The Queen's Huntsman by Crosby Tanya Anne

Author:Crosby, Tanya Anne [Crosby, Tanya Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Historical
Amazon: B098PRBDVL
Goodreads: 58969715
Publisher: Oliver-Heber Books
Published: 2022-07-05T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter

Twenty-Four

That evening, they settled near to where the River Dee curved north and west. Another furlong, thereabouts, and they would have returned to the location where Beryan fell.

Gwendolyn recognized the old wych elm and couldn’t help but consider Beryan’s daughter. Would she worry about her missing father as much as Gwendolyn worried about her mother and Demelza? Likely so, and it was the not knowing that was so terribly hard. At least if she knew that her mother was dead, she would rest easier knowing that she wasn’t suffering, and stop worrying and hoping. But if she was dead, there would be no redemption for either of them, and particularly for Gwendolyn. After all that she’d witnessed and endured, she now understood that everything Bryn had said was true: Everything her mother ever did she’d done in Gwendolyn’s best interest.

More than anything, Gwendolyn wished she could see her again, and explain that, not only did she forgive her, but she finally understood and loved her fiercely for her care and protection.

Poring over those dark thoughts, Gwendolyn found a good, dry spot for their pallets. Meanwhile, Esme tended the horses, and Málik went searching for their supper, and Gwendolyn followed Esme down to the river, intending to help with the horses, determined to do her part.

She didn’t wish to be like Loc, sitting atop his golden throne, merely watching his warriors spar from his dais, staying clear of the blood.

Gods knew, even his coup was designed to keep the blood from his hands, with him long gone from the city as the deed was done, with Gwendolyn culpable simply for having wed him.

She was still furious over that. Utterly and irreversibly.

With a look that Gwendolyn read as amusement, Esme watched as Gwendolyn checked her mare for galls caused by the gear.

“You won’t find anything,” she declared. “These are Enbarr’s daughters.”

And, of course, she spoke true. Gwendolyn found nothing. The animal’s flesh was pristine.

“Her name is Aisling,” Esme revealed. “It means dream.”

She tapped the horse directly beside her on the flank and said, “This one is Sheahan. It means Peaceful One; for good or ill, it is why I lent her to that silly druid. How annoyingly unflappable he is. One would think him made of stone.” So then, she was needling him on purpose.

Pointing to the others, each in turn, Esme called out their names. “Daithi—Swift, and Lorcan.” The last one was hers, and she grinned. “In my tongue that means ‘little fierce one.’”

“Like her master, I presume?”

“Perhaps,” said Esme coyly, her smile turning crooked.

“And they are all mares?” Gwendolyn said. But it wasn’t a question because that was the first thing she’d noticed. Her father had been of the mind that, in battle, mares were better than stallions or even geldings. For one, stallions too oft suffered from blood frenzy, and in the throes of battle would unseat their riders. But it wasn’t altogether a matter of blood frenzy.

Once during practice, Gwendolyn watched a very determined stallion attempt to mount a mare in heat with both riders still attached.

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