Page 56 of The Queen's Huntsman
Once she could.
“Poor, sweet man,” she lamented, wishing there was some way to atone for his death. “I should take the sword,” she announced. “If I find his daughter, I will give it to her.”
“And the shield?”
“Leave it to mark his grave,” Gwendolyn suggested, and Málik did not wait to be commanded. He slid from his mount, came forward to sweep the sword up, then carried it back to his mount, placing it into the empty sheathe attached to his saddle.
But, of course, that sheathe would be empty. Unless he was sleeping, his own sword never left the harness on his back. He never let it out of his sight.
“When did you do this?” she wondered aloud, peering at him, watching as he secured Beryan’s sword, before moving to adjust the cinches on his saddle to account for the new weight.
“Last night,” he said matter-of-factly, and, without another word, he swung himself back into his saddle, not bothering to await her leave to go. He clicked his reins and trotted away.
“So that’s where he went,” said Lir.
Esme said nothing at all, but she cast Gwendolyn a curious glance, before peering after Málik.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
All day long, Gwendolyn was acutely aware of the arrow wrapped in her blanket, but no less so of the one who’d returned it to her. In all her life she’d received so few gifts, and this was the first time she’d been given something so unexpected by someone not of her blood, or a close relation. And for no reason at all. Simply because.
As fortunate as she had been, even her dresses and jewels were mostly borrowed from her mother, but this was nothing she would dare complain about after witnessing the penury of others.
Her father had not believed in hoarding riches whilst his vassals went hungry. His standard of sacrifice for others was a bedrock of their customs, and even her father’s dukes had lived meagerly compared to Gwendolyn.
Her uncle Cunedda had so easily shared all he had with his neighbors. En finale, he’d given even his life for Gwendolyn, never having been asked.
And her sweet, beautiful cousins, as well. The sisterly joy they’d shared with so much laughter was their greatest treasure, and their belongings amounted to nothing more than a shared comb and several dresses—most of them gifted by Gwendolyn.
Remembering that little girl from the market1whose eyes had shone so brightly when Gwendolyn tossed her a coin for her morels—her joy was minuscule compared to the earnest gratitude she’d spied in the mother’s eyes. It was the look of a woman who’d been handed a year's worth of meals for her hungry children.
Charity was the way of her people, and her father was a fine example, but he did not pinch coppers for the city or its people. Gwendolyn, too, had been taught this principle of self-discipline, and anything she’d owned were things she’d needed and used—a horse, a dress, a sword, a comb, a pair of good slippers, and a good pair of boots and leathers for hunting and sparring.
Indeed, this was what had upset her so much about her mother—Queen Eseld’s obsession with thedawnsio, her dresses and her station. And perhaps that was only fitting she should be that way. Along with the Druids, thedawnsio, Awenydds and Gwyddons all served important roles for the kingdom—as priests, historians, philosophers, and scientists. They continued an ancient tradition, teaching epochs of history through a choreographed dance. But it was only now that Gwendolyn understood something about her mother that wasn’t clear to her before—that her need to belong was as great as Gwendolyn’s need to be known. And it was only after seeing what true rapacity and affectation looked like—through Estrildis—that she’d understood the difference.
Not even Queen Innogen had been so pretentious or grasping, although her greed was certainly farther reaching. Unlike Estrildis, who appeared to wantthings, Queen Innogen wanted something far less tangible. She wanted power. In all Gwendolyn’s time at the palace, not once had Loc’s mother ever concerned herself with Gwendolyn’s stolen belongings. Estrildis had claimed them all and Queen Innogen seemed pleased enough to allow her son’s mistress the distraction.
As for Brutus, he was never so fastidious as his son.
Gwendolyn remembered his state of dress when he’d arrived for her Promise Ceremony—boorish and foul-smelling, although she’d excused him for his travels.
Conversely, his son had left her waiting for hours and hours while he’d pandered to himself, but, at the time, Gwendolyn had considered it a gesture of his care. It was only after seeing where he’d lived all his life that she suspected how much he’d resented his father’s frugality, and she sensed he must have secretly coveted Gwendolyn’s home and life—luxurious in comparison.
Indeed, it wasn’t until arriving in Loegria that Gwendolyn had witnessed true privation—the very squalor his people endured.
But now her thoughts returned to the bow Adwen had given her…
How odd that two of the three most random gifts she’d ever received were so connected—a bow and an arrow. Perhaps she should have aspired to archery?
Certainly she could fight as well as any man, but her archery was nowhere near her swordplay and her swordplay was nowhere near her equestrian skills. Still, she was quite good with a sword—good enough that she’d often bested Bryn. Good enough that her father decided her teacher needed a teacher—and thus entered Málik. At least, Gwendolyn had believed that was the reason.
She remembered the first time she’d ever defeated Bryn. He’d commemorated the feat by giving her a cornflower. Gwendolyn placed it on her windowsill, and every morning, the sun would shine past the blossom, casting its bristly shadow against her bedroom wall. Thereafter, she’d woken for weeks, feeling anew the glow of Bryn’s gift—until her mother discovered that flower on the windowsill, and plucked it off, admonishing the maids to better clean her filthy room.
Gwendolyn had wanted so much to explain that it was a gift from Bryn, a reward for her accomplishments. But she knew in her heart that Queen Eseld would have mistaken it for something else. In retrospect, Gwendolyn understood that her mother was trying to protect her and doubtless, she’d feared Gwendolyn would lose her heart to the Mester’s son.
That would never have happened, because even as a wee child, Gwendolyn had understood her duty. And so, she’d believed, she knew better than to allow her heart to wander to such places. Bryn was only ever her friend, and nothing more. But she’d been naïve, because she’d long suspected that he’d harbored some small affection for her, despite that he would never disrespect her by saying so. He knew she could not forget her duties, nor allow herself to be thwarted by misadventures of the heart. But perhaps she had been blind to his feelings and perhaps she had expected too much of him—to accept the futility of one’s heart’s desire. Gwendolyn must confess… it hurt.
A glance in Málik’s direction found him watching her again, though he averted his gaze when she looked his way.
