Page 2 of The Queen's Huntsman
However, thanks to Loc’s detestable mother, she now knew too much about the Feast of Blades—this was how her wedding had come to be known. With the aid of his two younger brothers, Locrinus had executed every man and woman who’d stood to defend the old kings. The coup began immediately after their departure, at her wedding feast, where many of the guests were not guests at all. They were warriors in disguise, with more than poniards hidden beneath their sleeves. The first dagger found its way into King Brutus’s back, and the next came for her father.
Trevena was now occupied by Loegrian forces, all loyal to her husband. Her beloved palace was overrun with his soldiers. The nobles all fled, taking their families with them, and the Druid who’d officiated their marriage ceremony had cursed both their houses and lands, no doubt believing Gwendolyn had had a hand in the coup. But she had not, and by the time her wedding cavalcade arrived in the Loegrian capitol, both dead kings’ heads were already displayed atop the city gates, the delicate flesh of their eyes feeding the crows.
Málik, oh Málik! Where have you gone?
Don’t think of him,she commanded herself.
Don’t think of him.
Because if she did, even for a moment, she would fall to pieces and tomorrow would feel like a burden. Here in this place, she was alone. No matter that Bryn was somewhere in this palace. Gwendolyn seldom saw him, nor had she spoken to him in weeks. She saw Ely every day, but that was not the same. Ely was now obligated to Queen Innogen, forced to share her bed with the Queen Mother’s maid, and her attendance upon Gwendolyn was relegated only to the conveyance of meals.
Like a spoilt child, Gwendolyn had once pitied herself for her mother’s lack of attentions. She’d struggled with envy because Queen Eseld favored Ely more than she did Gwendolyn. For so long, she had lamented her plight, thinking herself forsaken and alone…
Poor, silly little princess…
Those were a child’s laments, and Gwendolyn understood that now… understood because she now knew what loneliness was…
And grief.
And fear.
Each night, she slept with her dagger. Even now, the tapered end lay resting in the smooth wood of her pillow, in the spot her husband’s head should have lain.
The violence done to her hair had left her feeling hideous, misused, and vulnerable. But Gwendolyn herself was to blame for that. She’d experienced so much trepidation over marrying Locrinus, and despite that, she’d done nothing to prevent it.
To the contrary, she’d rushed headlong into this accursed union, accepting it as her sworn duty. And worse, her willing participation in this farce—all her public avowals accepting this union—now made good and certain she hadn’t any recourse should she choose to contest the marriage. It simply wouldn’t matter whether the marriage was never consummated. The Llanrhos Druids would not rule in her favor—not the least of their reasons because she was a woman. But also, not once, but twice, she’d stood before the authorities to give assent—once during her Promise Ceremony and again under the sacred yew, where she took her sacred vows.
For all Gwendolyn knew, the tribes all also believed she’d been a willing participant in Loc’s coup. And now… here she was.
The faintest of birdsong persuaded her to reopen her eyes—a sparrow, its song lovely… persistent and full of promise. Gwendolyn blinked away a tear, listening…
Forsooth.She had never realized how much she adored that sound… till now.
Still in a trance, she watched as the sliver of light from her window lengthened, shining its stingy ray of light on the dagger embedded in her pillow. The pearl in the hilt winked fiercely, and her gaze fixed upon the dragon’s eye…
Amidst bushels and bushels of oysters, a simple white pearl was akin to finding gold. Pink was rarer still. Black was extraordinary. Add to that the dragon effigy, without its barbed tongue, and there was only one person to whom the blade could have belonged…
Borlewen.
Last seen in her cousin’s possession in Chysauster, along with Gwendolyn’s torc, both had been discovered amidst Alderman Aelwin’s2possessions. That it came to be in Loc’s possession said much about his culpability. And regardless, Gwendolyn could not imagine her cousin had gone easily to her fate. She would have fought—much as she’d fought for Gwendolyn and her family.
Outside, the sparrow’s song persisted, urging Gwendolyn to rise.
If she lay here much longer, she wasn’t sure what would become of her.
Get up, she told herself.Get up.
If not for herself, she must find some way to remove Ely and Bryn from this demon’s lair. At last, she sat, pulling Borlewen’s dagger from the soft wood.
Get up, get up, get out of bed
Let the sparrow’s song fill your head.
The song was Ely’s, sung to her each morning as she came bouncing into Gwendolyn’s room.
Get up, get up, never shall we part.
Let the sunshine fill your heart.
