The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterTwenty-Two

Ameadow ant crawled about Gwendolyn’s nose; still she didn’t stir, watching it lazily from the corner of one eye, thinking about Prince Locrinus and the insult wielded against the people of Eastwalas. Above, sun spears stabbed through the boughs of an ancient wych elm. One glance up revealed the flowers had already dropped, and the leaves were still unfurling. As weary as Gwendolyn had been last night, she’d had trouble falling asleep—not merely because of Málik. But, in truth, there was something about the Alderman’s death that continued to vex her… something that spoke to her woman’s intuition.

Something…

It was like a riddle of sorts, except the clues were all there, she sensed; there were only missing questions—questions she didn’t yet know to ask.

To begin with, she was troubled by the lack of blood in the alleyway where the body was discovered. Like that tarp Bryok was carried upon, it was strangely unsoiled. A man mutilated in such a fashion should have surely bled, so where was the blood?

Neither would he have gone silently into his Good Night, all the while being bludgeoned to death by a forger’s hammer. In truth, this had been Gwendolyn’s impetus for visiting his home. And instead of bloodstains, she’d only found prunes. His house was tidy and well cared for—a testament to his wife’s loving care.

Certainly, it was not the home of a man who’d been alone too long, nor the house of a woman who loathed her spouse.

The bed, however, was made, a seemingly inconsequential detail that also troubled her, perhaps because Gwendolyn didn’t know many men who troubled themselves to make a bed, and less to clean a house, particularly on such an unrelenting schedule as his.

By the eyes of Lugh, Gwendolyn had never even once made a bed for herself. Nor had Bryn. How many times had Demelza complained over the messes he’d left?

Countless times, Gwendolyn had found her straightening his cot.

As Gwendolyn saw it, with Ia gone, the state of Bryok’s house should have suffered—or at least, his bower. But it was as though someone had gone through his entire home and left it speckless… why?

Truly, none of these things alone would tickle the hairs on her nape. But all together, they left her flummoxed—only the fact that she was the one poring over such questions should be the biggest mystery of all. Except it wasn’t.

Gwendolyn knew good and well why she’d allowed herself to become so preoccupied by Bryok’s death—she knew but didn’t wish to say.

Moreover, there was no chance someone wouldn’t have noticed a pack of wolves skulking about the crowded streets after her Promise Ceremony. This she knew for certain.

Considering that, her gaze sought Málik, seated atop a boulder in the distance, legs crossed, palms up as though in supplication… orprayer?

The towering length of that sword at his back was sorely at odds with the form he presented. And though it should have been the worst place to sheathe a weapon, and no man she’d ever met could do so and still unsheathe it during battle, she had seen him do so countless times with Bryn, taking that sword in hand, and wielding it so effortlessly as though it were made of tin. And yet, it was not, she knew.

Gwendolyn sat, stretching, turning to find both guards attending their mounts.

Clearly, everyone had come more prepared than she had, with blankets for their mounts, and blankets for themselves.

In fact, the guard wearing Hedrek’s livery had an interesting mantle for his horse—a coat of colors, fashioned from sundry pelts, as though he’d cobbled it himself. Ingenious, she thought as she rose, brushing herself off. When she turned again, it was to find Málik gone.