The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterTwenty-Four

Gwendolyn expected her uncle would ride out to greet them and escort them the rest of the way into the village. She also realized that, even as he greeted them so warmly, there were archers concealed in the nearby trees, ready to strike if he gave word.

He would not, however.

With a genuine smile, Gwendolyn offered the missive from his brother, and Duke Cunedda accepted it, sliding it into his belt without breaking the seal, offering her a nod and smile. Whatever that letter contained, it was for his eyes alone, and like the Treasury itself, Gwendolyn would never think to pry. For all she knew, her father was merely adding his own invitation to her wedding.

“Your cousins will be pleased to see you’ve returned,” he said.

“I am, too,” said Gwendolyn, wondering what her uncle thought of the Sidhe in her company. So much as he had yet to confess it, his rás was clear in his features—the hair, eyes, ears, teeth, and lucent flesh. And this was if one ignored his indefatigable arrogance. Though thankfully, if she worried how Málik would comport himself in her uncle’s presence, she worried for naught. He fell back before the Duke joined them, assuming a subservient position, ahead of the other guards, as was his right. Duke Cunedda’s men assumed the rear, because despite that this was her uncle’s land, and his borough to govern, he served her father. As she was heir of Cornwall, he served Gwendolyn as well; therefore, her guards outranked his. But unlike her uncles Arthyen and Hedrek, Duke Cunedda had no pretensions or ambitions. He was content enough to be his brother’s keeper. On the ride into the village, they spoke at length—mostly about Gwendolyn’s wedding plans. She told him about the Promise Ceremony, eschewing the tale of Bryok’s death. The two events were hardly connected anyway, and she didn’t wish him to suspect the reason she’d come. Let him believe it was simply to invite them to the nuptials, because the less he knew about her true purpose, the less he would say to her father.

“I hope you’ll join us,” she offered.

Her uncle grinned wide—a smile that split his face. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “So, tell me about your prince?”

Gods.It was only then Gwendolyn realized she’d forgotten to mention Prince Locrinus at all—odd for a woman newly promised. “Well… he’s… quite… princely,” she offered.

“And you don’t like him?” guessed Cunedda.

“I do,” Gwendolyn lied, and her uncle lifted a brow.

“You forget how well I know you,” he suggested, and Gwendolyn considered what to say in her defense, when suddenly, there was a thud behind them.

Startled, she spun about. One of her guards—the one wearing Hedrek’s livery—had toppled from his horse. He fell face-first on the ground, smashing his nose, so it bled.

But this was the least of his concerns. He was foaming at the mouth, his body convulsing violently, and he was making terrible choking sounds.

At the tips of his fingers lay several of the prunes Gwendolyn had given him.

His reaction swift, Málik dismounted, flying to the man’s side and thrusting his fingers down the man’s throat, coming away with nothing.

The other guard sat stupidly on his mount, mouth agape, while Cunedda’s men did the same. After a moment, her uncle dismounted, moving to the guard’s side, and while Málik tried to help him, her uncle pried open the man’s fist to reveal…

A half-eaten prune.

Stunned though she was, Gwendolyn dismounted, too, hurrying to Málik’s side to discover the guard’s tunic soaked from so much dribble. His pupils were large and round, his skin turning blue… and she knew… even before she had finished processing the scene before her… she knew.

She shared a knowing look with Málik, eyes wide.

Poison.

“Lift him!” demanded her uncle, and Málik obeyed at once, scooping the twitching man into his arms, even knowing it was too late.

“We’ll take him to the healer,” apprised Cunedda.

Alas, Gwendolyn placed a hand on Málik’s arm to stay him where he knelt. She met his icebourne gaze. “There’s no cure,” she whispered, wanting him to understand.

There was no remedy for this poison, and even if there were, he would asphyxiate before they brought him before a healer. At this point, the poison would work swiftly, and his final moments would be unimaginable. Gwendolyn shook her head, hot tears brimming in her eyes.

Trusting her, Málik nodded. He unsheathed his dagger, then plunged it straight into the man’s heart.

The bodyof Hedrek’s vassal lay atop Cunedda’s supping table. Deprived of life, his skin was already turning grey. “Poison,” said the healer, confirming Gwendolyn’s fears. But really, she’d known. The convulsions, the increased salivation noted by the soaking of his tunic, and the inky-blue stains beneath his fingernails, so soon after his demise—these were signs. She once watched a taster end this way, and it was the worst thing Gwendolyn had ever witnessed. If Málik had not put his blade into the man’s breast, they would have watched him suffocate before their eyes, his eyes round and bulging, blood-rimmed, mouth open and gasping for air.

His death was all her fault. She blamed herself. She was the one who’d put the prunes into his saddlebag. And, if she had not done so, he’d not be lying here stone cold.

Gods.She had never even bothered to ask his name—Owen, so she learned only today. Her head had been so full of Málik and court intrigue that she had never ever considered.

“I don’t understand,” said her aunt. “If you ate some, why are you not affected?”

Her husband heaved a sigh, his big shoulders deflating. “You mustn’t ask, Lowenna.”

Sharing this knowledge could make her father vulnerable. Her uncle knew this, as well. That his wife was not aware of it made Gwendolyn believe he did not share the practice of dosing, or if he did, he did not share it with his wife or his children.

Arms crossed, Málik stood on the other side of the table, studying the now lifeless form of the guard. He flicked a glance at Gwendolyn when she spoke.

“I…” She shook her head, uncertain what to say. “Mustn’t…”

“You mustn’t have eaten much,” suggested Málik, and she nodded.

“How do you know the poison was in the prunes?” asked Lowenna.

“I… I… don’t know.”

Here and now, Gwendolyn met Málik’s gaze, and they shared another knowing look, and she knew… he knew.

“We’ll put him on a pyre,” suggested Cunedda.

“Thank you,” said Gwendolyn, and she turned to quit the room—if only to go make certain the leftover prunes remained untouched. She went first to the other guard’s mount, only because she felt certain Málik knew better than to eat his. Luckily, all the prunes were still there, precisely where Gwendolyn had put them, although the guard was nowhere to be found, quite likely pouring ale down his gullet over the loss of a fellow.

Málik followed Gwendolyn out, watching as she unsheathed the blade from her boot and stabbed it into the meat of the prunes she held, cutting it to the pit. Handing part of it to Málik, she put her own nose to the part she held—frowning as she smelled it.

There was the faintest mousy scent. Still, it was there.

Dropping the prune, Gwendolyn did what she’d not done in years—acquiesced to a full fit of fury, crushing the meat beneath her heel, furious with herself for missing this clue.

When finally she was in command of herself, she eyed the half Málik held, and confessed, “I took them from Bryok’s home.”

Málik nodded as tears stung her eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he allowed, and his tone held none of its former reproach. However, it simply wasn’t true. The one thing she had known was that poison was suspected in Bryok’s murder—why, then, had she taken his fruit?

Alas, Gwendolyn needed an ally—and more. She needed Málik’s help to uncover this conspiracy. But she needed more than poison prunes before she could go running to her father with accusations. For all she knew, these prunes could have been a parting gift from a wife to an errant husband—a rude farewell. And yet, deep down in her heart, she knew that wasn’t true.

Clarity came swiftly to her in that instant.

Someone left the prunes in Bryok’s house to intentionally kill the Alderman. What was more, it didn’t happen when everyone said it did. He couldn’t have smelled so terrible in the space of a single day. He’d died long before his morning shift, and long before the end of his last. Someone failed to report it. Someone then moved his body from the place of his death and tidied his home, then took his body to a place where they could do him some violence to deflect suspicion. Except, when they cleaned the Alderman’s house, they forgot to take the prunes.

Now, Gwendolyn must determine whether the Alderman’s wife had a hand in this, or if she was innocent of the crime.