The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterNine

Gwendolyn felt magnificent as she made her way through her father’s halls into the courtyard. It wasn’t only the stunning gown she’d been honored to wear, but in some part, her mother’s attention and approval this morning as well. At long last, if only for a moment, Queen Eseld had gazed upon her only daughter with few misgivings, taking pleasure in her company. It was as close to a true mother-daughter connection as they’d ever had, and as fleeting as it was, it set loose a burst of joy from Gwendolyn’s heart that swept into her face and tugged a permanent grin on her lips. And regardless, something about wearing this dress really made her feel “beautiful.” Today, coupled with the success of last night’s introduction, she could easily imagine herself capable of fulfilling her destiny, and the anticipation of it filled her with glee.

Lady Ruan passed by, smiling with unvarnished approval. Whatever disappointment she’d felt toward Gwendolyn yesterday, it was no longer perceptible in her countenance.

“Exquisite,” she said. “Simply exquisite!” And she clapped her hands fondly, then kissed Gwendolyn quickly on the cheek.

Alderman Crwys bowed as he passed, the light of respect shining in his old eyes. And then Alderman Morgelyn as well—the youngest of her father’s aldermen. He gave Gwendolyn a wink, and she blushed.

Even Bryn’s father, the Mester of Arms, looked twice as she emerged into the courtyard near the Mester’s Pavilion. And if he was still angry with her for Bryn’s demotion, he didn’t show it. But neither did he smile. The man was not given to many.

Only for show—because, of course, they were at peace—Gwendolyn wore the finely hewn arming sword her father gave her on her fifteenth Name Day. Made of good Loegrian steel, it rested in the bejeweled and furred scabbard that hung about her waist, gems winking brilliantly against the bright morning sun.

But also, because she never left home without it, she’d tucked another small poniard into the sheath at her boot. This one she mostly used to dine with, but it too was finely made, with the emblem of her father’s house carved into the hilt—the ancient guardian of Dumnonia, the fiery-winged drake with the thorny head and barbed tongue.

Having come by the Endless Sea, Loegria’s capitol flew a standard with the wingless sea serpent and speared tail.

Once joined, it was said they would become invincible.

Today, with the hem of her new garb so much shorter than the gowns she so oft wore, the dragon hilt remained visible over the lip of her boot.

To complete her outfit, she wore her mother’s soft scarlet cloak, tied loosely about the throat, and with all her new finery, she felt she looked the part of a warrior queen—more than prepared to take on the entire Red Tide Brutus had so long ago warned about.

Let them come!

She would join the dragon banners into a single pendragon and then let us see whose blood turned the tide red!

Together, she and Prince Locrinus would unite Pretania’s clans, and unified, they would stand strong against whatever scourge must come their way—Romans, Trojans, whoever!

This morning Gwendolyn would escort Prince Locrinus about the parklands, only to give him a glimpse of what he would someday rule, with Gwendolyn by his side. She dearly hoped he would be impressed, but not only with the tour. Today, she hoped he would see her, not only as his bride-to-be, but the strong partner he claimed he longed for.

Dressed for the occasion, she marched into the courtyard undaunted, even when the sun glinted off the metal plates binding her bosom, stabbing her in the eyes.

And there he was, precisely as her mother claimed he would be, awaiting her with his retinue—the same two red-cloaked guards that had escorted him into the hall yestereve. All three chatted amiably, including the Prince.

Málik appeared sober beside them. Tall and lithe in comparison, he had the figure of a well-hewn but loose-limbed fellow. Moreover, while the red-cloaked guards were fully armored in fine Loegrian steel, he was garbed modestly in a leather tunic and leggings that, if they didn’t protect him so well as the armor, must at least allow for some ease of movement.

Not so unlike her own, his leathers were well-aged, and cut in much the same fashion as her new Prydein robe. And come to think of it, they were similar enough that it begged the question: Were the Prydein acquainted with the Tuatha Dé Danann?

She wondered but didn’t wish to think of Málik as fae.

He could style himself Danann all he wished, but that didn’t mean he was Danann.

Whilst Prince Locrinus’ guards wore helms, his head remained bare. His silvery tresses were caught at the nape in a pony’s tail, with a loose lock veiling his eyes, so that when he lifted his head to assess Gwendolyn, she couldn’t even guess what he was thinking—not that she cared to know. Somehow, even without armor, he looked… formidable. It was that piskie-may-care attitude, she realized—the ease with which he embraced all things, as though the world might find itself ablaze, and Málik Danann would simply march from the flames unscathed.

In true form, not bothering to wait for Gwendolyn to arrive by his side, he swung himself into the saddle. And demons take the man—not once had Gwendolyn ever mounted so swiftly, nor with such grace and ease. Doubtless, in all that armor, neither would Prince Locrinus nor his burly guards, but Gwendolyn should endeavor not to notice.

Inconceivably, Málik made the courtyard feel tiny as he sat, larger than life, upon his modest black horse—a mare, not even a stallion, as was the custom for warriors. Whatever the man lacked in girth, he more than made up for in height and bearing.

Yet it annoyed her to no end that it was his eyes she met first, and she told herself it was only because he sat so tall in his saddle—a full head above the rest.

But she knew this was a lie because he hadn’t even assumed his saddle when she’d first sought his gaze. Even against her will, her eyes were drawn to him like lodestones.

When finally she dared to seek Prince Locrinus’ gaze, his honeyed eyes glinted with what she interpreted to be displeasure, but he hid it well behind his ready smile.

Something like doubt shifted Gwendolyn’s mood. Because of Málik, she would endanger this alliance and anger her prince. What form of magik was this that he could ensnare her attention so easily, despite that she loathed him?

Henceforth, she vowed to pay Prince Locrinus all due regard and endeavor to ignore Málik Danann, resigning herself to his presence in much the same way a dog must resign himself to fleas. Gracious as always, Prince Locrinus came forward to greet her, holding out his hand.

“My sweet Princess, you are… ravishing,” he said, and the gleam of his perfect white smile softened the hard glint in his eyes.

An unexpected shiver sidled down Gwendolyn’s spine, and she said quickly, “And you, Highness.” Only belatedly realizing how silly she sounded. “I mean to say—”

He pressed a hand against his chest, over his heart. “My humblest of thanks,” he said, and bowed, as though the compliment were merely expected, and not some fevered rambling from a giddy maid. “As I have said, we are well-matched. And now I am eager to discover all your sanctuaries and learn everything there is to know about my lovely lady.”

Gwendolyn felt a tingling in her scalp, and she inhaled sharply.

Alas, although she would like to say the rush of joy she felt over his compliment was sheer pleasure, it was liberally dosed with relief.

A new, unexpected warmth surged through her as, once again, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then escorted her to her mount.

For the outing, they would be accompanied by Málik and both of Prince Locrinus’ Shadows—his two to her one. But then, he was traveling, and often when she traveled, she took two guards or more.

Poor Bryn’s absence was duly noted, and perhaps for the first time since her good friend’s demotion, she realized what a disservice she had done to him—but not only to him, to herself as well. She would desperately miss his kinship, and the ready smile he always had for her, no matter the circumstances. She wondered where he was right now—what Ely was doing as well.

Sadly, she realized that both her friends were dutifully avoiding her today, as there was never a time she had not stumbled upon one or the other by now.

Indeed, they had been inseparable as children, and not much had changed since they were dragged wailing from their mothers’ wombs. Later, once the Prince departed, she would find both and apologize profusely, and somehow—somehow—make amends.

In the meantime, she allowed Prince Locrinus to assist her in mounting—not that Gwendolyn needed his help, mind you, but the solicitation seemed to please him.

She was thrilled to discover that, just as Demelza had claimed, her Prydein tunic was already softening, molding itself to her curves. Her hosen, well-worn and supple, afforded ease of movement. She could grow accustomed to this manner of dress, and perhaps when she was queen, she would encourage it for all—but of course, this was only a fleeting whimsy, and she wasn’t in any hurry to assume the throne. But it was fun to imagine.

Still, there was something so freeing about the Prydein gown, and she wondered how her mother could resign herself to wearing such confining dresses after donning such a garb—only this made her wonder things she might never discover, such as, what did all the symbols mean?

There were strange half-moons, interwoven with other emblems, fish and serpents, and others besides. Sadly, she could never feel at ease asking such things of her mother, and she wasn’t certain Queen Eseld would even welcome her questions.

Certainly she never had before, and despite the short but amicable visit this morn, it was not their usual encounter.

As Gwendolyn waited for Prince Locrinus to find and mount his own horse, she flicked a glance at Málik to see if his leathers bore any such markings—they did not.

His were simple and black, like his horse… like a cold, dark night.

Like his mood.

So at odds with his countenance.

Lamentably, he caught her staring—yet again—and his lips tilted slightly at one corner. Inhaling a breath, irritated with herself for giving him more attention than he deserved, Gwendolyn offered him her back, hitching her chin.

At long last, Prince Locrinus was ready to ride, and he sidled his horse close to Gwendolyn’s, then made to reach for her reins. Gwendolyn stopped his hand before he could retrieve them. “No need, Highness. I am a well-practiced horsewoman.”

He froze momentarily, then assented with a nod, and quickly withdrew his hand. “Of course,” he said, “I should have guessed. There is that about you.”

What that was, Gwendolyn wondered—particularly as he peered sideways at Málik, and for an instant, she couldn’t help but compare the two—Locrinus with his golden beauty, and Málik…

Gods, solovely as she’d felt this morn, she suddenly felt like a toad in their presence.

Both men were unquestionably beautiful—Prince Locrinus more so than Málik, and it was he that Gwendolyn should endeavor to please.

As soon as they were away, Málik fell behind, and Gwendolyn found herself vexed by that, unwilling to examine the true reason she felt so peeved, regardless of what he did. If he had dared to ride beside her, she would have been vexed by that, as well.

But Málik could remain wheresoever he pleased—hurl himself down a gully if he chose. He wasn’t her concern—not today.

Clenching then unclenching her fist, she willed away her mounting tension and determined, once and for all, to put Málik Danann out of her mind.