Chapter 5 #2
Gwen shoved that thought down into the pit where she’d banished all the nightmares about the dragon, the place she could never tell Isobelle about.
That pit was also where she kept the sick, stomach-wrenching dread that occasionally rose without warning or reason to claim her as she went about her days.
And her awareness of Whimsitt’s increasing demands and hatred for her.
It was quite a large pit, large enough to house all the fears that had been plaguing Gwen, with increasing frequency and intensity, over the last few months.
Large enough to put them away, but not deep enough, nowhere near deep enough, to keep them there.
‘Come on,’ Gwen said, hearing how brittle her own voice sounded, and hoping Isobelle was still too focused on the potato disaster to notice. ‘We’ve got some apples left, and some cheese – we can snack while we saddle the horses. If we hustle, we’ll get to Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea before sundown.’
Gwen reined Achilles in, glancing over her shoulder as Isobelle’s horse dropped to a walk and ambled along in their wake.
Achilles turned his head too, eyeing the pair and then rolling that eye up and back towards his rider.
His gaze dripped with such accusatory disgust that Gwen would have been in stitches, if she weren’t also, by now, thoroughly tired of the other horse’s histrionic temperament.
Achilles had made no secret of the disdain he felt for the pretty little mare they’d got for Isobelle in one of the villages they’d visited on their rounds.
Isobelle had fallen in love with her at first sight – and indeed, she was one of the loveliest horses Gwen had ever seen, a dainty Andalusian pale dapple grey, with smoky-black mane and tail that faded to white at the ends.
She looked like magic – as if, were she to turn her head just so, her unicorn’s horn would flash out of invisibility into the gleam of the sun.
When they’d entered the stable, Isobelle had run to the mare, eyes bright with admiration, and was stroking her nose by the time Gwen reached her with the stable owner at her side.
‘Oh, what a wonderful eye you have, lady,’ the owner had said. ‘I can let you have her for a discount.’
Isobelle had given a squeal of delight and leaned her whole body against the stable door, like a child coveting the sweets on display in a shop. Gwen, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes and cast a sidelong look at the stable owner. ‘A discount?’ she asked. ‘Why?’
The man had spread his hands in the universal gesture of innocence. ‘Because I see the lady’s heart, yes? She is in love. I too love this beautiful horse, but who am I to intervene with fate itself?’
The price for the mare, while at a discount, had still used up most of the money Sylvie had given them as what she laughingly called ‘an adventure grant’.
Sylvie wasn’t short on funds, these days, nor on the independence to disperse them as she pleased.
Becoming a widow, it turned out, was an excellent loophole for escaping the control of the menfolk in one’s life.
And though Whimsitt allotted them some supplies, he’d given them barely enough to make it from town to town.
Unfortunately, it had taken Gwen and Isobelle less than a day to find out why the man had been willing to ‘part with’ the horse for such a modest amount.
The beast was awful.
Wilful and stubborn in all the wrong ways, half the time refusing to take commands from Isobelle, who was no mere beginner at riding, and the other half starting at shadows.
She’d threatened to rear a dozen times, most recently at a small stick that had fallen gently onto the road in front of her.
Once, they’d had to hastily pack up their half-pitched camp and move a mile downstream because the babbling of the water over some rocks made the wretched beast whinny and stamp and pull hysterically at her tether.
Now, Achilles heaved a great, noisy sigh, tossing his head and rolling his eye again at Gwen.
‘I know, buddy,’ she murmured, giving his neck an affectionate slap. ‘I’m right there with you.’
Isobelle caught up to them and reined the grey in beside Achilles, or tried to. The mare kept going, and Isobelle was forced to turn her in a slow circle to look at Gwen with a little laugh. ‘Sorry! She decided she was done cantering for a while.’
Gwen felt her annoyance melting in the face of Isobelle’s obvious delight. She refused to admit that they’d been taken in by the opportunistic merchant. ‘By all means,’ she said dryly. ‘Best to let that creature decide how fast we go and when.’
At this rate, they’d be hard pressed to reach their destination before sundown.
Gwen’s optimism had faded with the morning mist, or quite possibly had been supplanted by the rumbling of her belly.
Cheese and apples sounded like a lovely breakfast. But they were not, it turned out, particularly filling.
Isobelle looked tired, and hungry too. Despite her attempts at cheer and bright laughter, she seemed somehow more remote than usual; looking away from Gwen, rather than gazing at her in that dreamy way she sometimes did.
Gwen could not shake her unease, though she could not quite put her finger on what fear Isobelle’s distance was stoking.
Gwen took a deep breath and said lightly, ‘Come on, get your horse under control and let’s keep moving.’
Isobelle gave a sniff. ‘Only if you call her by her proper name.’
‘I refuse. It’s ridiculous. I won’t do it, I tell you!’
The other girl started to cross her arms, then thought better of it when the horse sidestepped, as if trying to move out from underneath her rider. Isobelle tightened her lips – and her hands on the reins – and stared defiantly at Gwen.
Gwen muttered a curse under her breath, torn between helpless amusement and annoyance. It was a rather common state of mind around Isobelle, and as always, amusement won out. ‘Fine. Turn Princess Buttercup around, and let’s go.’
‘As you wish!’ Isobelle chirped, tugging at the mare’s reins. But there she stopped, frowning, looking back the way they’d come.
Gwen had been so absorbed in her study of the girl at her side that she hadn’t spotted the approaching carriage cresting the hill behind them.
Isobelle hmmed softly. ‘Gosh, who would drive such a fine carriage so quickly? They’ll break a wheel.’
Gwen shielded her eyes. With a nudge of her heels, she eased Achilles off the road, ready to let the carriage pass.
Her ears caught a slight sound, one that rose and rose in volume as the carriage approached – it passed in a clatter of wheels and a flash of wide, harried eyes from the driver, and the rising sound resolved into the delighted whoop of a female voice.
‘Stop, stop I tell you!’ the voice shrieked again, and several peals of laughter emerged from inside.
The carriage skittered and skidded to a halt, the horses prancing merrily at having been allowed to run. The driver passed his gloved hand over his brow; he was sweating, despite the cool of the day.
Isobelle had stiffened straight as a poker, her eyes wide and lips falling open.
Gwen barely had time to register this reaction before the carriage door opened and a number of ladies came spilling out, a flurry of brightly coloured dresses and flying hair and shrieks of excitement.
Isobelle had thrown herself from her saddle – much to Buttercup’s disapproval – and was immediately engulfed by two of the girls, one dark-haired and plump, the other blonde and willowy tall.
The third lady, clad in black, had not rushed forward, but now stood a few paces from Achilles, gazing up at Gwen with her arms crossed and one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.
‘Well, Lady Dragonslayer,’ drawled Sylvie, the corners of her mouth twitching. ‘Are you going to get down here and hug me?’
The words unfroze Gwen, and she felt her face splitting in a smile wider than any she’d felt in some time. She practically fell out of Achilles’s saddle in her haste and threw her arms around Sylvie, as Jane and Hilde transferred their affectionate greeting from Isobelle to Gwen.
And so it was that Sir Gwen, presumptive champion of the Darkhaven Tournament of Dragonslayers, slayer of actual dragons, who had knocked multiple men twice her size from their horses and borne their blows without yielding, lost her balance with the force of their friends’ greetings and felt herself toppling backwards.
Jane went down with her, with a shriek of delight.
Everyone was talking at once, snatches of sentences mingling and rising overtop one another.
‘Sylvie’s got a guy at the castle to keep an eye on you, you know, and he—’
‘They told us you’d been sent out again, already! Whimsitt is such a dick!’
‘We knew you’d be tired, and sore, and we thought—’
‘There’s nothing better to cheer one up than a—’
‘ROAD TRIP!’ That last was Jane, who shrieked the words in Gwen’s ear, her arms locked around her neck as though Gwen were a particularly favoured pet being dragged around by a child who didn’t know any better.
By this point, they were all sprawled in the dust of the road in a ragged circle formed by three rather spectacular dresses, Isobelle’s charming but practical riding dress, and Gwen in her chainmail vest over her riding habit.
The driver of the carriage stood some distance away, pretending to check the horses over and ostentatiously ignoring the odd scene.
The girls assisted him by pretending they didn’t notice his sidelong stares.
‘Girls, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.’ Isobelle breathed the words, her blue eyes shining with more than just pleasure. ‘I didn’t know I needed you, but … oh, it’s so good to have you here!’
‘Oh, wait,’ cried Hilde. ‘We brought snacks!’