Page 66 of Arise the Queen
Much of the furniture was built into the walls or nestled in corners out of the way. As it was in the palace at Trevena, thick tapestries adorned the walls, many of which were stitched with the same symbols that adorned her mother’s gown.
At last, the Caledonian sauntered over to a nearby chair, settling his enormous form into it, and meanwhile, his other companions departed, each through various exits.
“Well?” Gwendolyn said. “Would you have us stand idly by likeeejits, only waiting?”
The Caledonian’s creviced face split into a wide grin, his eyes glinting with humor. “What are you waiting for?” he asked, and then shared a brief look with Amergin, before Amergin’s face also cracked and his lips spread into a similar grin. “Shall I tell her, or will you, old friend?”
At once, Amergin cleared his throat, as did Emrys now, both smiling sheepishly. “Banríon Dragan,” said Emrys. “Allow me to present your grandsire… Baugh.”
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“You?!”
Blood and bones!
This was Baugh?
“In the flesh,” the man crowed. He eyed Gwendolyn with no small measure of disdain. “I must say… you look nothing like your mother… and yet, I should not be surprised by this. You bear that Cornish dog’s blood.”
He didn’t sound angry, but Gwendolyn knew he meant the insult.
She took a moment to peer at Bryn, then Málik, angered by his rudeness, but realizing she must temper her response. “Thatdogyou speak of was my father, and he died for this land—and yours.”
“Nay, girl!” His voice thundered through the hall. “Your father died because he was a fool who delivered his power into the hands of Outlanders.”
The straightforward proclamation set Gwendolyn back on her heels. She could not argue against that because, in truth, she had come to believe this as well. So had her father’s aldermen. During the last Konsel she’d attended before leaving for Loegria,their discontent had been clear. And yet, how dare he belittle what her father had worked so hard to achieve! “It was his greatest wish to unite these lands—in peace. But you never gave him an ounce of respect.”
“Respect must be earned,” returned Baugh. And then he said nothing for the longest moment, drumming his fingers impatiently upon the arm of his chair. After a moment’s consideration, he softened his voice, though it still held a note of contempt. “I know those feckless Trojans he has bargained with, girl. I did you a favor by giving Albanactus a daughter of mine to wed. So there… you are welcome,Dótturbarn. Your cuckolded man now has one lessbróðirto fight at his side.”
His words dealt Gwendolyn a physical blow for so many reasons. A fresh wave of fury assailed her. For one, she did not know what that word was he had called her, but it sounded like an expletive. She’d already told him once that Locrinus wasnother man. And she was not a “girl” although Emrys had warned her he would see her as one. But, truly, Albanactus? Loc’s brother had bent the knee to Baugh? Gwendolyn was heartsick to hear this, and yet… not so much for Albanactus’ part, considering that she viewed Loc’s brothers both as little more than opportunists. But, really, Baugh?He would reward one of those miscreants? Allow him to benefit from her family’s misfortune when he was among the traitors behind the Feast of Blades?Forsooth.Gwendolyn wanted to rail at her grandfather for disrespecting her so thoroughly. Alas, she dared say nothing yet. She needed Baugh’s help, and she could not afford to alienate him, but she did not like this feeling—to detest a man and still need him so desperately. Málik and Amergin stood behind her, along with Bryn, and Emrys, who was still cradling the Sword in his arms, and considering where they stood, and how many guards were at Baugh’s beck and call, Gwendolyn would not say what she wished to say. But neither would shecow. Even now, Borlewen’s blade called to her, and she itched to wield it.
“That isnotthe way a grandfather should speak to his granddaughter!” she rebuked.
“Ppfhht! Can you prove your kinship?” he asked loftily. “I cannot see it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Your hair is too… gold, your skin too… pale. For all your claims, you appear nothing of my blood.”
“But I am your blood,” Gwendolyn returned hotly. “Unless you would dare to call my mother a harlot?”
The elder man scoffed. “By the bloody gods, nay! I’d never dare!” He scratched with frustration at his black head of hair. “That onewould slice the tongue from my mouth!” It took Gwendolyn a full moment to register that he had spoken in the present, but even as her brain was trying to make sense of those words, she heard a voice… so achingly familiar…
“Gwendolyn…”
Gwendolyn spun to find her mother standing at the entrance of one passage—healthy and alive, her smile far more genuine than any Gwendolyn had ever witnessed from her. Modestly dressed, her hair caught back in a single unremarkable plait, her makeup was gone, but most definitely it was her…
“Mother,” she whispered, and that was all she could manage before crying out and rushing to embrace her.
Far more expansivethan thefogousbeneath her uncle’s village, Skerrabra was a sprawl of passages, twisting and turning with endless complexity. It was also, Gwendolyn mused, a bit like those passages in theunderlands, only here, there was no trace of magic. The walls were formed of roughhewn stone, and theair itself carried the inexorable scent of time. Roots and vines permeated the interior, crawling like veins throughout the walls and floors. One long tunnel spilled them into a cavernous central market where the sun shone down into a vibrant courtyard. Here, the scent of food wafted heavily in the air—roasting hens and meat pies, with their golden crusts and aromatic fillings, making Gwendolyn’s mouth water and her belly gurgle. It had been far too long since she’d had a satisfying meal, and she recognized some spices that had once graced their table in Trevena—only now she understood them to be her mother’s influence. How wrong her father had been about her mother’s people. There was nothing savage about these Caledonians, nor did they appear to want for aught. As it was in Trevena, this was a city no doubt visited by merchants, and the odd but industrious courtyard-market displayed a sea of vibrant colors, with vendors tending booths and customers rushing about, all under a warm, golden sun. It was, for all its strangeness, nearly as busy as the market in Trevena. For so long, Gwendolyn had believed Cornwall the only true center for trade on these isles. Why, then, would these Caledonians have any need to raid the southlands when they had such a bounty of riches?
The villagers all ran about performing their everyday tasks, some wearing simple linen clothes, but many others wearing finely crafted gowns that were made from fabrics every bit as elegant as those her father had procured from Mollequin.
It was clear to Gwendolyn that they did not live from the fruits of their labors alone. Every booth overflowed with goods—some with baskets full of plums, sloes, wild currants, brambles, raspberries, wood strawberries, cranberries, blackberries, heather berries, elderberries, and piles of bread. But there were fruits that were not native to this land. The deep shade of bitter oranges, bright yellows of lemons, and the verdant beauty of leafy greens all mixed to create a veritablefeast for the eyes. Beautiful gewgaws graced many a market shelf—pottery in the Phoenician style. Cloth merchants carried wool from Megara and Carthage. And there were various weapons of a curious variety Gwendolyn had never seen—swords that boasted ironwork twisted and hammered into the blade. They were not made to last against Loegrian steel, but beauteous work, and it occurred to Gwendolyn that this, too, was something to be concerned about—yet another worry amidst so many. That Locrinus’ army would be fitted with the new alloy, and hers would not. She tucked this away to consider later, unwilling to burden the moment with her trials. She walked beside her mother, elated at seeing her alive and well in her childhood home after believing her so long to be dead. Amidst so much heartache, this was a moment she meant to cherish.
Introducing her to kinsmen, Queen Eseld led her to a booth where an old woman sat weaving baskets made from reeds. Exchanging pleasantries with her before selecting one of her baskets, she then handed the basket to Gwendolyn. “To carry your effects,” her mother said with a genuine smile, and then bade Gwendolyn to place the gown she’d been holding into the basket.
Gwendolyn had brought it along only to show her mother how she’d kept it, leaving the Sword of Light with Emrys—not simply because she did not wish to reveal the sword as yet, but she did not want her mother to think she’d used the gown only for wrapping blades. “I’m pleased to see it survived your time in Loegria,” she said.
“Barely,” Gwendolyn said, choking back a sob. “Shestole everything from me, mother—even my dowry chest.”
They had already discussed her time in Loc’s keeping, but, so it seemed, there was little her mother did not already know—a fact Gwendolyn didn’t know how to feel about. All that time she’d spent weeping over her parents’ fate, and her mother washere, safe and sound, yet no one ever sent Gwendolyn a message to ease her mind.
