Page 18 of The Queen's Huntsman
Gwendolyn had wondered why only Atrebates and Durotriges were present this evening; now she understood. When he was ready, Plowonida would be Loc’s for the taking, and purely by allowing Gwendolyn to go free, Innogen had delivered her son the means by which to accomplish his dream without ever involving the Dobunni or the Druids.
Worst case, if Loc could not be appeased, and he reneged upon Innogen’s bargain with Durotriges, he would still hold those lands. Durotriges could never defend against his growing army, and Gwendolyn was quite certain that Innogen had sacrificed the entire village for her contrivance.
No doubt, her primary aim had been to remove Gwendolyn from Loc’s hands. She perhaps understood that Gwendolyn’s death would give birth to a martyr, and a martyr in this time of unrest was far more dangerous than a flesh and blood queen—one whose part in this ruse was still untold.
And perhaps she even feared that, with Gwendolyn’s blood on her son’s hands, he might turn the hearts of those who were still undecided. Better to release Gwendolyn and leave her to answer to her kinsmen. After all, even if she could win back her people, she would still have to find those loyal to her father, and fear would make that a perilous task.
Additionally, with her father’s armies all scattered, whatever offer of protection she would make would be empty and few would be so trusting of a would-be queen who’d already presumably aligned herself with a kingslayer. It didn’t matter that Gwendolyn was innocent, she must now prove she’d had nothing to do with Loc’s coup. And even if she did this, they were still bound to mistrust her “Prophecy” now, when their once celebrated princess and valiant king were so swiftly and soundly defeated. Indeed, why should anyone fight for a house abandoned by the gods?
And the final blow was this… with the land dying, it was only a matter of time before the people’s outrage turned to Gwendolyn.
Innogen.
Even if she lost, she would win.
It was only now, in this very moment, as Gwendolyn pieced together the story that she realized she had perhaps lost her greatest opportunity to cut off the viper’s head. Without his mother, Loc was only another greedy, vicious man; however, with Innogen by his side, he was far more dangerous. She was so much more cunning than Gwendolyn ever supposed.
Considering this, she rode quietly, filled with dismay, praying that Ely and Bryn had escaped, and only to be sure, she planted the golden scarf tangled about her fingers, letting it slip to the ground, peering over her shoulder to watch it settle—a bright yellow stain on the forest floor.
Bryn had said those hounds would tire. Hopefully, that would be the case. But if they made it this far into the woods, bright as her scarf was, no one would miss it.
Gwendolyn knew how to defend herself as well as any man, and considering that, it was far better to lure the hounds in their direction, knowing she and Beryan had a better chance against Loc than Bryn alone with Ely. Their paths had diverged only marginally, but if she could, she would keep Loc and his men from following her dearest friends, and somehow buy more time for Adwen to safeguard his village.
ChapterEight
Gwendolyn felt awful that Beryan was the unlucky one chosen to accompany her, particularly knowing those dogs would eventually come searching for her.
He was a quiet man, a little guarded, though Gwendolyn could tell by his actions and his demeanor that he was dutiful and constant.
And yes, of course, she would confess about the scarf, but not until there was no chance of him turning back for it. For himself alone, she knew he’d not bother, but for her sake, for his queen, he would feel obliged.
She didn’t intend to argue with anyone about the value of her life. So far as she was concerned, her life was worth no more than Bryn’s or Ely’s—and assuredly not the entirety of Durotriges. Even if Beryan were willing to risk his village for her, she could not allow it.
If she fell in battle, she suspected Adwen might even be the one chosen to lead, and he, more than most—perhaps even more than Gwendolyn—had the best chance to unite the tribes. He was a man, for one, but there was a good reason she hadn’t seen him since her fifteenth Name Day. During these short years since he’d come into his title and lands, he’d been a force for good, working faithfully for peace in her father’s name. With the greatest respect, Durotriges might not compare with Trevena, but even without the walled city, Adwen drew followers from many of the nearby tribes, giving them refuge. His village had grown immensely since the old duke’s death, and so had his tributes. Conversely, who did Gwendolyn have?
The answer rang like a death knell in her head.
Perhaps she had some small chance to convince her mother’s people to ally with Cornwall, but probably not. So much had fallen with Trevena.
No longer would she have control over their mines.
Neither did she hold the port, nor govern the trade.
She didn’t even have control over the city.
And now it struck her thatalltheir elders had likely been executed along with her father—Yestin, Morgelyn. Crwys, all who’d remained true to the old king.
In herkonsel, there would be fewer men like Beryan, whose knowledge came from age and experience. Their future would depend upon a new generation, with untried warriors and legates, all meant to be guided by a fledgling queen… and this gave her the greatest pause.
Gwendolyn had spent many years studying under the Mester Alderman. She’d studied all the war maps. She knew every leader of every tribe, but she had never done more than attend her father’skonselsand sit and listen. He’d never given her a voice, and to be sure, much of the time she’d sat there, thinking of ways to be excused.Gods.She had wrongly believed she would have more time, and even when her father was so sick… she had still believed she could fix him, that he would live many years more. After all, how could a legend like her father perish so ignobly as to waste to his bones? Little did she realize… it could be worse.
In the distance, too close for comfort, the hounds bayed again, and Gwendolyn cast a nervous glance at Beryan. In the daylight, she could see his many scars—one thick white line on the back of his upper arm, another small one parting his right brow, and another that followed the outside of his forearm, as though a blade skimmed the length of his arm.
“Did you fight beside my father?” she asked, sidling up beside the elder warrior. If they were meant to die here together, she would at least like to know more about the man who would give his life to defend her.
He gave her a lift of his chin. “More than once,” he said, and then he grinned. “I was there the day he dispatched Gogmagog.”
“Were you?” Gwendolyn asked, with a modicum of surprise. Not that Beryan wasn’t old enough—he was at least as old as her father—but she had never met someone who’d witnessed the end of Gogmagog firsthand. “Did he truly pluck up a tree, as I was told?”
