The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterOne

Gwendolyn heard the wail of a sentry’s horn but thought little more of it. Rolling onto her back, she yawned, then stretched, basking like a cat beneath a warm swathe of morning light that spilled in through her high window.

Trevena was a bustling city, luring merchants from as far away as Phoenicia and Carthage. She was thoroughly accustomed to the hurry-scurry, and yet no one but Ely or Demelza ever dared disturb her here in her private quarters. Therefore, when the rap sounded on her chamber door, she started. Rolling quickly to find her feet, she misjudged the distance to the edge of the bed, and with a yelp of surprise, landed in the rushes.

Unfortunately, at this hour, her antechamber would be empty with no one available to greet her mystery guest.

Another knock came—rude and insistent.

Stifling a groan, Gwendolyn scrambled to her feet, hurrying to locate her gown. No doubt, Demelza was still preoccupied with her mother, and, not for the first time, she wondered why Queen Eseld steadfastly refused to assign her a lady’s maid, when there were plenty of worthy applicants who coveted this position, her best friend Ely being one.

The answer was obvious, of course, and it vexed Gwendolyn to no end, because it gave her mother another means to spy. Meanwhile, this wasn’t the first time Gwendolyn had gone clambering from her bed only to don yesterday’s attire.

Worse yet, her tunic had a large blueberry stain—irrefutable evidence she’d been flouting her mother’s wishes again, sneaking about the cook’s house in search of pastries. Infuriating as it was, her mother was right: At this rate, her wedding gown probably wouldn’t fit by the time she must wear it, and despite this, Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself. She was nervous.

One more sharp rap on the door, and she cursed the day she was born—not for the obvious reasons, but for the one curse those damnable faeries never confessed to. She wasn’t clumsy precisely, but neither was she so gracious as her Queen mother.

And regardless, while Gwendolyn admired her mother’s indefatigable determination to be what she was not, she wanted more from her life—so much more.

She wanted to travel, not merely to see Pretania, but to look upon Cnoc Fírinne in Ériu and see with her own two eyes the last bastion of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

Someday, she also wished to meet her grandparents.

Also she meant to visit the new Temple of the Dead in Eastwalas.

Most of all, she yearned to be accepted and loved for who she was, regardless of how one perceived her face.

Sighing gloomily over the thought, Gwendolyn rubbed at the stain on her bosom, then went stumbling toward the door, and drew it open.

“Yestin!”

“Myttin da, Highness,” said her father’s steward. “I’ve come to tell you that your attendance is required in your father’s Konsel—immediately.”

Gwendolyn blinked. “Mine?”

She tapped a finger to her breast, one brow lifting in surprise. Really, it wasn’t so much that her father had need of her. These days, he needed help in performing many of his duties. It was more the early hour. Though perhaps it meant he was feeling better?

The steward’s eyes narrowed on Gwendolyn’s stain; and then, perhaps recalling where it lay and whose breast it occupied, he lifted his gaze to glower at her—as though it were her fault his eyes had wandered. Lifting a grizzled brow, he said again, “Immediately.” As though Gwendolyn hadn’t heard him the first time. And then, he refused to say aught more, except to reveal that a messenger had arrived from Loegria. It wasn’t until she slid into her chair at the far end of her father’s war table she learned the dreadful news…

King Brutus’ son, Urien the Elder—her betrothed—was dead.

Deader than a doornail, so they claimed, and equally stiff, considering he’d been gone now for more than a fortnight, and his father was only now imparting this news.

Groaning inwardly, Gwendolyn slid down into her chair, some part of her fearing the very worst—that she had somehow been the cause of this, that one look at her countenance had driven the poor prince to his grave. And now they would foist her upon the younger…

Prince Locrinus.

Clearly, negotiations were over, and despite that no woman should know her true worth, Gwendolyn did: seventy heads of cattle, two hundred goats, fifty hens, two peregrines, and two thousand ingots of Loegrian steel. Additionally, because Prince Urien’s death was not perceived to be her fault—thank the gods—her dowry should remain the same, and her bride price was expected to rise by another twelve aurochs, thirty goats, and one more cartload of ingots. Overall, not such a terrible a sum, but none of it was worth more than the Loegrian steel—that strange, precious metal that arrived on their shores along with Brutus and his warriors.

As usual, there appeared to be some complication, and judging by the pinched look on her mother’s face, Queen Eseld had already grown impatient with this discourse. Her displeasure intensified with Gwendolyn’s arrival, and seeing her mother’s soured expression, Gwendolyn wished she were anywhere but here.

Anywhere—truly.

Anywhere.

In the freezing rain.

Midwinter.

Stuck in a fen.

With no way out.

Alone.

Withspriggans creeping her way.

Nor would Gwendolyn’s voice be welcomed—not in this matter. Her only chance to speak against the new betrothal would come after she and Prince Locrinus had met. However, given what she knew of Prince Locrinus, the thought of marrying him did not displease her. In fact, some part of her rejoiced over the news—not particularly Urien’s death, but the good fortune that she would now be wedding someone closer to her age.

Poor Urien had been a full score years older than Gwendolyn, a man fully grown when he and his father arrived in Pretania. When she was still only a babe in her crib, he was already wielding a sword by his father’s side. Consequently, by the time Gwendolyn grew to be his age—if he had lived—she might be commanding nursemaids to feed him and wipe his drool. Or worse.

It was not a very appealing thought.

Moreover, not that it should matter, considering her own malediction, but at twenty, Prince Locrinus was also said to be the fairest of Brutus’ four sons. Even as far as Land’s End, bards sang songs to his visage. They claimed he was golden like the sun—his skin bronzed, his hair yellow and shining, his intellect surpassed only by the beauty of his face. Yet, though she worried he might think her unworthy in comparison, it was his mind Gwendolyn admired most, and she hoped he would value the same in her.

But perhaps he would?

He was said to be a dedicated scholar, and Gwendolyn understood that as a young boy, his father had spared him to study with the Llanrhos Druids, so he could better know Pretania’s ancient tribes.

She also heard he’d taken a pilgrimage to Ériu, and more than Gwendolyn dared to confess, it titillated her to learn more about this experience.

Indeed, whatever his faith, solely by his actions, Gwendolyn already adored him. How could she not, when they seemed to be like minds?

She, too, ached for more and varied knowledge, and, far more than fear and might, Gwendolyn believed true peace could only be achieved through mutual understanding and respect.

She only hoped that Prince Locrinus might be persuaded to make another pilgrimage to Ériu. Why not? They should have many, many more years to travel before they would be called upon to serve.

Mulling over the possibilities, Gwendolyn sat listening to the present discourse, feeling something like bees hum through her belly. As best she could determine, neither of her parents had any true objection to the younger Prince. Nor did most of her father’s aldermen—most, because there were, indeed, a few who seemed unsettled by this news, Aldermans Ailwin and Crwys being the most vocal of the lot. Yet in terms of protests, neither had much to say about the Prince himself, instead returning time and again to matters of state that hadn’t so much to do with Gwendolyn’s betrothal as it did with the possibility of renewed conflict with the northern tribes.

And this seemed to be the true quandary: Her mother’s people were so firmly entrenched in the Old Ways that, until recently, they had steadfastly refused to trade with the “foreigner.” Now, at long last, after twenty-one years wed to a daughter of the most powerful Caledonii tribe, the Caledonian Confederacy had officially elected her father as their ambassador. This news came swiftly on the heels of the Loegrian messenger this morning, and it didn’t sit well with some elders, who believed it was one thing to negotiate with Loegria for the sake of the southern tribes, yet another to barter with anyone on behalf of Prydein.

“Wildlings,” her father had once called them to his Prydein wife’s face. And yet, regardless of the reason, Prydein had been quiet now for years, sending delegates instead of raiders to deal with Cornwall.

“It does not behoove us to jeopardize this alliance,” said the Mester Alderman. “Entirely for Cornwall’s sake, not for Prydein.”

Curious to see his response, Gwendolyn’s gaze slid across the table to First Alderman Bryok, who sat with eyes closed—perhaps contemplating a rebuttal? And yet the Mester Alderman spoke true. The alliance with Loegria had proven mutually beneficial, not the least for which their Cornish armies now had access to the finest of weapons and armor—thanks to Brutus’ new alloy.

Made with inferior materials, their old weapons oft broke merely by striking one’s foe, even against soft flesh and bone. Loegria’s new alloy was like magik—strong, lightweight, more flexible. It formed a deadly blade.

However, it wasn’t merely the new alloy to be considered. Ending the alliance would also weaken their position against the rest of the tribes. After all, as symbolic as it was, it wasn’t her parents’ marriage that finally settled the querulous northern tribes. It was the strength and solidarity of the Cornish-Loegrian union.

Alone, King Brutus would be difficult to defeat. Together, Cornwall and Loegria made a formidable pair, and so her father claimed, fear was the greatest of arbiters.

“I agree with the Mester Alderman,” said Bryok, after a moment.

His avowal was met with silence and pursed lips.

Two, against ten… or nine?

Judging by body language alone,Gwendolyn couldn’t tell. But it wouldn’t matter. Of the twelve, the Mester Alderman’s voice spoke loudest, and today, he was supported by his successor. Together with the king’s voice, this sacred trinity was the law of the land. The remaining aldermen hadn’t a prayer to thwart them. Still, Alderman Aelwin tried. “I disagree,” he said. “For all we know, he arrived with a mouthful of lies.”

He, meaning Brutus, the foreigner, who would style himself Pretania’s new High King, even above others who were born here— Gwendolyn’s father included.

Doubtless, some feared that with Brutus so entrenched in the West, soon the shift of power would be complete, and Loegria would have no more use for Cornwall. If this be true, Cornwall’s future hung by the slightest of threads—namely, Gwendolyn’s marriage. And she, more than most, understood why the aldermen might be concerned… particularly considering the Prophecy—the bane of Gwendolyn’s existence.

“Truly,” said Alderman Crwys, with narrowed eyes. “Where is this red tide of which he so oft speaks?”

“I, too, am for dissolution,” announced Alderman Morgelyn, despite that her father did not call for a vote. But his opposition was a bit of a surprise considering that he seemed to have some affinity for her mother. “He lends his warriors to defend our port, but why, when there has not been a breath of discord in so many years?” He did not once meet the Queen’s gaze. “I say we’ve no need of him! And, if you ask me, this is his way of infiltrating our forces to uncover our weaknesses. Indeed, I mistrust the man, and why should we allow a foreigner to seize take our lands—prophecy bedamned!” His gaze slid to the Queen’s as he lifted a handsome, golden brow.

A challenge perhaps?

“And yet none of this was at issue until the emissary arrived,” interjected the King. “In fact, only this morn, Morgelyn, I heard you say you looked forward to meeting the Prince.”

“I, too, heard him say so,” said the Mester Alderman. “And, yes, agreed, Majesty. None of this was at issue before the messenger arrived this morn. Must we continue to imperil ourselves for this quarrel? And how preposterous when we’ve the enemy’s own daughter in the King’s bed!” Only belatedly, he flicked a glance toward the King and his Queen Consort, lifting an age-speckled hand. “Apologies, Majesties, no offense intended.”

The Queen’s expression darkened, though she said nothing—not at yet. But Gwendolyn could tell that, like a copper kettle over a flame, her mother’s temper was ready to boil.

Looking vexed, her father nodded, though he said nothing, and Gwendolyn understood he must choose his words wisely.

This Konsel was governed, not by the King, but by the statutes of the Brothers’ Pact, an ancient code of honor enacted by the sons of Míl—Gwendolyn’s ancestors, who’d inherited these lands after defeating the Tuatha Dé Danann.

According to the highest law, no King’s right to rule was absolute and despite that a king must bear the blood of the Conservators in his veins, his crown was subject to the will of the Konsel.

Not even a king could remove a duly elected alderman, and, only if one broke faith, or died, could one be replaced. Therefore, the Konsel spoke freely over matters of state, though a king was not without his ways, particularly one so beloved by his people.

Into that bargain, even after all this time, none of these aldermen understood her mother’s influence, nor did it appear they anticipated her Prydein temper.

That was a mistake.

“You are all bags of bones with less sense than a salt lick,” declared the Queen rather churlishly, but under the present circumstances, Gwendolyn couldn’t blame her. As closely guarded as the secret was, her father’s illness was no secret to any of these aldermen, and more and more, they tested him without regard.

Her mother continued. “Our Gwyddons have investigated Brutus’ steel. There is nothing of its kind, nor can we hope to defend against it. Yet you would advise your king to sever a perfectly biddable alliance? All for what? Because my kinsmen stole a few of your goats and you don’t like the woad on their faces?”

Discomforted by the Queen’s boldness, some elders shrugged. A few bobbed their heads. “More to the point,” she persisted, angrier now as she sought Alderman Morgelyn’s gaze. “Will any of you dare call me a liar?”

The word tore like a snarl from her lips, and even the torch flames shivered over her challenge, for the “lie” of which she spoke was the divination witnessed by herself and her maid—and of course, Gwendolyn, although Gwendolyn was only a babe.

No one needed clarification, because everyone knew about the Prophecy, even as everyone knew about the horde of Gwyddons her mother called forth throughout the years to examine her only born child, only to ascertain whether, instead of a babe, those faeries had left her with a changeling. For years and years, her mother dragged dewinefolk from their woodland shelters, promising impunity, should they come forward to verify her child’s humanity—Gwendolyn’s humanity. And this was the reason she and her mother did not comport: From the morning of Gwendolyn’s “visitation” until her seventh Name Day, she had been poked, prodded, and probed.

Seven long years, her mother’s servitors tortured her, until, at long last, her father put an end to it all, declaring that, if no proof of the exchange had been discovered as yet, no proof should ever come to light. Yet this was also the end of her association with her mother, and for all the years since, Gwendolyn was left to pine for the love of a mother, all the while the Queen Consort pined for a true heir—a son of her loins, as though Gwendolyn were not her child.

And still, in her prayers, the Queen wondered aloud what terrible thing she’d done to anger the fickle gods.

Secretly, Gwendolyn wondered if it might simply be that she had all but cast away the only child she’d ever been allowed—and not that Gwendolyn entirely believed it, but that child, Gwendolyn, was said to be blessed by the gods.

Saidonly because, at this late hour, there was no proof of Gwendolyn’s “gifts.” Her hair was golden, truly, but it wasn’t “gold.” And if anyone should know, it would be her. By now, she’d had more curls snipped, hacked, cut, trimmed, plucked, and examined than anyone could rightly count.

To be sure, there was nothing of the precious metal in Gwendolyn’s locks, although Demelza always made certain to remind everyone that her hair would not turn lest it be snicked by her one true love.

“Majesty,” entreated Alderman Aelwin, daring at his peril to ignore the Queen. “Might we not… at the least… delay this betrothal? We’ve only just received this news… If you assent, we’ll see our Princess wed in less than six sennights.”

Gods.

So soon?

Until now, Gwendolyn hadn’t dared count the days.

Alderman Crwys begged, “Please, Majesty…” He peered at Gwendolyn now. “Shouldn’t we prefer to take some time to prepare the poor girl’s dowry chest?”

Poor girl?

Sucking in a breath, Gwendolyn dared to look at her mother, and found the Queen’s color heightened to a color Gwendolyn had never once seen upon her mother’s tawny cheeks.

Blood and bones. Was this why they’d summoned her? To play one side against the other? To sway her father against her mother? To entreat Gwendolyn to defy the Queen?

Not bloody likely.

Gwendolyn knew better than to try.

In some ways, her authority surpassed the Queen’s, and yet knowing she daren’t utter a word against her mother, Gwendolyn pursed her lips. When her expression remained inscrutable, Alderman Aelwin finally gave a pleading glance toward the Queen, eschewing her title as he said, “As I understand, the Princess’ dowry chest has not been delivered. Is this true, Mestres?” He hitched his chin at First Alderman Bryok, but the First Alderman averted his gaze, jaw taut, as though he would have no part in this discourse.

Queen Eseld ignored the veiled accusation, and, to her credit, she also ignored the omission of her title. “Mydaughter was always meant to wed this Maytide, Konselman. This news changes little.”

Actually, it changed a lot so far as Gwendolyn was concerned—Locrinus was hardly Urien. But at seventeen, if she did not wed this Maytide, it could be another long while before another opportunity presented itself—a long, long while, during which her womb could wither and die. Only once in a great while did the new moon align itself with Calan Mai, and for a princess of Pretania, wedding vows must be spoken on this sacred day, with the Llanrhos Druids in attendance—to bid the gods bestow blessings of peace and fertility, not merely for the wedding couple, but for the land itself. This was why so many years had passed since her meeting Urien and her upcoming nuptials. They were waiting for the most opportune time to align their houses, and now, for the sake of the realm, her wedding could not be postponed.

Yet the Aldermen knew this…

“Majesty,” pleaded Alderman Aelwin.

“Enough!” declared her father. “Enough! Enough!” He reached out to squeeze the Queen’s hand. “The Prince arrives on the morrow. What would you have me do, Konselman? Turn him away?”

Gwendolyn blinked, surprised. “Tomorrow?”

She hadn’t realized, though of course, it made sense, considering there was so little time remaining before the planned event. She must have at least one opportunity to meet Prince Locrinus to see how they would comport. Still, she wasn’t ready.

“Tomorrow,” confirmed her father with a nod.

“Oh,” she said, and, truly, she might have said more, but there wasn’t a good reason to object, even despite that the alderman spoke true. Her dowry chest had not yet been delivered, much less completed—or even begun, so far as Gwendolyn knew. She had no lady’s maid. And worst of all—again, she swiped self-consciously at the blueberry stain on her tunic—she wasn’t prepared to face the Prince.

Her heart fluttered wildly as she dared seek her mother’s gaze—not to change her mind. Gwendolyn understood they were running out of time. She merely longed for some reassurance.

Sensing her attention, Queen Eseld turned to look at Gwendolyn for the briefest of instants, then quickly averted her gaze, leaving Gwendolyn feeling… that same horrid sense of melancholy she always felt over her mother’s rejections, subtle as this was.

Suddenly, the Queen slapped the table and rose from her seat. “Enough!” she said fiercely, and if her mother was passionate about nothing else, she was passionate about this. “Our dragon banners will be united! Now, I intend to go plan for our guests.”

She marched from the room without a backward glance, leaving the aldermen holding their tongues. As a daughter of the Northern Tribes, there was that about Queen Eseld that lost its civility whenever she was enraged—a certain gleam in her eye, more than a show of temper. Yet her father remained unperturbed. His face gaunt and pale, he turned to face his only child, giving her a lift of his chin. “You may go, as well,” he said. His voice was gentle, yet brooked no argument, and Gwendolyn’s brows collided—not so much because he was dismissing her but because she was worried about his health.

At least now she was free to go inspect the glen. “Yes, sire,” she said respectfully.

“And please, please, do as your mother says, Gwendolyn. Make ready.”

“Yes, sire,” she said again, and rose from the table.

With a hand to her heart, she inclined her head, first to her father and King, and thereafter, afforded the same courtesy to her father’s aldermen. Afterward, she left, closing the door behind her, denying herself the urge to linger and listen because come what may, she must resign herself to this fate. Everything her mother said was perfectly true—the dragon banners must be united.

It was her duty to wed Loegria’s heir—and this she had known since the day she was born.

Neither could she allow herself to worry over Prince Locrinus’ affinity toward her. If he wished to be king of Pretania, Gwendolyn was part of that plan. Loegria might, indeed, have more sons, but Cornwall had no more daughters.