Page 59 of The Queen's Huntsman
There, he too quietly refreshed himself, every now and again, his gaze seeking Esme—perhaps because he liked her, or perhaps because he didn’t. Both possibilities were entirely conceivable.
Whatever the case, the horse Esme had chosen for him suited him well. Judging by his enduring patience under Esme’s relentless goading, he was as peace-loving a man as was ever begot. Even now, saddle worn and red-faced, he didn’t complain.
As for Esme… Málik’s warning still rang in her ears—in part because Gwendolyn couldn’t get a feel for the Faerie’s true intentions. Sometimes it seemed she could be Gwendolyn’s dearest of friends, and sometimes… well, Gwendolyn wasn’t so certain.
There was something about the glimmer in Esme’s eyes that made Gwendolyn wonder—sometimes appearing to be simple delight, other times… something more.
Only time would tell.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn’s belly grumbled and Esme must have heard it as well because she, too, complained as she knelt beside Gwendolyn. “He’s going to kill us,” she said.
Gwendolyn needn’t ask who; she knew.
Málik’s mood was as mercurial as Esme’s. He had driven them ruthlessly all day long, stopping only when the horses needed respite—which was scarcely ever. “I’ve a bit of hob cake left,” Gwendolyn offered. “’Tis yours if you’d like it?”
Esme scoffed, twisting her face. “Hob cake?” she said, shaking her head adamantly. “Gods, nay! I’ve had enough ambrosia to last a thousand lifetimes. Really, Gwendolyn!” she said, lifting a brow. “That is what we were forced to make-do with during our confinement. If I never suffer another bite, I should be quite content.” And then her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head. “I wonder though… you do know those tales are all true?”
“What tales?” Gwendolyn asked, confused.
Esme grinned then, proudly displaying her porbeagle teeth. “Well,” she said, with a feral gleam in her eyes, flicking a quick glance at Lir, saying loudly enough for him to overhear. “Some of usdoeat babies.”
Gwendolyn’s brows collided. “Babies?” She hadn’t the first notion where that came from—perhaps another argument between Esme and Lir. But despite that Gwendolyn had heard those stories, they were always so disingenuously told, and she’d never truly believed them.
“The younger the better!” Esme declared, before splashing her face, and then she said, “Fret not, Dragon Queen. I prefer my meals to run on all fours.”
She tittered then, and rose, drifting away, leaving Gwendolyn with the disturbing vision of a horde ofFae, all with sharp fangs, mauling wee babes. Horrified by the thought, she peered at Lir, and the Druid lifted a shoulder, shrugging at her unspoken question. But if he believed Esme, he didn’t appear the least bit concerned. What was the purpose of that? Gwendolyn wondered. Did Esme not wish for Gwendolyn to rest easy in her company? Or was it she didn’t want Gwendolyn to trust Málik? “Argh,” she said, considering that she’d once kissed Málik with that mouth.
She’d looked straight into his too familiar eyes, imagining him no worse than men who dined so greedily on roasted pig… yet perhaps he was worse?
Glancing over her shoulder, she found him brushing his mare’s hindquarters, but his attention was now fixed upon Esme, watching her as she returned from the stream. When she neared, he hissed something beneath his breath, and Esme returned the exchange, marching by to see to her mount as it grazed. There really was something between those two… something Gwendolyn couldn’t precisely resolve… something beyond the obvious.
Gwendolyn sensed Málik would never betray her… but then again… trust was not something she could afford to give so freely—and this was a lesson hard learned.
Even with Málik, she’d be wise to keep her wits about her—especially with Málik.
* * *
Heartily relievedto find that Málik appeared to have forgotten their date to spar, Gwendolyn abandoned Lir to his foraging and went to retrieve her blanket from the rear of her mount.
Much as she needed practice, she was thoroughly exhausted, with too much on her mind, and it didn’t matter what Málik returned with for victuals. She would be content enough to nibble on hob cake and pass out.
She found a good spot close to the campfire, still far enough away that she could rest out of the path of trampling feet, and then bent to roll out her pallet.
After departing yestermorn without breaking their fast, and last night’s meager repast, then a full day of travel with little sustenance, she was bone-tired and preparing for bed before sundown.
The pinewoods were thinning now, interspersed with sprawling elms and oaks. By early tomorrow morning, they would cross into Catuvellauni territory, and this filled her with dread.
For one, no matter how fierce Esme and Málik might be, they were still only two Fae, accompanied by a Druid healer. And regardless that Gwendolyn felt certain she could fend for herself, the Catuvellauni were much like the Iceni, fiercely territorial and jealous, and if they caught her under these circumstances, her name would curry no favor. They might not return her to Loc, but they could well finish what he’d started.
At the beginning of her father’s reign, Dumnonii lands had consisted only of Cornwall proper. Eventually, they’d stretched from Land’s End to the Wrikon in Cornovia, including Durotriges.
Before assuming the throne, her father had won himself a reputation as a brutal commander, and many had considered him over-reaching. His marriage to a Prydein daughter, though it gentled the northern tribes, engendered little confidence.
Until her father arrogated Durotriges and Cornovia, no tribe had ever even considered uniting banners. That he did not force them did not actually matter to the Catuvellauni, who considered this aggressive expansion a threat to the Brothers’ Pact—if not in fact, then certainly in spirit.
There were a number of laws drawn by the sons of Míl after the defeat of the Tuatha Dé Danann, but this was the First Law: No tribe of Pretania could occupy lands not their own, without a sanctioned alliance. It would be one thing to append a tribe, but not since the Brothers’ Pact had any chieftain defied that law. If Locrinus succeeded, he would be the first to disregard the Pact in more than a thousand years. This was why Plowonida remained abandoned. No tribe would stand by and allow another king with his armies to march in and take lands belonging to another.
However, as a matter of course, after the annexation of Durotriges and Cornovia, the Catuvellauni and Iceni both began similar campaigns to annex Cantium and Trinovantes, citing their own right of blood to rule.
