right hand turned upward, removed the weapon from her hand, and tossed it into the ditch, and Leola thought he killed independence in that motion.
Please do not hurt me!
Ensnared or released was no different to Leola, for his revealing gaze now held her more captive then his strong arm had.
“That is not the way to stab an aetheling, Beauty,” he said.
What? What do you mean by that?
Leola felt as though somehow he could see her thoughts on her panicked face. He tilted his head to one side and gave her a sorry smile, as if to reassure her of his gentility.
“The willingness to fight is commendable,” he said, “but everyone must learn to choose their battles.”
He was lovely and kind, and she knew not how to respond to him.
“Yea, Master,” and she forced the words out of her dry throat.
“Come,” he said.
He turned then, and walked towards the Britisc camp.
Leola breathed a long sigh and reluctantly followed.
Chapter Thirteen: A Britisc Aetheling
There were white tents everywhere. Some soldiers were standing guard and others were sitting about laughing and eating. Large fires burned to brighten the grim morning.
Here and there, they crossed the path of some knight, who seeing Owain, saluted and moved out of their way. It seemed to attest to Leola the truth of his words, that he was an aetheling.
They arrived at a large brightly colored tent that stood in what Leola suspected was the very center of the camp. A single sentry, standing guard, held the door flap open as they entered.
The tent room was wide and airy, with large trunks and lidded pots pushed up against the cloth walls. As she stepped in, her tattered goat shoes touched the furry rugs that spanned the floor.
Leola marveled.
This tent is as big as my house and nicer still then the mead hall!
There was a curtain along the far side, which Owain pulled back to reveal a second room. It was smaller and more furnished, having a long cot, a table, and a wooden stool.
“Sit down, Beauty,” Owain said.
He took the stool by the table, and there was no other place to sit down besides the cot.
Leola’s eyes gazed at it.
That was his bed, where he lay down and slept.
She willed her feet to move forward and lowered herself onto the cot.
It was soft, too soft she felt, and covered in smooth blankets and fluffy pillows.
“What is your name, Beauty?” he asked.
He had not demanded an answer from her, but instead asked quietly, a calm smile dancing on his perfect lips, as if looking on her face gave him pleasure.
At first, she could not bring herself to talk.
“Leola, good Master,” she replied.
She thought her tone sounded hollow and empty, as if her dread had somehow drained her life out of her tone.
“Leola what? What is your father’s name?”
His head tilted to one side and his eyes swept over her face, as if caressing it with a glance.
“Hobern. I am Leola Hobern-daughter,” she replied.
“Hobern?” he said, with surprise. “What name is that? Dane?”
“Fris,” she said. “My father was a Fris.”
“And your mother?”
“She was Saex. Her name was Alburga. She was from Anlofton.”
Now that she could speak, Leola felt the words rushing out of her before she could contain them.
“And your parents are then dead?” he asked.
“Yea,” Leola replied, and swallowed hard. “From the small pox.”
“I understand.”
For a while Owain wrote in the leather-bound book, and Leola’s eyes wondered around the tent.
They found the decorative silver mirror that hung above the table, the boxes and covered baskets in the corner, a large bowl of fresh fruit, and a strange carved ring on Owain’s smallest finger. She hardly dared let herself look up at Owain’s face, even as he looked at his work. He did not seem the least bit angry, but she would not risk him turning violent.
Owain did not write the names down as they were given to him, but instead translated them into Latin as he scribed.
Leola
Please do not hurt me!
Ensnared or released was no different to Leola, for his revealing gaze now held her more captive then his strong arm had.
“That is not the way to stab an aetheling, Beauty,” he said.
What? What do you mean by that?
Leola felt as though somehow he could see her thoughts on her panicked face. He tilted his head to one side and gave her a sorry smile, as if to reassure her of his gentility.
“The willingness to fight is commendable,” he said, “but everyone must learn to choose their battles.”
He was lovely and kind, and she knew not how to respond to him.
“Yea, Master,” and she forced the words out of her dry throat.
“Come,” he said.
He turned then, and walked towards the Britisc camp.
Leola breathed a long sigh and reluctantly followed.
Chapter Thirteen: A Britisc Aetheling
There were white tents everywhere. Some soldiers were standing guard and others were sitting about laughing and eating. Large fires burned to brighten the grim morning.
Here and there, they crossed the path of some knight, who seeing Owain, saluted and moved out of their way. It seemed to attest to Leola the truth of his words, that he was an aetheling.
They arrived at a large brightly colored tent that stood in what Leola suspected was the very center of the camp. A single sentry, standing guard, held the door flap open as they entered.
The tent room was wide and airy, with large trunks and lidded pots pushed up against the cloth walls. As she stepped in, her tattered goat shoes touched the furry rugs that spanned the floor.
Leola marveled.
This tent is as big as my house and nicer still then the mead hall!
There was a curtain along the far side, which Owain pulled back to reveal a second room. It was smaller and more furnished, having a long cot, a table, and a wooden stool.
“Sit down, Beauty,” Owain said.
He took the stool by the table, and there was no other place to sit down besides the cot.
Leola’s eyes gazed at it.
That was his bed, where he lay down and slept.
She willed her feet to move forward and lowered herself onto the cot.
It was soft, too soft she felt, and covered in smooth blankets and fluffy pillows.
“What is your name, Beauty?” he asked.
He had not demanded an answer from her, but instead asked quietly, a calm smile dancing on his perfect lips, as if looking on her face gave him pleasure.
At first, she could not bring herself to talk.
“Leola, good Master,” she replied.
She thought her tone sounded hollow and empty, as if her dread had somehow drained her life out of her tone.
“Leola what? What is your father’s name?”
His head tilted to one side and his eyes swept over her face, as if caressing it with a glance.
“Hobern. I am Leola Hobern-daughter,” she replied.
“Hobern?” he said, with surprise. “What name is that? Dane?”
“Fris,” she said. “My father was a Fris.”
“And your mother?”
“She was Saex. Her name was Alburga. She was from Anlofton.”
Now that she could speak, Leola felt the words rushing out of her before she could contain them.
“And your parents are then dead?” he asked.
“Yea,” Leola replied, and swallowed hard. “From the small pox.”
“I understand.”
For a while Owain wrote in the leather-bound book, and Leola’s eyes wondered around the tent.
They found the decorative silver mirror that hung above the table, the boxes and covered baskets in the corner, a large bowl of fresh fruit, and a strange carved ring on Owain’s smallest finger. She hardly dared let herself look up at Owain’s face, even as he looked at his work. He did not seem the least bit angry, but she would not risk him turning violent.
Owain did not write the names down as they were given to him, but instead translated them into Latin as he scribed.
Leola
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