The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterFourteen

Before Gwendolyn stood an intricately carved coffer, bearing many of the same odd symbols she now wore on her Prydein gown.

Was this, too, her mother’s?

Their faces bright with joy for Gwendolyn’s sake, both Demelza and Ely stood aside as Gwendolyn approached the coffer with ill-concealed awe.

Like the gown she wore, the coffer didn’t appear to be new, but neither did it appear to be any worse for its wear. To the contrary. It was well cared for and smelled of lemon oil. The paint on the etchings was vivid and fresh—perhaps even retouched for this presentation.

It was the finest gift her mother could have given her, with a bit of herself in the bestowal. It was as though she had known how much Gwendolyn longed to know about her mother’s kindred. And now, this was a connection to her grandparents she’d never dared yearn for—a glimpse into their life through the gifts she’d been given.

Gwendolyn fell to her knees beside the chest, uncertain whether she dared to touch the beautiful, finely etched wood. Gingerly now, she put a finger to the figure of a fox, imagining the careful hand that had carved it. The pigment here was bright red, and she wondered if the paint was derived from bedstraw root, because of its shade—more orange than red.

Across the entire lid, there were tiny gems carved into the woodwork and all the fish had sapphires embedded into their eyes. The scales were brushed with gold.

“There were several gowns that wouldn’t fit within,” explained Demelza. “Along with your betrothal vestige, they are here upon the bed.”

Gwendolyn turned to peer at Demelza, finding her patting the bed, and there saw another veritable mountain of dresses. Only this time there were none Gwendolyn recognized. Instead of her mother’s usual castaways, they appeared to be new and quite extravagant, judging by the opulent materials—though really, her mother’s leavings were far from meager.

Demelza was beaming. “Your mother hoped the wait would be worthwhile. She sent the coffer to Caledonia to be restored by the same artist who painted it for your grandmother and your mother as well.”

Had her grandmother had a hand in its restoration? Had it once been filled with her dowry gifts? Gwendolyn inhaled sharply, wishing with all her might that the woman who’d given birth to her mother could be here now to watch her open this chest.

Mayhap all she’d postulated was wrong?

Mayhap her grandmother had loved her daughter fiercely—as her own mother loved her, as well? Her heart sang with delight. “’Tis… beautiful,” she said. “So beautiful!”

“Only wait till you open it, child. Inside, you’ll discover great wonders—robes from Carthage and Phoenicia, ribbons from Megara, and some fashioned of Imperial silk.”

By the eyes of Lugh!

Gwendolyn had yet to process the chest itself, much less what lay within. It was the loveliest thing she had seen in all her life.

“You’ll also find chemises fashioned of dimity—no broella for you, my dear!”

A soft gasp escaped her. Broella was a thick woolen cloth of a dark red shade, worn by the Gwiddons. She had never worn that coarse fabric, but she knew many who did, including the aldermen. Blinking in wonder, she marveled that, so well visited as they were, she had never heard of so many of these places, nor of Imperial or dimity, either.

Inconceivably, Demelza continued.

“There’s a bit of baldekin, byssine, cendal, cameline, and cloth of gold so you can fashion your own gowns in your own style.”

She took a breath before adding, “By the by, your wedding attire was commissioned by a seamstress in Troy, in hopes that King Brutus will appreciate the effort. But though your Princeling may not recognize the gesture, perhaps his father will tell him.”

Certainly, if King Brutus did not, Gwendolyn would be sure to do so.

So much thought had been put into this dowry gift. More than aught, she longed for Prince Loc to know how much her parents valued this union—how much everyone valued it. Gwendolyn no less than anyone else—and she must, for it was vital she do so.

Love where you must.

Love where you must.

Love where you must.

From the night she was brought into this world, her future was writ in stone, with blood. She was the goldenchild of prophecy, the hope and future of Pretania. She was the one who must deliver her kindred to a brighter future, free from disease and discord.

Indeed, her marriage to Prince Loc wasn’t only the means to secure Pretania’s survival, it was also the key to restoring her father’s good health, for only by restoring the ysbryd y byd for her people could the land itself be restored.

Alas, if her father wasn’t healed, it boded ill for Cornwall, and for Gwendolyn as well, for she was her father’s heir. If she failed him and ascended to his throne without curing the country’s ills, she would fall prey to the same wasting disease as that which now threatened her father and King.

This was her dowry chest.

This was her fate, now sealed.

This should be her joy, and hope as well.

And it was.

Truly.

She was only sorry she had been such a fool this afternoon, flying away from her Prince as though she believed he could do her harm. He would never, for he too held a stake in this marriage, and without Gwendolyn, he would have no right to rule. His blood was not the blood of the conservators; he needed her as much as she needed him.

“How envious I am!” squealed Ely with a clap of her hands. But Gwendolyn could say little intelligent in response. Her stomach was clenched tight.

She glanced about once more, taking in the bed that was overburdened with gifts. During the short time since she’d left her bedchamber this morn, her room had been filled with dresses, jewels, tiaras, ribbons, flowers, and every sort of gift a young lady could imagine—most of which could never have fit inside the modest-sized chest.

“You missed the procession,” said Ely, her voice shrill with excitement. “They came when you left, and one by one, carted in one heft after another. After they were gone, I wept with joy to see so many lovely gifts you’ve been given.” Her friend sighed dreamily. “I went to look for you only to tell you, and—” She clapped her hands again, delighted. “Mayhap, someday, I too will now have my own dowry chest, thanks to you!”

A slow grin unfurled as Gwendolyn took in Ely’s joy. After all, that was the most wondrous gift of all the gifts her mother had given her today—the chance to take Ely with her when she left and the opportunity to make Ely’s dreams come true. That gift was far, far above the rest, although in its entirety, this was a bounty unlike any that Gwendolyn had ever known.

Like last night’s feast, no expense had been spared.

“I cannot believe my mother sent me all this,” Gwendolyn said, still kneeling by the chest, the bruise on her knee hardly noticeable. Good thing she would have time to heal, so she wouldn’t arrive at her marriage bed looking bruised and abused.

Again she fingered the artwork gently, afraid to damage it even with the lightest touch. It was Demelza’s voice that broke the woven spell. “And who else would give you so much?”

Who else, indeed?

And regardless, it was such a great gesture that, after all the torment she’d endured in her life, Gwendolyn still couldn’t believe it was her mother who’d proffered so much—all for her, and all of it finer than anything Queen Eseld kept for herself.

Gathering her nerve and sucking in a breath, weak and trembling with anticipation, Gwendolyn dared to lift the lid, and there… inside… found…

More Prydein gowns, all made from similar materials as the gown she now wore. Even those fashioned of fine wool bore many of the same symbols that, as yet Gwendolyn had no clue about. She lifted a small pair of earrings, shaped like bees.

“Minoan,” said Demelza, and Gwendolyn laid them back down.

She also discovered a silver armband, finely hewn and in the shape of a fish.

Also, an intricately carved forehead crown, covered with rainbow moonstones—three of which were made to drip like tears between her brows.

“It will be some time before you can wear that one,” explained Demelza, as Gwendolyn lifted the crown to better inspect it. “This is the tiara you will wear on your bride’s day—and a glorious day it will be!”

Gwendolyn’s heart tripped painfully. Her bride’s day… arriving so soon.

“Your gown will be Trojan, your torc, Dumnonii, your crown, Prydein,” Demelza was saying with a smile in her voice. “A symbol of all you embody!”

Gwendolyn swallowed the hefty lump that rose to choke her.

There was so much here… so much… and it was all so… well, incredible. But, by far—even more beautiful than the gift of Ely—the greatest gift of all was her mother’s support, which seemed undeniable by these grandiose gifts.

Without question, these were not the sort of bestowals a mother who loathed her daughter would tender. Rather, they were gifts for a beloved child.

The riches could easily be explained away, for any queen would wish her daughter to reflect well upon her house, but not these Prydein offerings. They were far more personal, and Gwendolyn would have supposed they would embarrass her mother more than they pleased her. But nay…

Gwendolyn swallowed with difficulty.

Everything she’d ever come to believe about her mother now seemed… wrong.

Moreover, she couldn’t help but remember the gleam in the Queen’s eyes as she’d bade Gwendolyn to hie away to see her surprise.

Joy? Pride? Love?

And yet Gwendolyn was bemused, because after all she had endured by her mother’s hand—all the censure, all the frustrations and doubts, all the neglect and disregard, all the times she’d longed for merely an afternoon with her mother—was this now Gwendolyn’s reward only for pleasing a prince?

Was this all it took to appease her mother?

Or could it be she had misjudged Queen Eseld?

Alas, she had only a month to find out. After Gwendolyn was gone, all time for casual visitation would be done, and when she returned here again, to this house she’d been raised in, she would return as the heir, with a husband by her side, and far more on her mind than simply getting to know an errant mother.

At the moment, Gwendolyn’s room looked like a king’s vault—not that she’d ever actually seen the King’s vault. It was kept too well-guarded by men whose oath it was to die for its defense, and who were no more allowed to enter than they could allow anyone else to see what lay within. So far as Gwendolyn knew, not even her mother knew what lay guarded so jealously, and the only man who’d ever defied the King’s law was a guard who’d lost his eyes, and his tongue as well. Even her father rarely visited his vault, and the only reason she knew anything of its contents was because she was recently privy to a Konsel meeting, wherein the aldermen had lamented the dwindling of gold in their vaults. Gwendolyn herself would only ever be allowed to enter after she ascended to the throne.

Behind her, Ely laughed exuberantly, and still curious to see what more she could find, Gwendolyn rifled through the trunk, lifting a bit of leather, and discovered…

A silver hairpin with the knob in the shape of a fish. It, too, had eyes made of sapphires.

A lunate-shaped pendant, without gems, though it had small piscium etched into the metal.

Last, there was a large but intricate brooch that looked like a wide-mouthed fish with an arrow through its gob.

Interestingly, unlike many of the fineries she’d been given today, none of these gifts in the coffer were new. In fact, like the chest in which they were delivered, they appeared rather ancient, judging by the patina on the metals.

“Your grandmother gifted those to me,” said her mother, appearing at her threshold. “And her mother to her, on her bride’s day.”

Gwendolyn turned with hot tears brimming in her eyes and longed so desperately to rush into her mother’s arms. But despite that, Queen Eseld’s eyes appeared moist, her arms remained crossed, and Gwendolyn knew embraces would not be welcomed. And yet this was the one thing she had longed for more than anything else in the world—a simple, heartfelt hug from the woman who had given her life.

Alas.

“I do not know how many generations have worn those jewels, but I know they have been in my family’s keeping for more than five score years.”

“So long!” squealed Ely.

Her mother nodded. “Indeed.”

“Thank you,” said Gwendolyn, and she choked back another surge of emotion. “Thank you… Mother.”

A genuine smile unfurled over Queen Eseld’s beauteous face, and she cast her arms down at her sides as she swept into the room, like a maelstrom, passing by Gwendolyn where she knelt and marching straight toward the bed, stirring even the spirits in the room.

The scent of lavender swirled around Gwendolyn, then eddied away. “Come, Daughter,” she demanded. “Let us dress you now—no, no, no, not with that,” she said, pointing to the lunate pendant that had found its way into Gwendolyn’s hand. “I’ll not have it said we dressed you so plainly tonight. You are promised to a prince, and you shall face him as befits his queen. However, you may bring that hairpin instead. We will use it to secure a crown of braids.”

Gods only knew, there was nothing about anything Gwendolyn had been gifted today that was even remotely plain, but Gwendolyn didn’t argue. Swept up in her mother’s enthusiasm, she put aside her silly regrets, and rose to join Queen Eseld by the bedside.

Thereafter, as Ely oohed and aahed over the shining baubles and all the luscious fabrics, her mother chose the prettiest gown of all—a pearlescent creation that was iridescent in its beauty. The sleeveless overcoat was fashioned of some never-before-seen material that reminded Gwendolyn of the underside of an oyster shell. Apparently, this should be worn over an equally lustrous shell-colored undergown, with wide, diaphanous sleeves—so delicate that it billowed about even without a breeze, only with the hustle and bustle of the occupants in her bower.

If only by sheer will, and by the beauty of the treasures she would wear and the heartfelt efforts of her mother, Demelza and Ely, Gwendolyn would surely arrive at her Promise Ceremony in a fashion to turn heads and hearts.

All together, they gushed over Gwendolyn—Ely scrubbing at her body and face until it stung, then choosing Imperial ribbons for her braids; Demelza brushing her hair until it shone and then plaiting it tightly as Ely handed her the ribbons.

Meanwhile, her mother helped to dress her, moving her hands this way and that, as though she were a poppet, and finally, taking care not to spill any of the substance on Gwendolyn’s new dress, she lined Gwendolyn’s eyes with a paint made from ground galena.

When all was done, Queen Eseld brushed more paint on her, this one a shimmering green, like the color of a warm, but shallow sea. This was made from malachite. And placing it over Gwendolyn’s eyelids, she sprinkled it across her lashes, and then, for good measure, a little dusting on her upper cheeks and lips, so that Gwendolyn feared her skin had turned green, like that of a selkie’s.

Queen Eseld had a steady hand, perfectly skilled for having practiced on the ladies of her dawnsio. But for an instant, the powder made Gwendolyn’s lashes stick together, and though some grains slipped into her eyes, her mother patted her hand when she made to rub it away.

“You’ll smear the kohl,” she rebuked, though not unkindly. “Give it a moment. The irritation will subside.”

Eager to please, Gwendolyn obeyed, thinking that by the time her mother was through with her, she would look like a gleaming gem. It was hardly her usual attire.

However, Queen Eseld could have dressed her in a meal sack, and Gwendolyn would have beamed with joy, merely to have her mother’s regard.

From what she’d been told, the Prydein wore paint, as well—mostly woad. Though it was not of this ilk, nor was it worn in the same way, to adorn. Rather, this was a style of paint her mother had adopted after meeting the wife of a Phoenician merchant—only the black paint about her eyes, perhaps reluctant to be seen as emulating the woad of her people.

The people of Trevena were hardworking, honorable folks, who scarcely had time for such adornment. However, as their princess, on the eve of her betrothal, Gwendolyn would be expected to outshine them all—and so she would… so she did.

When her mother’s work was complete, Gwendolyn scarcely recognized herself. She was iridescent and beautiful. Her face was flawlessly painted. Her dress was perfectly fitted, but loose about her hips, so no one could tell they were a little wider than her mother’s.

“Perfect!” said her mother, still brandishing the kohl brush in her hand.

“Oh, Gwen!” said Ely, clapping her hands with tears shining in her eyes. “You are like a magnificent jewel!”

“Precious!” said Demelza, and Queen Eseld agreed with an earnest nod and a soft smile that betrayed her pride.