Page 14 of The Queen's Huntsman
Peering down at her plate, she wondered if this atrocity would be her last meal, and she took comfort in this: a man like Locrinus would never so easily engender loyalties. If he should win the tribes, it would be hard earned, and perhaps at the cost of much blood. Like his mother, he was as treacherous as a viper, and just as lethal, and someday that would be the end of him. But if death should be her own fate, perhaps she would do well to stab him now and be done?
All of it—his cruel words, Estrildis with her stolen crown, the idle chatter of so many faithless vassals—it was enough to make Gwendolyn ill.
Lifting her glass once more, she choked back a long, unpleasant gulp… and then… quite abruptly… and quite by accident… the answer to Bryn’s riddle struck her…
It wasn’t that hedidn’twish her to repeat the offense; it was that he did wish her to repeat it, and the mysterious offense he was speaking of was that silly little ruse they’d employed to steal away from the morning’s fast, where after, Gwendolyn was to have gone with her mother to prepare all day long for the evening’s celebration. The notion of sitting there all day, merely brushing her hair, painting her face, trying on insensible dresses had truly offended her. Instead, she’d much preferred the thought of being out in the wilds, with Bryn and Adwen. So, eager to test that bow, she’d hatched the most fatuous of plans. And really, it would seem uncouth and graceless, but then it was a child’s machinations. Yet that didn’t matter; it was as brilliant as it was desperate—particularly if all they needed was a simple distraction.
While Loc was making flirtatious eyes with his hateful lover, Gwendolyn stuffed more food into her mouth, and then more and more and more—as much as she dared, until she couldn’t fit one bite more into her cheeks. Looking like a greedy squirrel, she considered why a distraction might be needed as she chewed, and chewed, and chewed, never once swallowing, growing more and more disgusted by her mouthful of meat and tasteless food.
Gods.This feast was nothing like her father ever served for esteemed guests, and her mother and Yestin always worked so hard to be certain the fare was anything but bland.
Here, instead of olives from An Ghréig, there was unpurged beef—as though it were slaughtered and brought directly to the table.
Instead of the imported smoked cheese Locrinus claimed he loved, there was a soft, runnyspermyse. That alone made her long to puke.
And if there was anything less than pilchards at the lower tables, it was no wonder Estrildis’ mouth remained twisted with such disgust.
When at last Gwendolyn could bear it no longer, she began with one small cough, seizing up her glass of mead for a hefty swallow. She stood then, purposely spewing the entire contents of her mouth all over her husband’s finery.
Startled, Locrinus rose with a yelp, but the damage was done. His tunic was irreparably soiled, and his hair and face as well. Gwendolyn tried not to cackle with nervous laughter, but then another spray of food landed on his cheek, and the look in his eyes was, for the moment, too surprised to be angry. She couldn’t help it. She did laugh, and unfortunately—or rather fortunately, as the case should be—though she was seldom sick, she had a weak constitution for the grotesque, and seeing the savaged meat caught up in his hair, she didn’t have to feign her next regurgitation. It flew from her lips like a torrent, destroying the table—every plate, every glass, all tainted by puke.
In his fury, Loc cursed. Swiping himself with a look of disgust, for a full moment, he couldn’t seem to speak. His face grew florid and his eyes bulged. Finally, he barked at the guards.
“Getherout of here!”
From that moment on, it happened quickly. Several guests rose at once to advance upon the dais. Estrildis came straight to her angry lover, mewling as she frantically swiped at his tunic, trying her best to repair him. “I cannot believe she’s ruined your dress!” she cried, casting Gwendolyn a hateful glance, then continuing to tend to her sulking lover. When it was decided that his tunic could not be sorted, she encouraged him to abandon the dais.
Those same guards that had escorted Gwendolyn to sup now came to drag her, seizing her unceremoniously by the arms, their grip a little too firm. But instead of shoving her after Loc, toward Gwendolyn’s chambers, they led her to another door, through the scullery, which was used for the dirty work of cleaning and storing dishes.
Here, amidst more shouts and commands, the servants scurried back and forth, filling buckets with water to clean the dais and high table. No one seemed to notice Gwendolyn, so excited did they work, and Gwendolyn didn’t resist when the guards pushed her down yet another corridor.
Come whatever may, she must be at peace.
Wherever this led, she would face the consequences with her shoulders back and her head high, knowing in her heart that her time here would be short, regardless.
Tonight, Loc could hardly contain his abhorrence of her. If what he’d claimed was true, and the western tribes were already aligned with him, all he needed now were a few more tribes to have a consortium. Once he had a large enough army, he would persuade others to join forces with him.
Gods.Had he truly confessed to murdering Borlewen? Even now, she wanted to wrench herself free, go run after him, and plunge her cousin’s dagger into his miserable back.
The grip on her arm was brutal. The guards shoved her this way and that way, dragging her here, then there, and for one terrible moment, Gwendolyn feared this would be the end. Perhaps they were going to drag her behind the palace and execute her—as ignoble an end as could be.
At least her father had been beheaded before an audience. They would end her life in an alley behind the scullery, perhaps leaving everyone to believe she was safely ensconced in the palace—a good little wife for the Usurper King.
Blood and bones.She had perhaps set the course for something that could never be turned back. But then, when they turned down a long, dark corridor, Gwendolyn spied a lit torch at the end of the hall, in the hands of all people… Queen Innogen.
“You?” Gwendolyn said, aghast.
The woman dangled a thick set of keys in one hand, hastily finding the one she needed, and shoving it into a rusty lock. “Really? You didn’t believe you could simply leave?”
“Leave?”
“Without help,” Innogen said, as she pushed opened the heavy door.
Confused, Gwendolyn blinked, finding that the door she’d opened led outside… though not just outside… outside the gates.
With something akin to a growl of frustration, Queen Innogen shoved her into the night, where vines with thorns pricked at Gwendolyn’s face, clinging to her headscarf, threatening to unveil her hair. But once she passed the tangle of bushes, there stood Adwen… and Bryn and Ely, along with six well-fitted mounts.
The guards who’d manhandled her now slipped out of their red cloaks, revealing Durotrigan livery, and Gwendolyn turned to look at the Queen Mother in shock.
