Page 65 of The Queen's Huntsman
“Taken,” affirmed Jago.
“By the time Bryn fell, it became apparent how the battle would go,” explained Taryn. “We dragged him away.” She peered at the litter. “I could not have left him after he saved my life, and I did not believe his wound would be fatal.”
“That remains to be seen,” Lir said. The Druid was still working furiously to cleanse his wounds. Gwendolyn swallowed again with some difficulty.
Durotriges,fallen. Ely,taken, Adwen,dead.
Bryn’s uncle had risked so much to free her, and now he, too, was gone. So virile and handsome, cut down in his prime. But Gwendolyn could not bear it if Bryn died, as well. Though he was not raised with Adwen, he would still be grief-stricken when he learned of Adwen’s fate.
“Locrinus must have gone straight from his search for you to Durotriges,” surmised Málik. He’d been listening intently, allowing Gwendolyn to steer the conversation.
“I believe so,” said the man called Ives—a tall, brawny fellow with a snarled golden beard and strong violet eyes. With two fingers, he tugged at his tangled beard.
“How many attacked?”
“Perhaps fifty, but we took twenty at least.”
“So, perhaps thirty remain?”
Ives shrugged, then nodded. “Perhaps,” he said. “But if he has not yet sent for reinforcements, I am sure he will. If what you say is true, and he intends to take Plowonida, he’ll no doubt use Durotriges to launch his attack.”
All together, they were seven now—eight if Bryn survived the night. The odds were overwhelmingly against them. Locrinus had more than five thousand men at his beck and call, and it was certain that the number would grow.
For now, Durotriges was lost, but Ives had counted more than fifty men who’d gone to defend the women and children. They were now awaiting instructions from Adwen—instructions that would never come.
“We needn’t decide anything tonight,” said Málik to Gwendolyn. “Rest and let us speak again in the morn.” His gaze slid to the litter, then returned to meet her eyes. “Tonight, yourShadowneeds you,” he said, and despite that he’d said it without animus, his tone was sour.
Gwendolyn gave him a nod as he rose from the circle they’d formed, disbanding the group merely by that action. The others immediately followed, leaving Gwendolyn alone with Lir and Bryn. “I believe he’ll wake soon,” Lir said. “See his eyes.”
Gwendolyn moved so that the firelight could better illume Bryn’s face to find his eyes beneath his closed lids were dashing back and forth, back and forth.
“If that blow had addled his brain, he would not be dreaming so vividly.”
Lir rose then, excusing himself to seek his bed, instructing Gwendolyn to summon him at once if she noted any change.
Retrieving her blanket, Gwendolyn settled in beside Bryn, with her cheek close to his face so she could feel his breath. She placed her arm over him as well, careful not to disturb his freshly applied bandages, nuzzling closer, taking comfort in his familiar scent.
She had known him so long—since they were sprouts, with Ely toddling about after them, her sweet blue eyes as luminous as her golden hair.
How much they had endured since then…
How lost she would be without her friends.
As of now, she had no one left to call family—no one at all. Not her mother nor Demelza, not her father, nor her uncle, and none of her cousins.
Gwendolyn still hadn’t a clue about Lady Ruan and her husband, but she considered them both now, wondering if either had survived. If they had, how sad they would be to learn of Bryn’s death… if he died. How cruel life could be, and how swiftly death arrived.
Her throat grew thick as she remembered her cousin’s final moments. There hadn’t been time to say goodbye, and already Lowenna, Briallen and Jenefer had fallen by the time her uncle sent Gwendolyn into the fogous. So much blood… even now, she couldn’t bear to remember.
During her childhood, she’d been close to her cousins, though far more so with Borlewen as the eldest of her uncle’s brood. They’d loved all the same things—knucklebones and ninepennymarl,hevvacake and blueberries, Beltane and quarterstaff contests. Her cousin had been quite skilled with a blade, displaying feats of deftness that even Málik had admired. However, the one way she and Borlewen were not alike was in Borlewen’s plainspokenness. Gwendolyn only aspired to such boldness, and she had so much admired Borlewen, not merely because she always spoke her true heart, but because she always did whatever she wished to do. She had spoken of pleasure as though it were a woman’s right, embracing consequences as though they were blessings.
All three of her cousins had been quite unafraid to speak their minds, and all had come by it honestly through their father—a man who neither lamented the passing of his years, nor his lack of sons to continue his legacy. It had not mattered that his wife remained barren until her death. He’d loved her no less, taking such joy in her company as he did her body, not caring if his daughters witnessed those torrid displays of affection.
It was no wonder that all three spoke so freely of cocks and bald-pated Druids.
Gwendolyn swallowed hard. That was the last thing she remembered them speaking about the evening before the raid. And then… the following morning…
I did not avail myself of her, but I did cut her throat.
