The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterSeventeen

Over the ensuing days, it was all anyone talked about—the dead alderman, not Gwendolyn’s Promise Ceremony, nor anything at all pertaining to her nuptials.

Save for the burden about her neck—evidence of her pledge—it was as though the Promise Ceremony never even happened.

What was more, Prince Loc’s absence now lent the entire occasion a sense of foolish fire—like those piskie lights in the forest that led men astray, here one instant, not the next.

Gwendolyn wasn’t sure how this made her feel.

In some ways, relieved, perhaps? Certainly not over Bryok’s death, though she supposed she was pleased enough that the poor man’s untimely death now had everyone’s rapt attention, including hers, because she didn’t wish to confess how she felt about her upcoming nuptials, nor Prince Locrinus himself… because… well… she didn’t know how she felt.

Except for the encounter in the cave, and his disinterest on the day of their outing, there was truly nothing wrong with him—at least nothing Gwendolyn could point a finger at.

He was charming, handsome, learned—all the things one hoped for in a mate. And he seemed to admire her erudite nature, which was so utterly important to Gwendolyn, because she didn’t wish to be relegated to being someone’s prize, as her mother appeared contented to be.

Alas, but it was true, as much as Gwendolyn was loath to say it. As kindly as her father might be, he’d never actually encouraged her mother’s uniqueness, nor did he cherish her Prydein blood beyond the alliance it brought to their kingdom—or at least this is how it appeared to Gwendolyn. Rather, he praised the Queen most when she looked and behaved like all the other high-born wives of his court, and perhaps because her mother had so long ago embraced her role as Queen Consort, Gwendolyn scarcely knew anything at all about her Prydein lineage.

Duty first, always. This is what her mother so oft said. And this was the crux of the dilemma: her mother was right. Duty must come first. It didn’t matter what Gwendolyn wished for herself, nor was she raised to seek anything but fairness from a mate. Cornwall was her foremost responsibility.

Love where you must, she’d been told.

Love where you must.And this she would do.

Duty first.

Always.

Only, now that she’d met Prince Loc, and she’d had a moment or two to consider all that transpired, she found his nature to be… odd.

More to the point, if she could be truthful, she didn’t particularly enjoy him. All his golden finery and his blinding white smiles couldn’t hide a vain demeanor.

And nay, as angry as she was over Bryn’s demotion, it wasn’t so much the thought of leaving Bryn that upset her; it was more this: She knew what her mother had become since leaving her Prydein home, and it settled poorly in her belly, like a gut full of soured oats.

Worries spun round her head—old and new.

Moreover, she adored this gown her mother gave her, and now, having examined all the finery in her dowry chest—the emblazonry on the cloth, the fine needlework—she had determined the Prydein were anything but wildlings. Insomuch as their artistry was equal to, if not finer than those of Cornwall’s artisans, it was now impossible to think of them as crude, woad-painted people, running about like savages in the northern woods.

Also, considering the way her mother had cared for those few treasures she’d brought along with her, it was clear to Gwendolyn how much she valued them. That she had taken such care to present them so finely and considering how long it took her to part with them, it was evident to Gwendolyn that no matter how fervently Queen Eseld had adopted her new life, she secretly cherished, and perhaps even longed for her own people and customs.

It was sad, really—the way her mother had felt compelled to shed her former life. And perhaps more than ever, Gwendolyn understood something vital about her mother’s heart.

She longed more than ever to go see Prydein for herself, but some part of her felt such uncertainty over her own betrothed, because there had been nothing in Prince Loc’s demeanor that had led her to believe he would appreciate her people, or any other, particularly her mother’s. “Barbarians,” he’d called the Ostmen. “Garbed in whatever pelts they can find—dogs, if needs must.” Was this how he viewed her mother’s people as well?

And then, he’d said of the people of Eastwalas, “If anyone should be called such a thing, it should be them because they are inconsequential.”

Gwendolyn didn’t want to feel embarrassed, or defensive about her land or her people, but considering Prince Loc’s own words, she didn’t believe he was predisposed to giving others their just due, which only left her feeling strangely bereft.

She was also quite torn—already fiercely protective on the one hand, and reluctantly embarrassed on the other, as her mother must have felt after coming from Prydein. Should Gwendolyn also forsake her people, only to be subsumed by Prince Loc’s Trojan ways?

Gods.

That would be horrific.

Gwendolyn found she didn’t wish to leave her friends, nor her oysters, nor her beloved glen, nor her mother, in truth—not now, when it seemed she finally had some opportunity to know her better.

As for Prince Loc…

Her mother might be content enough to conform to life with her husband, eschewing her own people and customs, but there was one crucial difference between them: Queen Eseld adored her husband and respected him no less. Love would make all sacrifices worthwhile, but Gwendolyn worried she could never love Prince Loc.

She feared that glimpse of him she’d spied in the cave.

Not because she would be hapless to surrender to his passions once they were wed—she was not. She’d been taught to defend herself, and wedded or not, Gwendolyn would demand all due respect as a princess of Pretania. But this too she feared, because she knew herself all too well: If her husband dared mistreat her, she would castrate him, and damned be their heirs—damned be Cornwall as well, because their discord would be its downfall.

How could she reconcile this?

Mayhap it would be possible to see him again—if only to determine whether she would feel the same way after spending another afternoon with him. People had bad and good days, and Gwendolyn had plenty of bad days herself. Perhaps yesterday was a bad day for Prince Loc. And certainly, the man she’d spent time with that day on the moors wasn’t the same man she’d spent time with during the welcome feast.

Or was it?

At any rate, merely because she didn’t crave Loc’s kiss—nor did she seem inclined to fantasize about kissing him—that didn’t mean she never dreamt about kissing anyone—just not him.

There was only ever one person Gwendolyn had ever fantasized about kissing, and this was not something she ever meant to confess—dear gods.

Unhappily, the object of her conflicting emotions was yet another burden she must endure and simply couldn’t bear. Thusly, she was still distracted when she arrived for her first session with Málik Danann.

“You are late,” he said.

“Am I?” Gwendolyn asked, feigning dispassion, although she felt anything but. And neither was it a question. She knew she was late and didn’t care.

What was he going to do? Give her a lashing? And if he did, good. Because then, in truth, her father would reinstate the custom of placing heads on pikes—namely his.

Really, she might be forced to tolerate this creature by her father’s mandate, but this didn’t give him leave to treat her like a misbehaving child. Nor was her schedule subject to his whims.

Rather he answered to her, and despite this, she had seen hide nor hair of him these past two days. She hadn’t intended to inquire over his whereabouts, even despite that he hadn’t slept once in her antechamber—and why was no one asking him where he was during Bryok’s murder? Gwendolyn last saw Málik during the Awenydd’s prayer, and not again for two days thereafter. He might easily have slipped away after Gwendolyn was abed, and she wondered, meanly, if he was the one who’d mauled poor Bryok to death.

Certainly he could do so with those teeth.

“I should argue that you are the one who is late,” she countered. “Where have you been?”

Unsheathing a small dirk from the back of his belt, unconcerned over her inquiry, Málik picked at a bit of dirt beneath his fingernails. “Did you miss me, Princess?”

“The way one misses a rash!”

He laughed in response but re-sheathed his blade. “If you must know, I escorted the Awenydd home.”

Gwendolyn arched a brow. Well, it was thoughtful of him, for the Awenydd was ancient, and despite that there were few brigands about these parts, she was ill-equipped to defend herself against any. However, no one ever bothered to tell Gwendolyn, so she said, unsheathing her practice sword, “And you are now her keeper, too?”

“Keeper?” asked Málik with a lifted brow. “This is how you see me?”

And then suddenly, his lips tilted at one corner as his gaze settled on Gwendolyn’s practice sword. “Art still playing with toys, I see.”

Narrowing her eyes, Gwendolyn brandished the sword she’d been using to spar with since she was young, only now regretting her choice, because she saw the telltale twinkle in his ice-blue eyes. She’d chosen this sword because she’d recalled the way he’d swatted the flat of his blade against Bryn’s arm and didn’t relish the thought of more bruises. She’d hoped he would use a practice sword as well. He did not, alas. With one hand, he unsheathed the bastard sword from the scabbard at his back, and brandished it between them, displaying the sharp, gleaming edge. Thereafter, he made a point of turning the blade to reveal the dull edge, and said, “Don’t worry, Princess. I will endeavor to remind myself that you’d rather play with your nursemaid.”

Nursemaid?Gwendolyn constrained herself from snarling at him. Still, her lip curled menacingly. How in the name of the Mother Goddess, had this man risen to such rank with his biting tongue? Did her father not realize how disrespectful he was?

Somehow, he infuriated Gwendolyn beyond reason. It was all she could do not to fly at him and tug out every strand of his lovely silver mane—even loathing that she considered anything about him to be lovely.

Her face burning hot, she could scarcely look at him, but she forced herself to do so—too late. He advanced upon her swiftly, and then, just as he had with Bryn, he popped the flat of his blade against her arm. Hard.

“Oomph!” she cried, and nearly dropped the practice sword as her hand flew to her abused arm. If her sword had been any heavier, she might have twisted her wrist.

Without remorse, he tilted his head, smirking, even as he drew back his sword arm, poised to strike again. His smile broke into a wide grin. This time, open-mouthed, bearing those shining white teeth—teeth that were not entirely even, yet inexplicably perfect. “Unlike your poppet,” he suggested, using her father’s word for Bryn, “I will never coddle you.”

Blood and bones.Why must she bear this—why would her father burden her with this man? “Poppet?” she countered, tilting him a narrow-eyed glance, only this time, imagining herself flaying him head to foot. “And by poppet, do you mean one who is dutiful and loyal? Because he is.” Loyalty in a Shadow was paramount.

Doubtless her parents kept secrets from one another, even as they kept separate quarters, but neither would dare keep secrets from their Shadows, even were it possible. Nothing escaped their Shadows, not even the most private ministrations, a certainty that unsettled Gwendolyn immensely—that he should be privy to her most vulnerable moments was unthinkable.

“Nay, Princess. By poppet, I mean Bryn,” he said, grinning still, and Gwendolyn couldn’t bear it—or him. There was that about his expression that promised, as it would be with swordplay, she would never best him with words—not today, perhaps never.

And still she vowed to try. “On your toes!” she demanded.

Alas, if it was the Sidhe’s intent to unsettle her so her performance would suffer, his aim was well and duly satisfied. Not having practiced in more than a fortnight, and with Bryn, who was far, far more lenient, she presented herself poorly, missing every opportunity to best the damnable elf.

Gwendolyn loathed so much that he could reduce her to such hatefulness—that she would revile him for the very thing she most admired—his fae blood. Gwendolyn was never hateful, except apparently with him—this tall blur of hands and feet.

Next to Málik, she found herself ungainly, ungraceful, and entirely unpleasant. To be sure, she could feel her own fury rise like a poison into the back of her throat. And, just for an instant—only an instant—she wished it had been him they’d discovered behind the smelting house. Though suddenly, having envisioned him lying lifeless and mauled before her father’s throne, she felt inexplicably ill.

The sickness manifested itself physically, with a rush of bile that erupted from her lips without grace or forewarning. One minute, she advanced upon her tormentor, sword in hand, and the next she dropped it to cover her mouth, only after spewing the morning’s victuals over Málik’s tunic. A little stunned perhaps, he sidestepped the rejected meal, somehow avoiding the worst of it, but then he, too, cast away his sword, rushing forward to catch Gwendolyn before she could disgrace herself further by planting her face in the dirt.

Dizzied and sick to her belly, the world spun as Málik swept her into his arms, then settled her down on the ground. Much to Gwendolyn’s dismay, she found her head resting on one of his thighs, and one long, muscled arm cradled beneath her to support her back.

Worse, a small crowd of onlookers had formed, everyone waiting for Gwendolyn to rise.

Málik was staring as well, but the concern in his eyes did not match the flippant tone of his voice. “If you did not wish to practice, Princess, you might better have served us both simply by saying so.” His lips remained curved ever so slightly. “I have not feigned illness like this since I was a boy, untried.”

Gods. It wasn’t feigned! But though Gwendolyn hadn’t any explanation for the sudden malady, she resented the overwhelming desire to exonerate herself from his accusation.

She would not, however. Her gaze narrowed on the spot of retch on his tunic, drawing his attention there as well, filling her with chagrin. “I am fine,” she said, lifting her head and rising from his lap. “Not that you asked.”

“What did you eat this morn?”

“Not much.”

“Why?”

“I—”

Gwendolyn didn’t know. Perhaps she was unsettled, nerve-wracked by the simple truth that she must face him this morn. To be certain, it had nothing to do with having sneaked into Mester Ciarán’s laboratory to ask him a few questions. The man had tasked himself with performing a posthumous examination, to see if he could determine the true cause of the First Alderman’s death, but it was an impossible feat, with Bryok’s flesh already so smelly and rotten. Bloodless and grey, as though he were drained of all blood, his extremities were already turning black, particularly the fingers and toes. Even so, Gwendolyn had a robust constitution, and aside from the awful smell, she wasn’t the least bit fazed.

In fact, the physician had had a bowl full of prunes in his laboratory, and because she loved them so much, she’d sat, eating them whilst Mester Ciarán explored his cadaver.

“So eager as you must have been to join me this morning, you mustn’t go without breaking your fast.”

“As if you care?” Gwendolyn said.

“Oh, I do,” he argued. “Immensely.”

But there was nothing at all sober about Málik’s expression, and Gwendolyn doubted he spoke true. She rose, brushing herself off, and, satisfied that she was unharmed, the crowd dispersed as well.

Málik, too, rose from his haunches as Gwendolyn moved to retrieve her practice sword. “If you’ll pardon me,” she said. “I am done for the day.” And, only because it gave her some measure of confidence to assume her position of authority, she added, “As for you… you should plan to visit the pool, else you’ll find that mine is not the only spew you’ll wear today.”

Sadly, it was the worst thing Gwendolyn could find to say, and it fell far from the mark, which annoyed her all the more.

She couldn’t escape quickly enough. Not daring to look back, she ran toward the palace, passing Ely as she came out into the courtyard. “Gwen!” she said. “I heard—”

“Nothing happened,” Gwendolyn snapped.

“But—”

“I am fine!” Gwendolyn said again, and then she quickened her pace, unwilling to explain, not even to one of her dearest friends.

“Gwen!” shouted Ely again.

But Gwendolyn still didn’t stop, and she was relieved to hear someone calling Elowyn’s name—her mother, she believed, although Gwendolyn didn’t wait to find out.