The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterEighteen
She could hear the cur moving about her antechamber.
Did he finally intend to move in? More’s the pity, because it wasn’t merely his right to do so—it was also his duty, and the thought sent needles through her gut.
Only remembering the mocking look upon his face when he’d glimpsed her practice sword, Gwendolyn wondered: What in the name of the Mother Goddess was she thinking?
Perhaps she’d simply not trusted herself to keep from running Málik through?
Certainly he brought out the worst in her, and she was mortified by the impassioned response she so oft had to a creature she oughtn’t even notice.
Except she did.
Gods.
From the first.
Whatever thrill she’d felt over meeting Málik that first day, it wasn’t shared. She sighed, remembering the cold Winter afternoon he’d ridden into Trevena.
His arrival had so much intrigued her. After all, how long she’d yearned to meet a true-blood fae—someone who could corroborate the stories of her crib-side visitation.
He’d arrived wearing only thin black leathers and a simple cloak, his manner of dress so odd, considering how cold it was outside. From the ramparts, Gwendolyn had watched him canter through those gates, horse and rider moving as one, the two black as night against the Winter so white, with his bastard sword strapped to his back, and his silvery hair billowing behind him. From Gwendolyn’s vantage, it had been nearly impossible to distinguish snow from hair, as it swirled about him—until he’d neared, and then, the very first time he’d peered up to meet Gwendolyn’s gaze, his eyes were like an icebourne sea, chilling her to the bone.
Even now, they had the same effect, no matter his mood, and yet at first, not even his sharp, pointy teeth had disenchanted Gwendolyn.
Indeed, it wasn’t until he’d revealed his true self that she’d decided he wasn’t worthy of her admiration—not when he so oft felt inclined toward smugness, and most of it was directed at her. Only why? What had she ever done to him?
Like a lodestone, her gaze was drawn to the lone door separating them. In the antechamber, she heard more noises and wondered what he was doing.
During these past few days, whilst he was gone, she had found it far easier to pretend she was pleased with her betrothal, but here and now, with his abominable presence, it was impossible to feel aught but misery—and he was surely the cause. His presence was like a dark shadow hovering over her life—if only he would go.
Instead, she would sleep here, in this bed, and he would be… out there… doing whatever elfkind did by night.
Creeping about?
Too close for comfort.
Verily, something about performing personal intimacies with Málik Danann so near, struck her as—not wrong, precisely, but discomforting.
Even now, fully dressed and doing naught more than sitting on her bed, she was entirely discomposed by his nearness.
More cacophony.
By the eyes of Lugh, what was he doing?
Doubtless, making himself at home, and the prospect made Gwendolyn gloomy. Her belly grumbled in protest, and she decided it truly must be nerves—all because of him.
Already, after one altercation, she hadn’t the fortitude to endure another, and that she would suffer this contentious association every day from here forth—until she arrived in Loegria and was free to replace him without answering to her father—was enough to make her ill.
If for no other reason but for that, her marriage was a blessing, because soon she would be mistress over her own life. And in the meantime, if only to keep the peace, her one concession to her father was Málik Danann.
He who bore the designation of the Tuatha’an, and who dared to torment and tease her, despite that he hadn’t the right.
He who had betrayed the only friend he’d ever made in this city.
All too easily, he’d forsaken Bryn as he had Gwendolyn.
And really, though he was supposed to be the best swordsman in the realm, and Gwendolyn’s father was the first to attest to his reputation, Gwendolyn had discreetly inquired and found no one—not one soul—who knew anything about the so-called fae in their midst.
So then how was it possible that this man, so utterly mysterious and so full of contempt for the King’s own heir, could find himself as the head of her father’s army, training men to defend not merely her beloved city, but her family as well.
Curious, that. And suspicious as well.
If only for a moment, Gwendolyn’s thoughts returned to the First Alderman. It had been years now since anyone was slain within the city limits. Naturally, there were deaths aplenty, and sometimes people came to her father’s hall to complain over petty crimes—the theft of a goat, or the ruination of a man’s daughter, or the swindling of a few pieces of copper. There was so little crime to speak of, thanks to her father and his alliances. But somehow, Málik had been a guest in their city for scarcely over two moons, and here they were, investigating the death of a respected alderman—a man who, by the by, must have surely taken his turn in training with Málik Danann, as had Bryn, and most of her father’s guards. After all, wasn’t that Málik’s initial charge? To bring the King’s men to heel after too many years of being idle? Particularly now, when all their plans were reaching a crowning moment?
Gwendolyn’s mind reeled with questions—such as, why was Bryok skulking about that smelting house during her Promise Ceremony? The location where his body was found was nowhere near the courtyard, nor the Treasury, nor was it close to his home. So what was he doing there in such a remote part of the city, when her father had declared the evening to be a public holiday?
There were several blacksmiths in Trevena, all of them quite well esteemed, but that shop boasted the only forger who knew how to work with Loegrian steel, and he was also the only blacksmith who ever received Loegrian ingots—not a clue, precisely, but curious just the same.
The cooper was next door as well, with the furrier and tanner two doors down, although most of the merchants were on the opposite side of the city, closer to the barracks and the market and city pool.
What Gwendolyn really wished to know was why that bloody hammer was left in perfect view of anyone who could find it? Why had Bryok been seeking the tincture of hemlock? For himself? Was he, as Alderman Eirwyn claimed, so despondent over the abandonment of his family that he had intended to end his life? If so, why go about it so publicly, even so far as requesting the use of the cook’s house for some unknown party suffering with mania?
Howbeit if, by some odd turn of events, Bryok really was inquiring for someone else, and was poisoned—intentionally, or else wise—that hemlock should have done the worst on its own. There was no need for violence, unless the hammer was meant to let blood, to attract wolves no one even suspected were in the area.
In truth, wolves had been absent from these parts for quite some time, and though they could still be encountered in the northern woodlands, why would anyone bother with such malefaction, when any weapon would have sufficed on its own? The hammer, or the poison—not both.
Really, the wolves could be a simple matter of ill timing, but it felt to Gwendolyn as though too much effort had been exerted into hiding the true cause of this man’s death.
But then a thought occurred to her as she sat, considering the Alderman’s widow—Ia was a woman Gwendolyn had long admired. Younger than her husband, she was perhaps a few years older than Gwendolyn, but already she’d born the Alderman four healthy children in the space of a little over four years. It simply didn’t ring true that she’d left him, and neither could they have loathed one another so vehemently and still made so many babes.
Any good apothecary could easily have taken care of that. Although it wasn’t sanctioned, Gwendolyn knew many women who’d sought a dose of silphium for this purpose.
Even their ancestors had abandoned unwanted babes to the cold and the will of the fae. Sadly, unwanted children were not to be suffered.
Nay, deep in Gwendolyn’s heart, she did not believe the Alderman intent upon his own demise. And now, someone would have to tell his poor wife that he was gone—perhaps it should be Gwendolyn?
But regardless, someone must now discover the true reason for this malefaction, and Gwendolyn didn’t believe anyone was taking it very seriously, except Mester Ciarán—concentrating so hard on his cadaver that he couldn’t take time to eat his prunes.
Much to Gwendolyn’s chagrin, she’d stolen the last handful for herself, and not for a moment did he bother to notice. She’d sat eating one after another right in front of him, and he’d never said a word—not even to caution her about digestive repercussions.
Indeed, he’d been entirely preoccupied with examining every spot on the man’s flesh—perhaps looking for evidence of hemlock poisoning. His conclusion: There was, indeed, some potential sign of the poison, but it was impossible to say without asking Bryok about his symptoms—a pounding heart, burning in the belly, increased salivation, paralysis of the muscles, and sometimes convulsions. Unfortunately, despite the unpleasant scent of the plant itself, there was none discernible in the cadaver.
“Inconclusive,” he’d said.
Suddenly, without warning, Elowyn came bursting through her door, but she did not pounce upon the bed as usual. Instead, she stood in the middle of Gwendolyn’s room, without bothering to close the door.
Outside, Gwendolyn sensed, rather than saw or heard, Málik, and she motioned furiously at the door, glowering at Ely for leaving it open.
Elowyn didn’t even notice. She placed her arms akimbo, then announced, “I was strongly admonished by your mother!”
Gwendolyn’s brows lifted. “I don’t understand…”
“’Tis the truth, Gwendolyn. Your mother hailed me as I made to follow you within. She advised me that a friend is not what you need, and said that you had a duty to perform, that it was high time you prepared for it.” Gwendolyn would have responded, but Ely was quick to continue. “Thereafter, she reminded me how wrongly Bryn served you, and then she cautioned me to learn all I can from Demelza ere we part for Loegria. Else, she said, I’ll be ill-prepared to serve you, and if she suffers worry o’er it, it will be all my fault!”
Gwendolyn’s belly roiled again, her bellyache returning. She frowned. “You are my friend, Elowyn—no matter what my mother claims. You are more kin to me than she is.”
Gods.It appeared Queen Eseld was purposely divesting Gwendolyn of her closest friends. Forsooth! She no longer had Bryn, and now it seemed her mother would deprive her of Ely as well—not as a servant, perhaps, but as a companion.
All warmth toward her mother vanished in a heartbeat, considering that Queen Eseld had seemed perfectly contented to saddle her with Málik—a puffed-up, spike-toothed gobdaw!
Again her gaze was drawn toward the antechamber, and she wondered if her mother had somehow conspired with the Awenydds to bring him to the palace for some purpose Gwendolyn couldn’t fathom. Once more, she gestured toward the door and when Ely didn’t move quickly enough to close it, Gwendolyn bounced off the bed to shut it herself.
“I would like to lock him in a garderobe,” she said.
“Gwendolyn!”
“Please! Already, you sound like Demelza.”
How miserable she was—how truly miserable when she should only feel joy and hope. Scolding or no scolding, Ely smiled as the conversation turned to Málik. “Oh, Gwendolyn! You ought to be over the moon to have him assigned to you. Why are you not?”
“Oh, I am,” assured Gwendolyn. “Over the moon!”
Poor, sweet Ely was enamored with the cold-hearted elf, and Gwendolyn suspected Málik was the reason her friend no longer wished to dance. Ever since he’d arrived, she had been moony and filled with sighs. And yet if that were true, her adoration for Málik was ill-fated. No matter how highly anyone thought of that bloody elf, there was no chance he would ever agree to such a thing. She sensed in her heart that he, like Prince Loc must consider himself better than her, and considering his haughty demeanor, she wondered—not for the first time—why he would attend her, when he clearly didn’t like her, and he had no connection to her kindred, nor any loyalties to her father, nor even to Trevena.
To be sure, he was an opportunist, selling his sword to the highest bidder, and that he had remained in Trevena so long as he had, to train her father’s men, was the subject of much speculation. Gwendolyn only wondered what was so special about Málik Danann that her parents should place him in charge of the kingdom’s only heir.
After all, what duty had he to keep her safe? If indeed he was faekind—but he was not—he probably believed it the King’s obligation to serve him, not the other way around.
“Gods,”Gwendolyn said softly, “I loathe that man.”
Poor Ely could swoon all she liked over the rotten elf, and he would never return her affection. Already he had proven that even a princess of Pretania was worth little.
At the moment, she wished with all her heart that she could leave this city and fly away.
She fell back on her bed, glaring at the door, then peered at Ely, eyes narrowed, scheming. “We’re going to Chysauster,” she decided on the spur of the moment.
Elowyn screwed up her face, confused. “Chysauster?”
Gwendolyn hitched her chin. “At once!”
“But Gwen! I cannot. I told you—”
Gwendolyn arched a brow. “Am I not your lady now?”
“Aye, but—”
She tilted her head, entreating her friend. “Would you leave me to travel without my maid?”
“But Gwendolyn? ’Tis grown late!”
Gwendolyn grinned. “All the more reason to leave at once.”
Ely shook her head. “But Gwen…”
“Must you leave me alone with him?” She gave a nod and glance toward the closed door, and Ely’s eyes widened, and then she said, “Oh, nay!”
“Then please, go prepare,” Gwendolyn demanded. “We depart at once.”
And then, determined to have her way, Gwendolyn went to seek an audience with her father. Someone must inform Bryok’s poor widow of his untimely death. Gwendolyn was as good a person as any. Besides, she had cousins in Chysauster, and she really must insist upon inviting them in person to her wedding. It was the proper thing to do.