trying to seduce your sister,” Owain replied, laughing at the thought. “Peace, Britu-”

“Peace?” Britu said, his eyes burning into Owain’s. “I know you well. I know of the women you seduce day after day. You are a fiend.”