Page 4 of The Queen's Huntsman
What should be said? She imagined it was Locrinus himself who’d gifted her possessions to Estrildis, if only to illustrate how insignificant Gwendolyn was—that she was worth less than his lover. He gave Estrildis everything, including Gwendolyn’s dowry chest, her arming sword, gowns, jewels, even the extravagant gilded horse she’d received on her wedding day.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn hadn’t been allowed a clean change of clothing, nor a mirror to mend her ruined tresses. The plain shift she now wore she’d received only after the last of Locrinus’ visits, when he’d demanded she remove the Prydein gown because it offended his sensibilities. He’d hurled the shift after her and left, and because Gwendolyn didn’t wish to argue, she did as he’d bade her, folding her mother’s gown and hiding that, too, beneath Urien’s bed.
Weeks passed, and no one but Ely even mentioned the missing board in her window.
Even then, it was only to suggest that Gwendolyn might ask for it to be repaired. With summer’s end approaching, winter would come sooner than expected, and thereafter, she might prefer the gloom to the bone-shivering chill.
Little did Ely realize Gwendolyn meant to be gone before then.
She only needed to figure out how to make her escape.
If Loc’s mother had noticed the broken window, she never once mentioned it—or if she noticed, she wasn’t concerned, perhaps with good reason. The window’s ledge was too high to climb atop, even with the aid of her rickety chair. Gwendolyn might have pushed the bed over to place the chair atop it, but neither piece of furniture was sturdy enough to sustain her weight, and if she didn’t break her neck, or crack her skull, or call in the guards, the practice yard was right below her window—a dusty pavilion, wherein swordplay was too often bloody and cruel.
Bare-chested, with no protection against whetted Loegrian steel, Loc’s men all faced one another as though in open battle, and the bloodier it got, the more satisfied Loc appeared.
Each day, when the sound of clashing swords chased away her songbird, Gwendolyn joined her husband’s warriors, strengthening her limbs and perfecting her footwork.
In time, her practice sword softened wherever she positioned her hands, all the splinters wearing smooth. Many embedded themselves into the tender flesh of her palms. Undeterred, Gwendolyn pried them all free with her teeth, and then continued practicing till her belly roiled, taking satisfaction in the malaise that accompanied her exhaustion, knowing from experience that it was not an aspect of illness, but a reward for all her hard work.
Today, she felt stronger than she had in months, and that was a good thing, because, last night, she’d overheard the guards speaking of the army’s impending departure. To where was not yet disclosed, but she felt certain Locrinus was already preparing to take the army east to take Plowonida as he’d claimed he would on the first night they’d supped together—that city he intended to rename Troia Nova, his new Troy, after his father’s birthland.
Regardless of where, if they left before she could find some way to escape, Locrinus would take Bryn with him, and Gwendolyn could not allow Bryn to be embroiled in a war not his own.
Eager to speak to Ely about it, she awoke early, and promptly began her practice, working through her frustrations, eschewing the headdress despite that she knew Ely would be discomfited by the sight of her shorn hair. It couldn’t be helped. The scarf was more a hindrance than her plaits ever were, and now that her hair had grown long enough, she could push it behind her ears.
Until now, she’d kept the quarterstaff hidden beneath her bed, leaving her exercise for when she knew the sounds she made would be muffled by the cacophony outside. But it was past time for Ely to know she was preparing—as Loc was preparing—and perhaps to see if there was some way she could get word to Bryn. Together, the three of them must devise a plan.
When eventually Ely arrived with Gwendolyn’s tray, she froze, her eyes going wide at the sight of Gwendolyn’s make-do sword. Looking like a frightened little rabbit, her gaze slid from the sword to Gwendolyn’s sweat-dampened hair, and then her eyes met Gwendolyn’s, and she shook her head desperately, opening her mouth to speak. Only after making some panicked sound, she closed it again, rushing over to the bedside table to deposit her tray.
At once, Gwendolyn put down the quarterstaff, leaning it against the wall, but by the time she turned to face Ely, Ely was gone, and no sooner had she departed than Queen Innogen marched through the door, full of gloat and spite. “That poor girl!” she said, glancing after Ely’s departure, and her lips turned ever so slightly at one corner.
Gwendolyn braced herself for the woman’s careful vitriol.
Hellenes by birth, Loc’s beauteous mother was the eldest daughter of King Pandrasus—a man her husband had betrayed. And so it seemed, she was only biding her time to exact revenge on her father’s behalf, only waiting for her sons to come of age.
In fact, knowing what Gwendolyn knew now, she profoundly suspected it was Innogen who was the true architect behind the Feast of Blades.
Moreover, though she hadn’t proof, in her heart she felt Innogen also slew Urien. It made sense if one considered Urien was not her blood. His mother was Brutus’ first wife, who, according to rumors, also died mysteriously, and quite conveniently, leaving Brutus free to wed Innogen.
How familiar that sounded, but Gwendolyn would not wait around to meet the same fate.
“What may I do for you?” she asked evenly, trying not to prick the queen mother’s ire. As it was with her son, words were the lady’s cruelest weapons. She could wield them as lethally as Gwendolyn could any sword. But, whereas Locrinus was ruled by his spleen, Queen Innogen’s wit was quiet and sharp, her reprisals calculated and mean.
“Why should I not wish to visit my beloved daughter?” she asked far too cheerfully, but then her face twisted with a look Gwendolyn interpreted as disgust once she noted Gwendolyn’s sudor. “Oh, Gwendolyn!” she exclaimed. “Why must you always be so…” She shook her head, seeking the proper word. “Moist!” She advanced upon Gwendolyn suddenly only to flick a lock of wet hair out of her face. “My dear,” she said rather mournfully. “’Tis little wonder my son cannot abide the thought of bedding you.” She sighed then, resigned. “Truly, Gwendolyn, wouldn’t it seem that a new bride should do all in her power to appeal to her new husband?”
Not this bride.
Gwendolyn swallowed her immediate retort, repulsed by the thought of Locrinus’ touch.
And then her gaze fell on the practice sword she’d placed against the wall, and she cursed silently for not having laid it beneath the bed.
“You know,” said the Queen Mother in a brighter tone, watching Gwendolyn. “You and I have so much in common—Estrildis, as well.”
“Do we?” Gwendolyn asked, crossing her arms, trying to keep her attention off the sword.
“Indeed,” said Innogen. “Neither of us could have foreseen our fates—prophecies be damned.” She waved a hand dismissively, and then, for a moment, turned to study the tray Ely had brought in, considering it for a long moment before continuing. “You see, Gwendolyn,” she said, her gaze shifting once more to Gwendolyn after satisfying her curiosity. “All three of us would be queens without the machinations of men.”
“Would we?” asked Gwendolyn, not caring to hear about Loc’s beautiful lover—she was hideous where it counted most.
