Page 52 of The Queen's Huntsman
Lir said nothing in response, but he straightened his spine, riding as stiffly as a length of wood.
On and on they continued, and Gwendolyn had an inkling that Esme thoroughly enjoyed the needling… as she seemed to enjoy needling everyone, including Gwendolyn.
After a time, listening to her poke at the Druid, Gwendolyn began to think of Esme much as she didpiskies—indescribably beautiful on the outside, perhaps equally so on the inside. But if you rubbed one the wrong way…
And sometimes when she smiled exactly so, it brought to mind Demelza’s description of the Faeries by Gwendolyn’s cradle… with their bright eyes and sharp, savage grins.
ChapterTwenty-Four
That evening, they settled near to where the River Dee curved north and west. Another furlong, thereabouts, and they would have returned to the location where Beryan fell.
Gwendolyn recognized the old wych elm and couldn’t help but consider Beryan’s daughter. Would she worry about her missing father as much as Gwendolyn worried about her mother and Demelza? Likely so, and it was the not knowing that was so terribly hard. At least if she knew that her mother was dead, she would rest easier knowing that she wasn’t suffering, and stop worrying and hoping. But if she was dead, there would be no redemption for either of them, and particularly for Gwendolyn. After all that she’d witnessed and endured, she now understood that everything Bryn had said was true: Everything her mother ever did she’d done in Gwendolyn’s best interest.
More than anything, Gwendolyn wished she could see her again, and explain that, not only did she forgive her, but she finally understood and loved her fiercely for her care and protection.
Poring over those dark thoughts, Gwendolyn found a good, dry spot for their pallets. Meanwhile, Esme tended the horses, and Málik went searching for their supper, and Gwendolyn followed Esme down to the river, intending to help with the horses, determined to do her part.
She didn’t wish to be like Loc, sitting atop his golden throne, merely watching his warriors spar from his dais, staying clear of the blood.
Gods knew, even his coup was designed to keep the blood from his hands, with him long gone from the city as the deed was done, with Gwendolyn culpable simply for having wed him.
She was still furious over that.Utterly and irreversibly.
With a look that Gwendolyn read as amusement, Esme watched as Gwendolyn checked her mare for galls caused by the gear.
“You won’t find anything,” she declared. “These are Enbarr’s daughters.”
And, of course, she spoke true. Gwendolyn found nothing. The animal’s flesh was pristine.
“Her name is Aisling,” Esme revealed. “It means dream.”
She tapped the horse directly beside her on the flank and said, “This one is Sheahan. It means Peaceful One; for good or ill, it is why I lent her to that silly druid. How annoyingly unflappable he is. One would think him made of stone.” So then, shewasneedling him on purpose.
Pointing to the others, each in turn, Esme called out their names. “Daithi—Swift, and Lorcan.” The last one was hers, and she grinned. “In my tongue that means ‘little fierce one.’”
“Like her master, I presume?”
“Perhaps,” said Esme coyly, her smile turning crooked.
“And they are all mares?” Gwendolyn said. But it wasn’t a question because that was the first thing she’d noticed. Her father had been of the mind that, in battle, mares were better than stallions or even geldings. For one, stallions too oft suffered from blood frenzy, and in the throes of battle would unseat their riders. But it wasn’t altogether a matter of blood frenzy.
Once during practice, Gwendolyn watched a very determined stallion attempt to mount a mare in heat with both riders still attached.
And truly, despite that geldings were cheaper than mares, they were not much better behaved. Therefore, while many warriors seemed inclined to match their egos with their mounts, choosing great, imposing stallions, her father always insisted on good, sturdy mares for his troops, and from an early age, he’d taught Gwendolyn the importance of their training and care.
Indeed, he’d put her on a horse when she was two and had her cleaning stalls by the time she was four—for many reasons, although primarily because it was her father’s heartfelt belief that a horse’s loyalty was given first to the person who tended and fed them. As it was with warriors, loyalty was essential. Therefore, it didn’t matter what one’s royal standing, a shovel of shit now and again was the price to be paid for the certainty of a mount’s fealty.
“Indeed,” said Esme. “As randy as the sire may be, he’ll never produce stallions.” Her expression shifted to one of disgust. “You see, Enbarr was a gift to Lugh from Manannán, and, of course, that old windbag would leave nothing to chance. For my part, I was surprised to learn he could breed at all.”
Gwendolyn lifted both brows. “Do you mean the sea god?”
Esme waved a hand dismissively. “You say god, I say imbecile. He’s a selfish old wanker, but I suppose he loved his foster son enough to gift him three of his most prized possessions: Enbarr, plus a boat and his sword.” She peered back toward their camp. “That is the sword Málik now wields—the Answerer.”
One more nugget of information.
“You said ‘loved’, so was Manannán slain, or has Málik found himself disfavored?”
“Nah. The old goat still lives, but you mistook me, Gwendolyn. Málik is nothisson. I was speaking of Lugh.” She bent to lift a palmful of water, splashing it gently on her mare, then rubbing away a bit of mud.
