Page 68 of The Queen's Huntsman
Unless…
There was a narrow passage where thepiscinasiphoned from the bay, a bit of brilliance that came to her father through a Phoenician merchant. But unless one knew how it worked… unless they’d had the chance to study the blueprints—which Gwendolyn had—they would assume the pool was filled by the same springs that were so plentiful in the area.
But it was not.
Gwendolyn was not some silly, tattered waif, even if she looked like one. She was her father’s heir, and she had a gods-given right to hold Trevena. And perhaps she could do it if only she could convince the Catuvellauni chieftain to ally with her. Considering what argument she would use, she commanded Bryn to give her a full account of their affairs.
“Caradoc will not relish the loss of his son, but thanks be to the gods, Wihtred was not his heir. I was told his eldest son also fell against the Iceni. But he has one more.”
Gwendolyn nodded. “What was the elder’s name?”
“Lund, I believe.”
Up ahead, Málik rode by himself, neither with Esme nor with Lir. Although he avoided Gwendolyn’s gaze, she felt their bond much the same as she once had, and knew he was as aware of her as she was of him.
“Lund,” Gwendolyn repeated, wondering if she’d ever met him. Caradoc had not visited Trevena often, but he had daughters he’d enrolled in thedawnsio.
“As I said… thankfully, he still has one son remaining,” Bryn disclosed. “Kelan.” Both his brows lifted. “He took a liking to Ely at first sight, and I believe she may have to him as well. It was she who suggested I go to Adwen and leave her in good faith.”
Gwendolyn lifted her brows, surprised. “Ely did that?”
She was pleased to know that some of her own daring had rubbed off on her friend, but mayhap this wasn’t quite the time for it. It could work to her detriment if negotiations didn’t go well.
Bryn nodded.
Aisling ambled easily alongside Bryn’s mount, ignoring the occasional forays his stallion’s curious nose made into her soft, white mane. If it weren’t for Aisling's unflappable temper, there would be no way Gwendolyn could travel beside him unless she demanded someone switch Bryn’s horse. As it was, Aisling was as equable as her Faerie masters, only now and again shrugging her head as though to rid herself of a nuisance fly. But it wasn’t a fly harassing the poor mare, it was Bryn’s lusty stallion. But this gave Gwendolyn a notion of how to proceed.
Lust was a powerful motivator, and so long as Ely shared the son’s interest, it could prove to their advantage.
Once more, she peered over at Málik, daring to allow her gaze to linger.
Even knowing that Bryn was watching, she couldn’t help herself. Málik’s proximity was intoxicating, stirring her blood and clouding her thoughts, even when she tried to stay focused.
With some effort, she averted her gaze. “What of the remaining son? Is he like his father?”
Bryn lifted a brow. “Kelan?” He shrugged. “If you mean, ‘Does he have an eye for the ladies?’ the answer is definitively, aye. If you mean, is he as bearish as his Caradoc, then no? He’s more sensible.”
“Good,” Gwendolyn said, considering. If negations faltered with the quick-tempered father, perhaps she would take them to his son.
However, surliness wasn’t the worst of traits. Bryn’s father was quite crotchety betimes—sober and peppery, but loyal to a fault. Even when he’d had the chance to inherit lands of his own, to pass them on to his son, he’d chosen a life of service for himself and for Bryn. One could not fault a man who would do such a thing, and Gwendolyn mourned his loss.
Some of her father’s aldermen were also quite ill-natured, and she’d had to learn to deal with them according to their vanities. Only a few had not succumbed to her flattery, and Gwendolyn often thought this was because they, like her mother, had found her countenance… unbecoming.
Alas, it was one thing to yield to a pretty maid, yet another to be cajoled by a plain-featured miss.
At this point in her life, Gwendolyn understood intuitively what it felt like to be treated under both circumstances. But if the prophecy wasn’t true, there was certainly immense disparity in her treatment, simply based on her appearance.
Remembering the sway her mother held over all men, not simply her father, she sorely hoped the Catuvellauni king might consider her lovely—not because she wished for him to favor her, but because she’d have a far easier time if he did.
Unfortunately, that was not something she could control, and it wouldn’t help matters much that she would arrive looking like a rag doll whose hair had been snipped by a three-year-old child. Really and truly, she no longer cared about her appearance, but she knew others would.
Gwendolyn must conquer each small battle one at a time, first things first, and she no longer intended to leave things unsaid. Tomorrow was simply not promised.
“Bryn,” she began, hoping to lessen the unease between them. “I don't know if you can forgive me for what I’ve done.” It was because of her he’d first lost his position as her Shadow. “But if you will endeavor to do so, I will spend the rest of my days making right the things that I’ve made wrong.”
He was silent a long moment, peering down at the reins in his hands—his face still too pale, though his strength had much returned. He answered after a moment. “No,” he said. “It is I who must ask forgiveness, Gwendolyn. I was, in truth, angered by my demotion… I blamed you unfairly for my parents’ deaths, yet I was more enraged by myself.”
Gwendolyn blinked in surprise. “Why should you have been? No one could have known what was to come, Bryn. Only Locrinus and his brothers could have known, and not even poor Brutus caught wind of their plans. How could you, so removed from their lives?”
