Page 19 of The Queen's Huntsman
The elder warrior peered back at her. “Gogmagog?” He shrugged “Neh. Not so much a tree,” he said. “But your father did lift him up with three broken ribs and tossed him headlong into the River Dart.”
Gwendolyn smiled wistfully, wishing she could have seen it for herself. Men still told that tale wherever she went, and she still enjoyed it every time she heard it. And yet, the man her father had become before his death was barely a shadow of that much sung hero.
Ravaged by illness, her father had been too frail even to stand unassisted for long. The last time Gwendolyn saw him was at her wedding, and that was the best he’d looked in months. Gwendolyn had only dared to hope that her marriage to Locrinus was the beginning of his healing journey. After all, the land was the king, and the king was the land. This was the sole reason she’d agreed to wed Locrinus in the first place, and she foolishly believed her marriage would strengthen their alliance. If the people were contented, it made sense that the land would heal, and her father’s health would return with the land. But she had been wrong.Oh, so wrong.
“I was proud to fight with him,” Beryan said. “As I’ll be proud to fight beside his daughter.”
Gwendolyn bit at her lower lip, worrying, because the chance was greater than he realized. And regardless, they would put forth a good fight. If she must perish in these rotting woodlands, her name and legacy forgotten in a battle that would be remembered by no one, they would at least take as many of Loc’s minions with them as possible, and hopefully Loc himself.
She lost herself in thought, loathing what she saw in these woods…
Years ago, when the Rot first began, she remembered how many of the tribes sent their aldermen to the capitol. Together, led by the Awenydds, Gwyddons and Druids, the tribalkonselshad all put aside their animosities for the sake of the isle, because, despite that they were all so different, they had one thing in common: a fierce love for this land. Somehow, some way, this is what Gwendolyn must appeal to again… and perhaps dreaming of vengeance wasn’t the answer. Where had such fury gotten her so far? For all these long months, she’d been so intent upon revenge. It was only now, with her freedom, that she dared consider all that was lost… and more, all that must be done to salvage what was not.
“Have you a wife?” Gwendolyn asked, curious.
“Aye,” he said, but then he corrected himself. “Rather, I did, Majesty. Only my daughter now. Her name is Taryn.”
“How old is she?”
“Full grown,” he said with a warm smile. “Yet do not ask me how many years. I don’t even know my own years. All I know is that she was born before the Great Southern Storm.”
Gwendolyn remembered that storm only vaguely. It flooded much of the southern coastlands, razing forests, and sending many of the southerners fleeing into northern territories, looking for higher ground and shelter. It passed through Trevena with scarcely a whimper, but what she remembered most at the tender age of four was the influx of people who’d arrived, cold and shivering, with only their cloaks on their backs.
That was also the year her father built the publicpiscina.
And then, two years later, a second wall to surround the city’s expansion. Some of those newcomers were Atrebates by birth. Still her father had turned none away.
“All are Pretania’s children,” he’d said, envisioning a day when all the tribes would live as one, when peace would reign in a kingdom without borders…
It was a beautiful dream, but, alas, it seemed more impossible now than ever.
Gwendolyn’s jaw worked as she considered all the terrible choices made.
In retrospect, she could see every mistake…
If she had it all to do over again, she would have done at least one thing differently: She would have run Alderman Aelwin through. Consequences be damned—her father’s temper be damned!
The last time she saw that traitor they were carting him off to a prison cell, and more than likely Locrinus had set him free to strut about her city as though he himself were Mester—and perhaps he now was, but that very notion infuriated her, that his betrayal could be so easily rewarded. If she’d never traveled to Chysauster with his infernal prunes, she might never have suspected his treachery, but if she’d not gone, her uncle and family might still be alive. That faithless bastard murdered one of his own peers, intending to lift himself into a higher position, and quite likely he would have murdered the Mester himself, if her misconceived journey to Chysauster hadn’t happened. But though his perfidy was revealed to her through this series of unfortunate events, she was hard-pressed to say any of it was worth it. After all, where was Aelwin after plotting with Locrinus? She hoped as dead as her father but doubted this had been his fate.
As for Brutus, they should have ousted him from these lands the day he’d arrived on their shores seeking asylum. Barring that, her father should never have allied with an outlander, and they shouldn’t have trusted him so easily. Neither should they have given him so much—no lands, no titles, no marriage alliances. Everything Brutus became, he became because her father allowed it. And, ultimately, it did not matter that Brutus was betrayed, too, because he’d brought with him a culture of lies, betrayal and murder. Worse, he’d sired Locrinus, and for that alone, he should have been crucified, as the Assyrians would do.
She sighed then, considering this—reconsidering Beryan.
This sweet, true-hearted man had placed so much faith in her—a vanquished, angry young maiden whose fortune now depended on the kindness of strangers.
Gwendolyn wasn’t so ignorant that she didn’t comprehend she was only a beggar now, dependent upon the mercy of others—like the Atrebates who’d come knocking at their gates after that storm. It really didn’t matter what blood ran through her veins. Left to her own devices, she would be no more than a mud lark pecking at scraps.
This was a humbling thought—an impression of herself she had never once considered, having lived so finely, with servants to care for her every need. Now, with her father’s death, her beloved Cornwall was a broken dream… soon to be a memory.
And so would she if Locrinus found her.
Later,when the barking grew louder, Beryan commanded Gwendolyn to ride ahead. “You lead, I shall follow,” he said, and she obeyed, giving her mount a heel to lift the pace.
“Should we keep to thebourne?” she asked.
“Hmmm. I’m thinking we should slip back into the woods,” he replied, but no sooner had advised this when an arrow flew by Gwendolyn’s ear.
“Down!” Beryan shouted. “Down, Majesty!”
