Page 72 of The Queen's Huntsman
Thereafter, she dispatched a scout to Durotriges, and another to surveille Trevena, and yet another to summon the Catuvellauni king, who no longer had a city to preside over.
She must not be seen as a beggar crawling to his door. Based on all that Bryn had told her, she sensed she knew him well enough—lionhearted, but fair.
He might not come simply because she’d called him, but she knew that if she went begging, he would never respect her.
After all that Bryn had said, she felt reassured that Ely would come to no harm—not if she had truly caught the eye of the King’s eldest remaining son.
It was true. She had no army as yet. No vast supply of weapons. She did not command the north, nor the east, nor the west.
She did not even have Cornwall returned to her as yet.
But even though they were only sixty-three strong, they had the Druids’ blessing, and Lir to attest to this. They also had Esme and Málik, and even if Málik could pass for human—which he could not—there was no way anyone could mistake Esme. All that proclaimed Málik Fae was multiplied tenfold in Esme, and their ancient counsel must count for something.
Only one thing continued to trouble her. Though she was dressed like a queen, and she was beginning to feel like a queen, Gwendolyn couldn’t forget the look Bryn had given her when they’d spoken of her legacy, and some men’s opinions of her.
She must leave them all with no doubt.
Something must change—beginning with her appearance.
At twilight on the seventh night after their arrival, she called together a newkonsel—Bryn, Málik, Lir, Esme and Taryn—and when she had them all together on the hill, outside her tent, she unsheathed her dagger, handing it to Bryn. But though he accepted it, he looked at her, confused.
Undaunted, Gwendolyn marched over and sat on a boulder, and for a moment merely sat, surveying the heathered moorlands from her make-do throne… only to be certain.
A sense of peace perfused her heart.
There was such beauty all around her… in the golden hue that fell over the gently rolling hills… in the familiar faces now peering at her so expectantly… in the multi-colored tents erected down in the vale… so much diversity. She need not be a beauty to rule these lands as the gods ordained. She only needed to be fair, and just.
She took a deep breath and peered directly at Bryn. “Cut it,” she demanded.
Blinking with confusion, Bryn peered down at the blade in his hand—the very tool Locrinus had used to ruin Gwendolyn’s tresses—and then he arched a brow at her, as though he thought her mad.
“Cut my hair,” Gwendolyn commanded once more. “Do it now.”
Bryn stepped backward as though he’d been struck by her words. He shook his head vehemently. “Nay!” he said. “Forgive me, I will not do it!”
“But you must,” Gwendolyn said, more gently. “For one, this hair…” She tugged at her curls with disgust. “Will impede me during battle. And since I can no longer plait it, will you have me blinded by my tresses and doomed by a stupid curl?”
Still, he shook his head, refusing.
“Bryn,” she said, more gently still, understanding why he would refuse. He still saw her as the girl he would love, and she could see the hope that lingered in his eyes... and this too must be carved away. Gwendolyn was not meant to be his love, nor anyone else’s. He must not continue to see her as she was—naïve, mischievous, far too capricious. He must do this now, and it must be done with Borlewen’s blade—to come full circle after Loc’s violation. This would make her whole again—to cut her tresses by her own choice, not Loc’s, or anyone else’s. “You must,” she begged.
Suddenly, Esme swept over to steal Borlewen’s blade. “She speaks true,” the Faerie said. But then she turned and handed the blade to Málik, with a knowing turn of her lips, and for the longest moment, Málik stood staring.
He peered up at Gwendolyn now, his silvery eyes meeting her stormy grey, his gaze locking with hers, as though he would look into her heart…
“Art certain, Gwendolyn?”
He said her name with such tenderness, the lack of title not intended as an insult. At the moment, she was among her closest friends, and these were the people she must convince. She was ready to rule. She must arise from this boulder a woman changed…
She must slay the child and rise a queen.
Holding Málik’s gaze, she nodded affirmatively, planting her hands on her thighs to keep them stilled, because in truth, it would pain her immensely to lose the only thing that had ever mattered to her—her golden hair… the measure of her worth…
“I am ready,” she said, and Málik stepped forward, wielding Borlewen’s blade so the setting sun glinted off the shimmering steel.
ChapterThirty-Four
Málik stared at the blade, his hand trembling though he didn’t know why. He stood before Gwendolyn, ready to do his worst, and she peered up at him, and said, “Please. I’ve never been more certain of anything in all my life.”
