The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterFifteen
Despite that Gwendolyn was formerly betrothed to Prince Urien, she had not been required to exchange torcs with him. Being so young when they’d first met, she’d been spared the prefatory—mostly because free will was a gods-given gift she had been too young to comprehend. Now, because she was seventeen and no one could drag her screaming to the yew, the exchange of promissory torcs served, not merely as an affirmation of her willingness to marry, but as a pledge between Gwendolyn and Prince Loc to remain chaste till their nuptials were honored. Her people bore witness to assist them in keeping these vows.
To break them would be a sin against Cornwall.
As it must be with her nuptials, the Promise Ceremony was held during the Between Times, when the gods might traverse the Veil to bless their union. Their approach was felt like a vibrancy in the air, and even the lowering sun shivered with anticipation.
Something like excitement welled in Gwendolyn’s breast, although truth be told, the sensation wasn’t entirely pleasant.
A rumble of drums began the ceremony, and the harp joined as Gwendolyn ascended the dais where the Awenydd stood waiting beside Prince Loc—today a witness, no more, though on the day of her nuptials, the Gwiddon and druid would arrive, as well.
Resplendent as always, Prince Loc’s smile encouraged her. And if he nurtured any animosity for her treatment of him this afternoon, it wasn’t apparent in his expression. With the torc in his hand, he stood proudly, watching Gwendolyn with that same look he’d given her in the Dragon’s Lair…
Yearning? Satisfaction?Possession?
It didn’t matter.
She was bound to this now, and if she said nay, it would break her father’s heart—her mother’s as well.
Acceptance with grace and faith.
Decide you will love him, and eventually you shall.
I will, she vowed. I will.
Even so, her legs felt like mushed meal as she made her way toward her betrothed.
The torc of her house was as ancient as the Sidhe hills. Symbolic was its passing from her father to her, although he handed it to Gwendolyn without ceremony as she walked by—father to daughter, king to heir. He held it aloft on a small crimson tuft—willingly given, willfully taken.
Her father and mother now wore replicants.
Made of old, braided bronze, the torc came together about the neck with two dragon heads that met snout to snout. And within each of the dragons’ eyes lay perfectly polished pearls, four altogether, two in each head. This she would give to Prince Loc, to be held in safekeeping until they met again beneath the yew to become man and wife.
This was her promissory note, and he would give one as well.
She was careful to be certain that the heavy chain came to her untangled, letting it pool into her palm, some part of her thrilled over the adventure to come, even though she was anxious. And yet, it wasn’t Gwendolyn’s way to face the unknown with any measure of subservience, so she hitched her chin and returned the Prince’s smile, holding his gaze until the music stopped. Only then her eyes were drawn to the torc in his hand.
The hue of its metal warmed with the golden hour—fresh from the forge and fashioned of the same alloy for which the recipe was so jealously guarded—and, gods, she thought she would swoon. The eyes of his serpents were bright blue sapphires, each of them glinting meanly at her, and she found herself reluctant to take the necklace. Gwendolyn swallowed, staring at the serpents, not daring to meet the Prince’s gaze—not yet.
Neither of them could properly wear the torcs until after their nuptials, but the instant Gwendolyn accepted it, she would be honor-bound to carry it about her neck, until they could return them and place them irrevocably about each other’s throats—like a noose, she thought morbidly, and then scolded herself for the impulse. Secured on long, heavy chains, they were worn in a fashion that was visible to all—a symbol that their virtues were heretofore spoken for, and no one should put them asunder.
Taking the torc was the right thing to do.
Her father depended upon her.
The people did as well.
And… Prince Loc?
What did he want?
Whatever nerves Gwendolyn suffered, there was none apparent in the worry-free countenance she faced across the dais, and this gave her the resolve to move.
Knees trembling, she paused beside the Awenydd to wait yet again, all eyes in the courtyard affixed upon her. Gwendolyn willed her feet to stay—now was not the time to repeat her afternoon flight, no matter that she felt an overwhelming desire to flee.
Silence fell as twilight settled, and no man dared disturb it.
The only sound to reach Gwendolyn’s ears was the sound of the Prince’s footfalls as he closed the distance between them, and the heavy golden chain shivered in her palm.
The Awenydd prayed, and then,before all who were present, the Prince knelt before Gwendolyn, bowing his head to receive the chain with her torc.
Only for a terrible moment, Gwendolyn couldn’t move. She daren’t look at her father, nor at her mother—nor at the Awenydd, either, for they so oft could read what lay hidden in a heart.
Swallowing convulsively, Gwendolyn peered about, searching for Bryn and reassurance. She found him regarding her with a genuine smile, albeit sadly.
And regardless, he gave her a nod, and Gwendolyn peered down at the torc in her hand, and then to Prince Loc’s bowed head, compelling herself to bestow it, until finally she did.
Dutifully, she placed the chain about his head, and then said with a quivering voice, “As you are to me, I am to you, promised and faithful till my end of days.”
Prince Loc smiled up at her then, and stood, and Gwendolyn did not need to kneel in order for him to place the heavy chain about her neck. She did so anyway, as a show of respect, and he reached over to settle his burden atop her shoulders. “As you are to me,” he repeated, “I am to you, promised and faithful until my end of days.”
Gwendolyn swallowed again, her mouth gone dry, and then stood, blinking like a hapless creature, until Prince Loc’s smile deepened.
Behind him, grinning with unreserved approval, stood his sire—as her own parents must be as well. But of course, it was done.Come Calan Mai, they would declare themselves man and wife, and receive their blessings from the mester druid on behalf of the gods.
Why then did she feel so horrible?
Oblivious to her turmoil, the people all cheered.
Wine was drunk—a gesture of acceptance for the promises made. A single goblet was brought forth for Prince Loc and Gwendolyn to share, offered first to the bride-to-be.
Gwendolyn took her sip, then gave it up to Prince Loc, and immediately thereafter, she was veiled, and the Promise Ceremony was over—or at least, her part.
Accompanied only by the Awenydd, to guide her in prayer, and Málik, to shadow her, Gwendolyn was whisked away to the Sacred Yew to pray. On her knees. In the coolness of gathering shadows. To contemplate the gravity of the promises made.
Forever renewing themselves, and resurrecting, the yews formed massive trunks. This one was ancient, with an enormous hollow in its base.
Guardians of the Underworld, death and the afterlife, their drooping branches would root themselves and form new and twisting trunks wherever they touched the ground.
According to the Gwyddons, yews were immortal, and yet this distinction had so oft fascinated Gwendolyn, considering that nothing ever grew beneath its dense canopy because of the carpet of poisonous spines and the dark shadow it cast over the land.
Beneath the tree, she fell to her knees, placing a palm against the aged wood, the very palm that had held her chain, begging for strength… and forgiveness because her heart was a traitorous fool. “Goddess, please,” she began, and stopped, sensing the presence behind her.
Please, what?
Alas, though she knew the answer to this question, she daren’t speak it aloud.
The weight of her necklace seemed to tug on her heart—a dreadful heaviness accompanied by a shadow that settled into her bones with the lowering night.
Peering up at the Awenydd who’d accompanied her for this occasion, she tried not to consider the Shadow who’d deposed her dearest friend.
“Do you feel different?”asked Ely.
Gwendolyn weighed the question carefully, because truly, although she didn’t feel changed, she also didn’t feel the same as she did before, though it wasn’t merely because of the heavy chain she now wore about her neck.
Somehow, in the bright light of day, it seemed heavier than before.
“Nay,” she said, “not truly.”
It wasn’t a lie, not precisely. She simply didn’t know how to explain this restless feeling that had been plaguing her since donning the torc and chain. Even with the Prince’s absence, he would remain with her always, morning, noon, and night, only because of the torc.
In truth, she now looked forward to her instruction with Málik, because that was the only time the removal of the chain was allowed.
Last night there had been quite the celebration, or so she’d been told. Everyone, including Demelza, had remained to toast the occasion until well into the small hours.
Ely didn’t even arrive at her bower until well after sunup, and she’d barely caught Gwendolyn as Gwendolyn rushed out the door to catch the Loegrian party’s departure. This wasn’t Ely’s way, but she must have been celebrating her own future as well now that she was officially Gwendolyn’s maid.
By now, the Prince was long gone.
For at least a full bell now, their silhouettes had vanished from the horizon, and despite that, she and Ely stood, peering down at the littered courtyard. Never once did Prince Loc look back, nor did he seek her on the balustrade.
But of course, why should he? she reasoned. He knew, as everyone knew, that she was not supposed to see him again, nor should he dare to gaze upon her. It was bad luck to do so before her bride’s day. But Gwendolyn hadn’t cared. She’d needed to see what she would feel as she watched him leave… nothing.
But not nothing, precisely.
More like… relief.
Why?
Unwittingly, her gaze was drawn toward the Mester’s Pavilion, where Málik now practiced with Bryn. At least that much was unchanged.
“I hope one day, I, too, will be wed, Gwendolyn.”
“You will,” Gwendolyn promised, reaching for Ely’s hand and cradling it. “I shall see to it, my dear, sweet friend. I swear it.” She gave Ely’s hand a good squeeze.
Admiration shone in Elowyn’s eyes. “I am so grateful you spoke to your mother on my behalf,” she said. “I cannot believe she has released me.”
Gwendolyn offered a smile and jested as a matter of habit. “I suppose she must be sure someone will be around to see to her interests.”
Silence met her declaration. And only after she’d said it did Gwendolyn realize how it must have sounded to Ely—as though she didn’t trust her.
“I am loyal to you,” said Ely after a moment.
“I know,” said Gwendolyn, quite certain that Ely would never knowingly betray her confidence—and her mother must know it as well.
“Alas, I supposed in part it could be true,” allowed Ely, reconsidering. “Now that Bryn is no longer to accompany you, I can imagine she feels better knowing I will be there instead. But you have always thought your mother to be so ill-natured, and I have never seen her this way, Gwendolyn. Neither does my mother, and my mother’s intuition is good. Queen Eseld loves you truly.”
Gwendolyn thought about the dowry chest, filled with so many thoughtful gifts—gifts that were not only beautiful, but representative of all the things her mother must hold dear to her heart. All these years she had believed her mother was embarrassed by her Prydein blood, but the opposite must be true. Clearly. She had saved everything she’d arrived with, perfectly cared for, and she’d saved it for Gwendolyn. So, was it that she didn’t feel brave enough to set herself apart from others? Did she sense Gwendolyn was brave enough to do so? That she would wear her Prydein heirlooms with pride?
Gods.All these years… There was never anything about Queen Eseld that had seemed weak or unworthy. She carried herself like a queen of all tribes, although mayhap, deep down, she was still a frightened little Prydein girl, who didn’t feel as though she belonged.
Considering that, Gwendolyn stared ahead at the open gates—gates that remained open by day, for it was her father’s practice to keep an open door to all people and their grievances. Now that he was ambassador to all, this included people of all tribes, although they saw few emissaries from Prydein. And despite this, there was peace. The Prydein were far more respectful these days, although Aldermans Crwys and Aelwin were also right: No matter that everything seemed harmonious at the moment, they would be fools to forget that King Brutus was, in so many respects, an opportunist—someone who had already amassed a powerful army, and who had, for all intents and purposes, lifted himself above even Gwendolyn’s father. Gwendolyn hadn’t wished to acknowledge this, but she could see it in Brutus’ demeanor, and that of his son’s as well.
Moreover, Prince Loc’s disclosure about Plowonida settled poorly with Gwendolyn, and although she’d yet to tell anyone about it, there was something about Brutus’ foray so deep into Pretania that gave her pause.
Now, if King Brutus should smell weakness, would he renege upon his promises? Should Cornwall and Loegria find themselves at war, the rest of the tribes would quickly forswear the alliance, and the land again would bleed.
There was so much Gwendolyn daren’t voice—not to Ely, nor to Bryn, not yet. And yet, though the Bearer of Tidings rang bells, crying “All’s well!”, all didn’t feel so well.
Something was troubling Gwendolyn, though she couldn’t put a finger to it yet.
Something.
All at once, from one of the distant smelting houses, came a shout, catching Gwendolyn’s attention. Together, she and Ely rushed forward to the balustrade rails to watch a lone man stumbling toward the palace. Behind him came more men carrying what appeared to be a rolled tarp. “What do you suppose this is about?” asked Ely.
Gwendolyn knit her brows. “I don’t know,” she said, her hand reaching for the heavy chain about her neck.
Caterwauling now, tripping over his own two feet, the first man rushed into the palace through the doors directly below, and Gwendolyn said, “Let’s go find out.”