The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterTen

Although her father’s secret wouldn’t be betrayed by the glen—at least not today—the last thing Gwendolyn wished to do was take Prince Locrinus there and have him ask about the pool’s significance. She would be honor-bound to tell him everything—about the King’s connection to the land, and the trees’ recent decline.

But it wasn’t just that. On the off chance he’d heard about yesterday’s ordeal with Bryn, she didn’t believe it would be prudent to take him there and give him a false impression of sweethearts stealing a tryst.

Therefore, even though it was her most favorite place, she decided Porth Pool was better left for another day—perhaps later, after she and Prince Locrinus were wed.

Meanwhile, though it wasn’t quite so beloved as her pool, she took Prince Locrinus to another of her cherished places. And considering their discussion last night, she couldn’t wait to share it with him.

It wasn’t so majestic as the Eastwalas Temple nor the lyn yeyn quoit near Chysauster, where her cousins lived, but it had always impressed her with its perfect circumference. Twenty-six stones altogether, they were said to be effigies of dewine maids, whose moonlight dance somehow displeased the Mother Goddess, so she turned them all to stone. Some now lay sprawled upon the moorland in a swoon. Others stood tall, as though their heads and eyes were last turned to the stars. Whichever the case, Gwendolyn hoped they would ignite the Prince’s curiosity, and she was titillated by the prospect of discussing philosophia with him.

Would he consider their flawless design? Would he think it divine? Would he see any similarities to those places he’d visited in Ériu?She couldn’t wait to find out.

Seated betwixt two rocky tors—Bronn Ewhella and Rough Tor, whence many of Cornwall’s rivers arose—the circle’s utter perfection spoke to the wonder in Gwendolyn, for, no matter how one speculated, no one could truly glean its purpose, nor comprehend the true nature of its design. It was older than Trevena—older even than Gogmagog and his giants—and if these were truly maidens struck down during their midnight dance, it happened long before the Dumnonii were made conservators of this land.

In fact, Gwendolyn suspected they could be fae, and some part of her wondered what Málik would think of them, but she certainly didn’t intend to ask.

Excited to reveal the stones, she led the small party into the moorlands, and then, once they’d arrived, she led them in a circle, careful not to allow her mare to trample the swooning maids. Her excitement was palpable; all the little hairs on her nape prickling—as they always did in this vicinity.

Prince Locrinus broke formation and moved into the circle. “We have a few of these,” he said, hardly impressed.

Gwendolyn furrowed her brow. She was forced to confess: His reaction was not her first disappointment. No matter; she feigned indifference, asking politely, “In Loegria? Or Troy?”

“Loegria,” he said as he circled the stones. All the while, his destrier trod heavily over fallen maidens, snorting at a string of wild ponies nearby.

Gwendolyn’s frown only deepened.

Arms crossed, Málik remained at a distance.

So, too, did Prince Locrinus’ Shadows, although one of them retrieved his bow and an arrow and sat testing his sights on a pony. But those were sacred, too, and if Gwendolyn thought for an instant that he meant to set an arrow loose, she would fly at him with a vengeance. So long as he did not, she sat smiling—forced though it was.

“You know, I have never been to my father’s birth land,” the Prince confessed.

“Oh,” said Gwendolyn, curious to know why, considering that he’d traveled so extensively. Was it because his father was no longer welcome in Troy? Or merely because he had no desire to see his father’s homeland? The latter simply didn’t fit what she knew of him—the erudite soul she’d looked so forward to meeting.

If only to understand his point, she considered how she would feel if it were her own father who’d been exiled from his birth land, knowing there would be people left behind she would never know—oh, yes, she could see how that would upset him. Presumably, no matter how well their lives had fared since leaving Troy, the subject was bound to be a sore one for the Prince and his father. Therefore, she must forgive his insouciance.

Seated atop his armored stallion, in all its golden armor, the Prince was undeniably beautiful—his hair glistening beneath the midday sun, like a halo.

Considering him, Gwendolyn counted her good fortune that he seemed equally pleased with her—or at least that’s how it seemed.

Admittedly, she didn’t know how a “besotted” man should behave.

Abandoning the poor maids where they lay, disappointed in Prince Locrinus’ response but undaunted, Gwendolyn led the party away, but when she peered back to see if Málik was following—he’d been so quiet—she found that he’d dismounted, and was on his knees inside the stone circle, one hand splayed upon a fallen stone, his head down as though in prayer.

Without remarking upon it, Gwendolyn watched as he lifted the stone upright, and once it was standing, he brushed his hands on his hosen and returned to his mount.

Prince Locrinus said naught as he followed her gaze, and she was compelled to feign exasperation with her errant guard. She turned and made a sound of frustration, then spun her mare northeast toward the Trevillet. Really, she didn’t care what Málik was doing, nor why he’d felt so compelled to raise that stone, but right now, she hoped he’d be trampled by ponies before he could rejoin them—admittedly, this time, she was upset with him by no fault of his own. She didn’t like that he’d shown so much more reverence to those Dancing Stones than did her betrothed. But this was Gwendolyn’s problem, not anyone else’s.

By the time they found the Trevillet, her good mood had returned.

She led the party west along the river to the keeve, a place of natural beauty that gave her so much peace. There, they stopped to enjoy a small treat by the waterfall—sweet meat pies, with a bit of mead—until Málik, the laggard, finally deigned to arrive.

Despite knowing there was one pie left, Gwendolyn stood without a word, eying Málik with no small measure of annoyance as she retrieved her mare.

The meal had been arranged by her mother, packed in her saddlebags before the horses were ever delivered to the courtyard. Therefore, they were hers to share—or not.

Málik didn’t deserve one, as there was naught about his demeanor that gave Gwendolyn the first sign that he felt himself a part of her entourage.

In fact, he was as distant to her as Prince Locrinus’ men. Fortunately, if Prince Locrinus noted her mood, he said nothing, and the party returned to the road.

It was past noontide when they came full circle and arrived at a small rift that could only be traversed by foot. Eager to be away from prying eyes, they abandoned the guards atop the lay-by, and because it was only a short jaunt and Gwendolyn knew the way well, she led Prince Locrinus down the gully until they reached the etchings carved into the high stone.

“A blessing from the Ancients,” she explained, pointing. Stamped deep into the rock, for all to see, a promise of fertility for Cornwall and her people.

Her father was given precisely the same mark by the Llanrhos Druids when he ascended the throne, and her grandfather had one as well. Little doubt Gwendolyn, too, would be painted when the time came for her to ascend—a small tattoo at the base of her neck. Although she wondered how the Druids would endure it, since they seemed not to appreciate women.

“Fascinating,” said the Prince, and once again, Gwendolyn found herself piqued. It wasn’t anything she could put a finger on, not precisely.

Rather, it was a feeling she got, a lack of interest that she could only attribute to the Prince’s exhaustion—but of course. He’d traveled two long days to arrive here, and he was bound to have been up too late, then up early besides.

Gauging the hour by the position of the sun, she peered up to find Málik once again in her sights. Like a gadfly, he was always there, irritating to the end.

He was standing atop the lay-by, peering down at them from the cliff top, munching on something he must have taken from his own saddlebag. He held the treat aloft in greeting, with an indecipherable smile tugging at his lips.

Gods.

Whatever sense of irritation she now felt toward Prince Locrinus, she could easily attribute it to her own vexation over the prospect of having that man as her Shadow—morning, noon, and night. How could she bear it? That he was not in her antechamber this morning when she’d left was only because her mother and Demelza had sent him away upon their arrival so he could see to his morning victuals.

Alas, no matter what he did, Gwendolyn was bound to be annoyed with him for some time yet—or at least until she had the chance to tell him what she thought of his betrayal of Bryn.

And she would—just as soon as she found him alone, and there weren’t any other ears about to catch the blistering she intended to give his pointy ears.

Conforming to his way, Málik said nothing, merely watched.

Once again, Gwendolyn gave him her back, continuing down to the beach, eager to be free of him. Only realizing she must have been a bore these past few hours, sulking over the Prince’s response to her Dancing Stones, she brightened her tone.

“There are peregrine nests to be found on these shoals,” she said. “If we find one, you may wish to carry one home?” She smiled widely. “As my betrothal gift.”

“Falcons?”

“Oh, yes! My father favors them for hunting.”

“Indeed,” he said, “I should like that.” And then he turned to peer over his shoulder, perhaps to assess the steep path whence they’d descended, because he said with a note of admiration, “You are quite able-bodied, Highness.”

Gwendolyn laughed. “As well I should be, Highness. I spent most of my youth climbing these bluffs.”

“Alone?” he asked, his voice lifting slightly.

“Oh, nay!” Gwendolyn felt better already without Málik to spy on them. “Always in the company of my Shadow.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Your Shadow.”

Gwendolyn couldn’t tell by his tone whether that revelation displeased him, or whether it was her own guilty conscience that needled her—guilt for things she’d never until yesterday even questioned. After all, she was the princess of Cornwall, and she’d understood from the day of her birth what was expected of her. Never would she knowingly betray her duties, nor would she have imagined her parents wouldn’t trust her implicitly.

Really, it wasn’t as though she and Bryn had stood there ogling one another, nor did they swim in close proximity. It was all perfectly harmless, as it would have been with Ely.

And regardless, if anyone ever disrespected Gwendolyn, she wasn’t a hapless maid. Thanks to Bryn’s instruction, she was quite skilled with her blades—even without Málik’s interference. In all things, she was a woman of her own mind—as her father had taught her to be—and yet she was being punished for this now.

She could thank Málik for that.

Hewas the author of her misery, and though she realized the responsibility of charming her betrothed must fall to her alone, if she failed today, she would blame him, regardless.

Mercifully, though he must have senses keener than most, he couldn’t see around corners. The image of him standing atop the lay-by, eating his treat with a half-smile—as though he realized she’d meant to deprive him, and the treat was his recrimination—only filled her with more rancor. Hoping to salvage the day, she led Prince Locrinus down to the cove, and once there on the beach, she dared to entreat his hand, then led him to the Dragon’s Lair, a series of passages extending beneath their mountain, accessible only at low tide.

It was quite bold of her, she realized, and deep down, she heard Demelza’s note of whispered caution. But Prince Locrinus was now her betrothed—or he would be after tonight.

Still, she hesitated before going inside the cave, placing a hand to the cold stone, and turning to assess the bay, considering whether the tide was coming or going—something she normally knew as a matter of intuition. Today, however, her instincts felt… wrong.

“What’s this?” he asked, at last with some interest, and Gwendolyn’s sense of unease dissipated. Eager to tell him about the place where she used to play as a child, she explained the significance of the caves, and then told him about the Dragon’s Lair.

Like many of the rock formations found elsewhere, and the labyrinth carvings in the rock valley, the Dragon’s Lair had been here so long as men had memory.

It was only accessible by traversing the caves and emerging through to the other side. From there, it was possible to climb onto a stone alcove—a natural balcony of sorts. And there, nestled in the stone, by night and by sea, one could spy strange lights within the shallow cave—the fiery breath of the dragon, for which their standard was made.

But the alcove didn’t simply keep ships from smashing on their cliffs; it also gave them a great military advantage, because without it, Trevena was completely inaccessible by sea, protected on all sides by natural defenses, approachable only by the narrow land bridge, which during wartime would be heavily guarded. If ever they were attacked, all they had to do was draw down the heavy tarp to conceal the alcove and cast the sea into darkness.

Land and sea would enact their own defenses, leaving the ships to battle angry tides. And then, if anyone dared approach by land, her father’s archers would pick them off.

So really, unless one defied the Brothers’ Pact and betrayed them inside the gates, the city was impenetrable. And this was the one way Loegria could not compare. Cornish archers were among the best, their bows made from yew wood, blessed by the gods. That wood could last a thousand years without rotting, and the yew’s poison was so potent that her father’s army often used a tincture made from it on their arrows to poison enemies during battle.

It didn’t matter what the efficacy of a man’s steel was, nor the skill with which he wielded it, if he couldn’t wield it face-to-face. Their archers would ensure no enemy could come near. It wouldn’t matter how well-trained an army was or how well-armored—their archers were so accurate in aim that they could find and penetrate the smallest chink in their armor.

But of course, Gwendolyn didn’t tell Prince Locrinus any of these things. Like the news of the glen, she daren’t share these things just yet—not until they ruled this land together.

“Curious,” he said, when she explained about the Dragon’s Lair. And then, encouraged by his interest, Gwendolyn continued. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice animated, “it sounds like rolling thunder down here, particularly when my father’s troops are marching o’er the stone bridge.”

Prince Locrinus peered up, examining the cave’s interior. It wasn’t directly below the land bridge, but the positioning of the cave was just so that a disturbance anywhere along the mountain reverberated throughout the caverns. Even now, there was the faintest rumble, scarcely audible beneath the pummeling of waves—simply men walking along the bridge.

“I would have enjoyed such a place when I was a boy,” he said, offhandedly. “If for naught else, to sit and ponder the Fates.”

“Oh, yes. I confess, it was sometimes used for this. I did much just the same.” For another moment, they stood listening to the roar of the ocean’s waves, louder now. Regrettably, the tide was rising already. Even now, water was slipping beneath the soles of Gwendolyn’s boots, although she was loath to end the moment, for these were the moments whence love was born. “Quite oft I spent my childhood tears here,” she confessed, and smiled, though she spoke the truth. Those particular memories didn’t please her, and there were so many days she’d escaped here to weep over her mother’s endless trials. Only Bryn ever witnessed her torment, but she was grateful for his counsel and the perspective he gave her.

So he’d claimed: Her mother’s pursuits weren’t an accurate measure of Gwendolyn’s worth, but a testament to the Queen’s fears. After all, she’d come to Cornwall to bear the King an heir, and she’d given him, not only a girl child, but a girl child whose humanity was questioned. Alas, that it was questioned most oft by the Queen herself was the worst of it.

“And did you spend those tears alone?” he asked carefully.

Gwendolyn inhaled sharply. “Nay,” she said. “Always with an audience, but fortunately, he is sworn to secrecy.” She smiled sadly.

“Your Shadow?” he said now, reaching for her hand and drawing her close.

Gwendolyn’s heart leapt within her breast as he spun her about, only to walk her backward, following until she found her back pressed against the cavern’s wall.

“I give you my word, Princess, and vow to flay any man who dares make my queen weep.”

Gwendolyn blinked, her heart beating faster. A shadow entered the cavern—one that had nothing to do with the bright sun shining beyond the cave’s entrance.

“T-thank you,” she said, unnerved by the dark look that fell over his comely features. She peered at the cave’s entrance—not so much because she was afraid; she was not.

Wouldn’t that be silly? The Prince was her betrothed, bound by a promise that could not be broken. And didn’t he just say he would flay any man who dared to make her weep?

“Fortunately, I am not so maudlin these days,” she said, reassuring him. A smile found its way through the mask of uncertainty, her gaze drawn again in the entrance’s direction.

Gods.No matter his promise, his smile made her feel… nervous.

Gently, he touched a finger to her cheek, and the tenderness of the gesture sent an odd tremor down her spine. So much as she adored Bryn, she had never once felt such a fluttering in her belly whenever he’d gazed upon her—yet this must be a good thing?

His presence filled the entire cavern, demanding her full attention.

Eyes round and wide, Gwendolyn stared into his eyes so long she felt the tide creeping into the back of her boots. “Prince Locrinus,” she began.

“Please, Gwendolyn… call me Loc,” he suggested.

When Gwendolyn didn’t at once respond, he added, “As you and I are soon to be wed, I would have you address me more… intimately.”

Gwendolyn nodded. “Loc,” she said, testing the name on her lips.

The weight and feel of it made her lips burn hot, and once again, she turned to peer in the direction whence they’d come… searching for what?

They weren’t in danger, not really.

The tide never rose too swiftly, and even if it did, those rocks on the other side of the cave were accessible enough to allow them to climb easily to the safety of the alcove.

He smiled lazily, following her gaze. “And yet… I must wonder… doesn’t it bother you to keep an elf at your heels all day long?”

Gwendolyn blinked in surprise. “Elf?”

She was startled by his use of a name that most people wouldn’t consider polite—no matter that, of late, she sometimes thought it herself. “I—”

She closed her mouth again to better consider her answer.

Really, it didn’t bother her that Málik was half-Sidhe. She didn’t have a problem with anyone’s rás. She was only nettled by one Sidhe in particular—thatSidhe, the one she now spied loitering on the beach. “He is harmless,” she argued. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Indeed.”

“I have never met an elf who knew his place.”

Gwendolyn didn’t consider her actions—that it might offend her betrothed to correct his behavior. She pressed a finger to her lips to admonish him.

“Shhh… voices carry,” she apprised.

In response, Prince Locrinus inched closer, until she could feel the solidness of his chest as he leaned against her breast plate, flattening her breasts. “Don’t worry, Princess,” he said. “No one can hear us, except perhaps the hound at your heels. My men will know better, to afford us privacy.”