Page 19 of The Forgotten Prince

If they used up all their remaining stores whilst waiting to plant, it would set them behind by months and months.

While much of their food could still be sourced from the Cods Wold, which were a bit less mired, that settlement was too young to spare much.

The Atrebates and the Dobunni were neutral tribes, but perhaps because her father had aided the Atrebates during the Great Southern Storm, they might return the favor. And even though her uncle and Lowenna were gone, she might still find allies amidst Lowenna’s tribe. Lowenna’s brother, Mawgan, was a chieftain of the Dobunni. Why hadn’t she sent emissaries to inquire?

Because she was afraid of revealing Trevena’s weaknesses?

She had perhaps been too concerned about the forging of weapons, and not worried enough about providing food for her people’s bellies.

As though to emphasize the point, her belly grumbled, and she peered up at the blustery skies, wondering if this was a message from the gods.

And simply because she felt guilty over it, she didn’t reach back into her saddlebag to see what victuals she could find. If her people must ration, so too must she…

Bryn sidled up beside her, riding companionably by her side, as he used to before the trouble began.

“Art still angry with me?”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn said evenly.

“Will you forgive me?”

At least he was asking forgiveness. Meanwhile, Esme and Málik had little to say to her, and if anything was vexing her at the moment, it was that more than anything. She dared to take comfort in Bryn’s presence, though she daren’t reveal her innermost thoughts, not wanting to burden him, nor confess her inadequacies. But she didn’t have to say anything.

He knew…

And perhaps that’s one reason Gwendolyn had grown distant from him. Whilst Málik saw her potential and encouraged her to greatness, Bryn still thought of her as that mischief-making little girl.

“I do forgive you,” she said, at last. “But you will not disrespect me again. I am not a child, Bryn, nor are you. If you are tasked with my safety and wellbeing, I am tasked with yours no less than I am the rest of my kingdom—and make no mistake, this kingdom is mine, and I am your queen. When you speak my title, you will speak it without disdain, nor will you mock me for it.”

“I meant noth—”

“It doesn’t matter what you mean or did not. As my Shadow, you must realize your respect for me will set the tone for how others treat me as well. In private, I insist you call me by my given name—as I have all my friends—but in public, you will not jest at my expense, nor will you make jests to belittle my womanhood.”

“Apologies,” he said. “Truly. I meant no harm, Gwendolyn.” And then he sighed. “I suppose it made me feel… more a man… to square my shoulders and speak like Caradoc, but, truth be told, not even Kelan behaves this way, and I can only say for myself that Loc’s treatment of me in Loegria unmanned me. And then, my father—”

“You need not apologize for Talwyn,” Gwendolyn said. “Your father’s mistakes are not yours, and I would never blame you or Ely for his quisling position.”

He nodded, and they fell into silence. So much of what she’d said had been walled up inside her, only waiting to escape. His dishonesty over Porth Pool was the final insult. It didn’t matter how well they knew each other, she couldn’t allow him to dishonor her again, and this made her feel even more alone.

It wasn’t easy to rule, and no one ever taught her how. Everything she’d ever learned was meant to assist the husband at her side.

Neither did her father ever take her in hand to explain the requirements of his office. Gwendolyn had learned by observing him. And yet, to be fair, neither could she fault King Corineus for her ignorance. No one ever advised her to be like her mother and Lady Ruan, certainly not him—nor did prim and proper Demelza. Rather, Gwendolyn had too easily accepted her station, never once questioning her role, nor expressing any genuine interest in attending her father’s konsels—so of course he would assume she didn’t care. And it was true: Gwendolyn didn’t like politiks, but not liking something did not mean it should be neglected or dismissed—just the same as liking, or not liking one’s husband was not a prerequisite to the exchange of torcs. Perhaps she could do worse than to accept Caradoc’s proposal for marriage? They didn’t have to like each other to work together for the sake of this kingdom. Nor did she have to share his bed.

Her cheeks heated over that notion, remembering Caradoc’s bawdy jest—good tussle, indeed!

Not if her life depended upon it!

Neither could Gwendolyn imagine kissing anyone but Málik.

And still, she took comfort in knowing Caradoc would know what to do about their garners. Unlike Gwendolyn, he was an experienced leader, and, in part, that was why Gwendolyn had chosen him. As bad as the Rot might be here, his eastern fenlands oft fared worse, and she had every faith he would find a way to feed her people. Against all odds, hadn’t he sustained over three hundred souls in those bogs?

Indeed, Gwendolyn found some perverse pleasure knowing Locrinus would find himself ill-prepared to deal with the problems arising from the Catuvellauni wetlands. He was spoiled more than she—indulged by his mother when he should have been taught to value others. He was too quick to discard anyone who did not serve his purpose, and from what Gwendolyn could tell of him, he cared so little for anything or anyone—not even Estrildis, truth be told.

No matter what Loc believed, Lundinium would not welcome him with a lover’s open arms, nor would he find his victory there rewarding or immutable. He would discover a province in ruins, and his lack of experience—more so than Gwendolyn’s—would leave him unready to deal with the fens.

The very worst of Loegria’s tidal basins lay south of his capital—south of Caerdyf and north of Cantre’r Gwaelod, where Duke Osian had failed to defend his coastline against the Endless Sea. Sixteen villages were destroyed on Osian’s watch. And that, among other reasons, was what led her father to seize his territories and offer them to a foreigner from Troy—more’s the pity. But those floods came long before Loc’s time. He would have no inkling how to buttress Lundinium, and in the end, this should work in Gwendolyn’s favor. Her revenge would be sweet, and she would savor it when it came, but, in the meantime, she still had Trevena’s welfare to consider, and, bearing in mind the season, she made a few calculations in her mind… Even if the fight never came near Trevena, and the journey Below went well beyond their expectations, even if she were granted the sword without question, they would still not return in time to oust Locrinus and his armies from their lands to plant and grow crops for the year. She wouldn’t see Trevena again for a year or longer because, thereafter, they would still journey north to Baugh—another four or five weeks for that alone if luck was on their side. And then, gods knew how long it would take her to unite the rest of the tribes before she could even think to face Loc.

“I was thinking about the Atrebates,” she told Bryn, thinking to put him out of his misery. The poor soul had ridden beside her for all this time, long-faced after Gwendolyn’s reproach. “I know they will not join us in war, but their lands have long since recovered from the Great Southern Storm. When we arrive at the Druids’ Crossroads, please help me remember to send a messenger to Caradoc so he can approach their konsels—Mawgan as well. I will have him inquire if they can spare some grain.”

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