Page 76 of The Queen's Huntsman
Durotriges was directly east, but Gwendolyn wasn’t concerned their camp would be discovered. She knew many of his men would resist entering the Cod’s Wold.
Neither would they relish risking the Druids’ wrath by intruding upon these lands around the Temple of the Dead, especially when they didn’t have to.
Once they regrouped in Durotriges, they would take their armies south to Atrebates. And meanwhile, his armies garrisoned in Westwalas would have an easy enough time, passing through Cornovii lands they had wrested from her father.
Although he’d once told her he’d meant to cross through Dobunni lands to achieve his aim in Plowonida, and despite that many of his men were Trojan by birth, many were, in fact, superstitious Pretanians, and those men would insist upon staying out of the Cod’s Wold.
Regardless, it was only a matter of time before they descended upon Plowonida, and the Catuvellauni would have no defense against them. Their only chance—Gwendolyn’s best chance—was to convince the Catuvellauni to follow her, and then to usher them into the safety of the Cod’s Wold. As she had the Durotrigans, Esme would reassure them. No harm would come to them so long as she and Málik remained in their company.
Gwendolyn tapped a finger at her chin, catching herself; it was her father’s habit. Instead, she moved her finger across both lips, pressing them as she considered. “How many did you count?”
Ives shrugged. “Fifty. More or less. They rode too close to count numbers.”
From her perch on the rock where Esme had cut her hair, she surveyed their camp—all the tents and banners, soon to be joined by another clan if she had her way.
It was Bryn who spoke now. “That will be everyone.”
“And you know this, why?” inquired Esme.
“Because I listen better than I speak,” he told the Faerie. “Locrinus oft said his brothers did not need to stay on that god-forsaken rock, because Corineus’ good planning secured his conquest.”
“So, then… if they have abandoned the city,” prompted Taryn, “it means Trevena lies vulnerable?”
“Not at all,” replied Bryn. “You must trust me when I say the city remains impenetrable.”
“Not entirely,” Gwendolyn interjected, her seedling of a plan growing stronger. For the first time in weeks, a hint of a smile lifted one corner of her lips.
If, in truth, Loc’s armies were marching toward Plowonida, they would not remain in Durotriges overlong. They would remain only long enough to join the main army and then march on. But even if they marched straight through, with their numbers, so many likely afoot, it would take them two sennights, or more, before they could descend upon their destination.
At best, if every one of them were mounted with good coursers—which Gwendolyn doubted—they could make the journey in seven or eight days.
Considering their proximity, Gwendolyn could easily cover the distance in two days, or, at most, three, with Enbarr’s mares.
As yet, Málik had not yet deigned to address her, but it was time to stop talking. “Gather our mounts,” she commanded Ives, and then she turned to Esme. “Fetch Lir. We leave at once.” Circumstances had changed. There was no time to waste.
“Where you go, I go,” announced Bryn, excited by her energy.
“I will have it no other way, my friend,” Gwendolyn reassured, offering him a wink and a smile. “And no matter, you’re the only one here who can lead us.”
He laughed.
“Do you remember the way?”
“You know I do.”
“Good,” Gwendolyn said, and then she turned her attention to Taryn. “Please, keep the peace here. Reassure your kinsmen. We will return.”
With her father’s sword strapped to her belt, Taryn knelt before Gwendolyn, her fealty given without question. “As you say, Majesty. I will prepare them for your return.”
“Thank you,” Gwendolyn said, and she turned to enter her tent to retrieve her sword and prepare herself to face Caradoc.
ChapterThirty-Seven
Gwendolyn chose her entourage carefully: Lir, for his affiliation to the Lifer Pol Order, Esme and Málik, Ives, Jago and Bryn. Altogether, they numbered but seven, yet Gwendolyn knew intuitively that facing Caradoc with any more would prove of little advantage.
Diminished as they were, the Catuvellauni still outnumbered her paltry few, and Caradoc was a proud man, who’d stood fiercely against the Iceni, even against three times his company.
Indeed, this is when the Mester Alderman’s lessons would serve Gwendolyn best—all those long hours of study under his tutelage. She had some inkling of what to say to convince Caradoc to fight for lands and people not his own, and en finale, to fight alongside longtime foes. In the end, she must stir the hearts ofallPretania’s remaining tribes to stand against Locrinus—a task that, at the moment, seemed as impossible as the crown she wore on her head. And yet, here it was—a circlet of gold, made from her own golden tresses, molded by the hands of a true-blood Fae.
