Page 3 of The Queen's Huntsman
Abandoning the bed, without considering what she would do next, Gwendolyn strode toward the room’s only chair, lifting it up and carrying it to the barred window, then climbing atop it. Wedging Borlewen’s blade into the crack that had formed between the slats, she wiggled it to widen the rift until, at last, it made room for her fingers.
Outside, the sparrow song continued, so rich with hope, so beautiful. More than anything, Gwendolyn wanted to see it…
In her desperation, she tugged harder, prying one end loose. Then, blinking, she stopped to consider the board…
Despite its brilliant construction, her cousin’s dagger would never be suitable for practicing her combat skills. In the absence of her arming sword, she could whittle herself a quarterstaff, and then use it to practice with.
Returning to the task with renewed vigor, Gwendolyn tugged at the wood until it finally came free. Gods knew she might have arrived in this city with fine gowns, ribbons and jewels, yet those were never her usual accoutrements.
Like her father and grandfather before him, she was a warrior to her bones. If these people intended for her to remain abed, weeping evermore, they would be sorely aggrieved.
Hope sprang like a song from a sparrow’s beak.
1 The blade Locrinus used to shear Gwendolyn’s hair. It is also the blade he stole from her cousin, Borlewen. For more information about characters, please see the Reader’s Guide.
2 Aelwin is the subject of Gwendolyn’s investigation in Book One. He murdered Alderman Brook, poisoning him with prunes.
ChapterTwo
Gwendolyn chose her battles carefully, claiming minute victories when she could.
For one, she stopped refusing her meals, as disgusting as they were. It only made Ely worry, and as off-putting as the gruel might be, she needed the sustenance for strength.
As a perk, in graciously accepting her meals, she also discovered that not everyone in this accursed palace was devoted to its new master. Sometimes, she found small gifts on her tray—a slip of golden ribbon tied about her napkin, or a bit of salt hidden beneath the plate.
When she asked about them, Ely said she knew nothing, and Gwendolyn would have sent her to investigate, but Ely was already as skittish as a mouse; she daren’t put her in peril.
At one point, when Gwendolyn complained bitterly over the chamber pot, Queen Innogen responded by insisting she was never a prisoner.
“You arethequeen,” she’d said mockingly, and then to the guards. “You mustalwaysbe certain to escort your lady to the garderobe whensoever she wishes. But do not bore her with idle talk.” The next was said for Gwendolyn’s benefit. “There are some here who wish her ill, and if any harm should come to her, the fault will be yours. I will take a pound of your flesh.” The Queen Mother’s eyes had fixed upon Gwendolyn though she was speaking to the guards, and the implication was not lost to Gwendolyn. Of course she could visit the garderobe—always in the company of her guards, but at the risk of her losing her life, should she encounter the wrong person—and that person, Gwendolyn suspected, would be Locrinus. He obviously couldn’t bear the sight of her. But that was fine; this small modicum of freedom provided her with a sense of place, and her greedy eyes memorized every door she passed, every corner, every turn.
Sometimes, she knowingly got lost, and because her guards were forbidden to speak with her—perhaps because Innogen feared she would ask too many pertinent questions—they were forced to follow, all the while she tested the corridors, poking her head into as many apartments as she dared, always in the guise of searching for the elusive garderobe.
“Not this room,” she would say aloud, in a sing-song tone. “Not this one either. Nor this one!” But Gwendolyn knew where the garderobe was, and only once she’d explored as far and wide as she dared, did she ultimately “discover” the proper facility. However, even thereafter, now and again, she pretended to be lost again, hoping to encounter Bryn, but she never did. Wherever his quarters were, they weren’t anywhere near hers.
In some ways, the Loegrian palace reminded Gwendolyn of those dark, twisty tunnels beneath her uncle’s village in Chysauster, with crude beams bracing the earthen walls—only here the walls were made of wood, with no attention to detail, no carvings along the beams, no tapestries for warmth, very few windows, and no shining cressets for the torches.
All that was missing was a few brown bats and a beetle or two. Though there were plenty of rats, all wise enough to keep to the shadows, but their droppings were visible, regardless.
The floors, too, were crudely done, bare earth between the cracks in loosely placed stone. The result was that no matter how much the floor was swept, there would always be a fine dusting of filth, and sometimes, if one was not careful, it was easy to lose one’s balance and trip.
The stables in Trevena were better considered.
And yet, so mean as this palace was, the city itself was meaner—a surprise, considering that Gwendolyn knew Brutus must have harbored a mountain of gold. Trevena alone had contributed so much to his coffers, and despite this, the paucity of his city had been startling. Upon her arrival, she’d found filthy streets, refuse wherever one ventured, excrement as well, and the buildings were timeworn and in need of repairs. They were also constructed too close together. One stray flame might bring down the entire burgh, which could well have been someone’s intention, because the ceilings all bore years’ worth of soot from overfed peat torches—as dangerous as it was filthy.
Indeed, so much was clear to Gwendolyn after having seen Loc’s abode. Every day of his life he must have begrudged his father’s austerity, only now that the city was his, he did nothing to improve it, and more and more, she had a sense that this palace—if it could be called that—was merely a temporary refuge.
In her room, she hid the freshly carved quarterstaff beneath her bed, along with the telltale shavings, certain as she was that no one would notice since her room hadn’t likely been swept since Urien’s death. And, yes, indeed, it was Urien’s room—Gwendolyn’s first betrothed, whose death had come so swiftly and mysteriously this past spring.
In a gloating moment, it was none other than Estrildis who revealed the former occupant. So, of course, now the stench made sense.
However, despite her prediction that Gwendolyn would perish the same way he did, Gwendolyn refused to allow her husband’s lover to get the best of her, so she said nothing. After all, Demelza used to counsel her that even a fool, in his silence, could be considered wise. And, if that were true, Gwendolyn was oh, so wise.
As for Locrinus, it hadn’t taken long for him to grow bored with tormenting her.
Finally, he ceased to visit altogether, not even to delight in her torment, preferring to leave her care to his mother and lover—the former most often, although betimes Estrildis insinuated herself into the cell, if only to posture with one of Gwendolyn’s stolen gowns.
Even then, Gwendolyn said nothing.
