Page 1 of The Queen's Huntsman
ChapterOne
THE SPARROW
“In this world, there is no force equal to the strength of a woman determined to rise.”
W. E. B DU BOIS
Morning.
Again.
Another day, the same as any other.
Gwendolyn closed her eyes against the returning sliver of light inching in through the crack in her barricaded window, revealing so little and still too much.
The chamber comprised a rancid bed, a wobbly chair and a crippled bedside table, along with a rusty brazier so full of spent embers she could scarcely imagine it had ever been emptied or cleaned.
Even at this hour, there were armed guards posted outside her door, their eyes darkened with a gloom that must have crept into her own, because she could feel it, even now, stirring like a brume.
Far from being a queen’s bower, this was a prison chamber, stinking of piss—some of it her own. Her chamber pot sat near the door, untouched no matter how many times she’d begged for it to be emptied. Not even Ely had permission to do so, although now and again, when no one was looking, she snuck it away, returning it fresh and Gwendolyn felt such pangs of regret over having reduced her dear friend to the duties of a lowly chamber maid.
This wasnotthe life she had imagined for herself, nor for Ely, and indeed, unless Gwendolyn were ill, she’d never have been so lazy or rude to burden any of her maids with a chamber pot, only for the sake of avoiding the garderobe.
Gods.
How much loathing could a person endure before the soul turned black as cold embers?
How many tears could a body shed?
How many meals could one refuse before the belly shriveled and the body wasted away?
In the half-light's stillness, Gwendolyn lay curled beneath the stinking furs, with her cheek against the chamber’s only luxury, a lavish, wooden pillow—a wedding gift, so Locrinus claimed. Made from polished cedar because the oils in the wood resisted vermin, it was softer and smoother than most headrests, but here and now, mingled with the salt of her tears, the resin caused her cheeks to burn. But wasn’t that the reason he’d gifted it to her?
Along with the pillow beneath her cheek, he’d left her Borlewen’s blade1, but she knew why he did not take it: He was ruthless enough to wish her to be reminded daily of all he had perpetrated against her family… but perhaps more pointedly, all that he could still do.
After all, she still had Ely and Bryn to consider.
Loc was a scourge, a deceiver, murderer, a liar, and thief.
And if all that were not enough, he was a bed-swerver, as well—simply one more thing no one ever bothered to tell her, that he had a lover and child. But he and Estrildis deserved one another—both vindictive and mean—and if Gwendolyn were a betting woman, she’d wager this pillow was her idea. Only a resentful lover would devise something so subtly fiendish.
Although his mother had little feeling for Gwendolyn, she at least understood Gwendolyn’s worth. Locrinus still had some need of her, and without Gwendolyn, his crown would be worth less than mud—not that she believed it would stop him from planning her demise, as he had for everyone else she loved.
A soft, keening cry escaped her parched lips, because she couldn’t bear to think of it any longer… Her father, her king.
Dead.
Trevena.
Lost.
Borlewen. Cunedda. Lowenna. Jenefer. Briallen.
All dead.
Her mother and Demelza…
Gwendolyn still didn’t know where they were. Like Lady Ruan and her husband, there was no word of either, and like Ely, Gwendolyn feared the worst.
