Page 12 of The Queen's Huntsman
ChapterFive
Afeeling like dread thrummed through Gwendolyn’s veins, her heart galloping faster and faster the closer they came to the hall…
Bryn had said he would return to escort her; he did not. Neither did she recognize the guards who’d came to collect her. One now preceded her down the hall. The other followed behind, both silent and stone-faced, as though they were escorting her to her execution.
Only because Ely insisted, she’d worn her mother’s gown, and, along with it, every remaining bauble in her dowry chest. The result was garish, and the choice was certain to displease Locrinus, but Gwendolyn didn’t care. Even now, her mother’s silver bracelet strangled the tender flesh of her upper arm, but she didn’t care about that either.
This would be her first opportunity to send a message to the tribes, and she still could not conceive how to accomplish this without speaking her true heart, or even whether there would be allies in attendance to hear it. If she played her hand—whatever that hand might be—and her message was ill received, those ambassadors would leave her to Loc’s mercy.
But he had no mercy.
And nevertheless, if she didn’t try, they could perceive her silence as compliance, and this would be the greatest folly of all.
Breathe, she commanded herself.Breathe.
Around every dark corner, the smell of urine drifted from the cut stones to choke away her breath, and she lifted a hand to her nostrils, even as her belly roiled.
Obviously, these people had no care for this palace. To entertain amidst such filth was unimaginable. Her mother would have wept. But this was not a home; it was a garrison. They turned another corner, coming closer to the hall, and Gwendolyn inhaled deeply, fighting a surge of nausea. Whatever she did tonight—or did not do—could change the course for all. The steady drone of voices grew louder, more obnoxious, and she straightened her spine, disturbed to hear such revelry. Although it wasn’t the same infectious laughter she’d witnessed amidst her father’s vassals, it was still laughter, and it grew louder and bawdier the closer she came.
When ultimately she arrived, a ponderous silence fell over the hall, prompting her husband to peer up from his goblet. He fixed her with a look of contempt—no doubt because of the gown.
Keep walking,she told herself.Don’t stop.
She mustn’t falter in her step.
Followed by her guards, Gwendolyn made her way straight toward the dais, her gaze seeking and finding Estrildis at one of the lower tables. The woman’s bright blue eyes locked on Gwendolyn, her lips pursing with indignation. Gwendolyn offered a smile as she passed, pleased to see she was wearing both the oyster-shell dress and the moonstone crown.Good.She hoped everyone present would note her choice of dress.
It was only once upon the dais that Locrinus stood to greet her, the frown now banished from his handsome features. He was, for the benefit of all, a doting husband, extending a hand to receive his loving bride. But this was a far cry from the last time they’d supped together, with Gwendolyn so eager to greet him she’d nearly tumbled down the dais in her excitement.
She was a fool then—a silly child, with dotish dreams.
Pasting another smile on her face, she accepted the hand Locrinus gave her, and then turned once she stood by his side, bowing to their guests—mostly so the scrutiny would end. Nearly at once, the revelry recommenced and her gaze sought Adwen, but she didn’t see him amidst the crowd. Letdown, she turned to Loc, hoping he couldn’t read her disappointment. “I was told Durotriges sent an emissary?”
The look in his eyes was triumphant. “The Duke himself… but if you must know, Gwendolyn, we sent him the gift of a knob gobbling, so I’m certain he’ll be late. Your reunion will have to wait.”
Gwendolyn’s belly turned. The thought of Adwen accepting such a gift, and from Loc of all people!A knob gobbling, truly?Adwen was always… unconventional, but had he fallen so far from grace that he would receive such gifts for his favor?
No.The Adwen she remembered would not need to have his favors bought and paid for by others. The Adwen she knew would not bend the knee to a pretender.
And yet maybe he was not the same Adwen. Perhaps there was nothing more to Bryn’s message than a simple warning, and Gwendolyn had only imagined some greater plot.
Blood and bones.The thought of Adwen turning his coat to serve a faithless serpent was heart-rending. Of all her father’s dukes, she had liked him most—principally because he was a man with a mind and heart of his own, like herself. Stubborn, right-minded, ready to stand for what he believed in, they had never been more than friends, but if she’d been free to choose a man to wed, it might have been Adwen.
Disgusted, she tried to put her wayward thoughts out of her mind, and, as she had so many a feast before, she searched for Bryn’s face amidst the attendees… and then Ely’s, finding both conspicuously absent.But of course.Why should either be invited? Loc valued them less than he valued Gwendolyn, and doubtless, if he expected that either would give her some measure of comfort, he’d quickly disallow it.
The laughter in the hall resumed at full volume now, with Gwendolyn forgotten, thus she did what she’d never done before in all her life: she reached for her goblet of mead to drown her sorrows, fearing it would hold the only virtues she would need tonight.
It was no wonder Alderman Crwys drank so much. That poor soul never had one thing go his way, and despite that Gwendolyn herself had not agreed with hispolitiks, she now understood what it felt like to be like a leper amidst men.
“Smile,” demanded Loc, his eyes sliding to hers, his gaze slippery as an eel, and Gwendolyn could scarcely bear it, remembering a similar rebuke from her mother. Regardless, forcing a smile, she said for his ears alone, “Why don’t you go hang yourself,my dearest love?”
He laughed without mirth. “I presume you are being well tended?” he said. “Perhaps too well fed? You haven’t lost a pennyweight.” His gaze fixed upon the bulk of her arm, where the material of her gown bulged because of the hidden armband, and Gwendolyn lifted her glass to her lips, trying so desperately not to toss the contents in his face, wanting so much to reassure him that her sinew was quite well-earned. She’d had so little to eat these past few months, but her arms and legs were very well hewn after weeks of practice—indeed, more so than Loc’s.
Calming herself, she took her time savoring the mead before swallowing, then put the glass down, letting her hand fall beneath the table to the hilt of Borlewen’s blade.
There was no love lost between them, and Gwendolyn did not expect kindness, not even for the sake of others, but she didn’t expect their discord to be so quick and cruel.
She heard the amusement in his voice. “And here I feared this evening would be a gruesome bore,” he said drolly, lifting his own cup, and shifting in his seat so that he could better watch her.
