The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterTwenty-Six

If only to see if the woman’s story would change, Gwendolyn returned to the farm a few days later. Ia had been weeping since Gwendolyn gave her the awful news. So, it seemed she must have truly believed Bryok would join her in Chysauster.

Curious about Bryok’s relationship with the Mester Alderman, Gwendolyn inquired further, wondering if Alderman Eirwyn ever called upon their home, or whether he and Bryok might be acquainted more intimately than their positions should allow.

He did not, she said, although sometimes Alderman Aelwin attended her husband at home. “Aelwin?” Gwendolyn asked with surprise, remembering that not once, but twice he’d denied any fellowship with Bryok. And yet, it could be that while it was not precisely unlawful to befriend another alderman, alliances between her father’s councilmen were not encouraged.

Moreover, the aldermen were commonly at odds, currying favor at all times. And if Gwendolyn recalled correctly, both Bryok and Aelwin were foremost in the line of succession for the position of Mester Alderman after Eirwyn retired or died. However, as First Alderman, Bryok had the advantage. Jealousy made for strange fellows.

Indeed, if Alderman Aelwin was jealous of Bryok, perhaps he’d meant to remove his rival, and the prunes were Aelwin’s, meant for Bryok.

To that end, Alderman Aelwin had also seemed overly intrigued about the reason Bryok wished to employ the cook’s house. Perhaps he was the one who’d sent Bryok to inquire, if only to deflect suspicion from himself.

Gwendolyn had so many questions to put forth upon her return, but though there was little to be accomplished from so far away, she was in little hurry to face the journey home, nor the changes to come—changes to her life, that would be enforced the moment she returned.

The only reason she’d escaped—and make no mistake, it was an escape—was because of her own expediency and her mother’s ignorance in Gwendolyn’s day-to-day activities. However, Queen Eseld would not allow Gwendolyn another reprieve. Therefore, against her better judgment, she lingered in Chysauster, poring over the clues in her mind, telling herself that what was done was done. The First Alderman was already dead. There was nothing she could do to change that. And neither had she any evidence, except her own suspicions and a handful of poisoned prunes she intended to show her father, though alone they proved little.

Moreover, if Gwendolyn’s suspicions were true, there was no one left but Aelwin to inherit Eirwyn’s position, and therefore no one else should be in immediate danger, except for perhaps Eirwyn, although Aelwin would be a fool to murder two aldermen in so short a time.

Nay, he wouldn’t dare, she decided.

At any rate, she was quite certain she’d taken all the remaining prunes—much to Owen’s lament, and hers as well. And this wasn’t the only reason she wished to stay in Chysauster, with Málik, even despite that she wasn’t willing to confess it aloud.

Instead, she endeavored to convince herself it was because this would be the last opportunity she would ever have to enjoy the company of her cousins as a girl unwed.

Aside from Bryn and Ely, her cousins were the closest to siblings Gwendolyn had ever had, and now that she was here, she intended to make the most of it.

Mornings she spent with Málik, sparring in her uncle’s courtyard. Afternoons she spent with her cousins, reminiscing over times past.

But gods, whosoever believed men were bawdier than women had never met her cousins, and Gwendolyn wondered if perhaps they’d spent too much time with their father in the hinterlands. Scarcely older than Cunedda’s daughters, poor Lowenna listened raptly to her stepdaughters’ tales, perhaps hoping to learn more about the young women she must raise.

More than once, she lifted a brow. And Gwendolyn wondered where Cunedda had met the sweet woman—certainly not around these parts, considering her accent.

“Whence do you hail?” Gwendolyn inquired.

Smiling, Lowenna bowed her head before speaking—far more deferential than her cousins were ever inclined to be. “Thank you, Highness,” she said politely. “Dobunni, born and raised.”

The borderlands.

Gwendolyn hitched her chin. Depending on which part of that dominion one hailed from, loyalties could be suspect—at least regarding Cornwall. And yet, wasn’t it the Dobunni tribe that had granted those lands for the Temple of the Dead? They imagined themselves to be peacekeepers, and ironically, it was also through Dobunni lands Prince Locrinus must secure passage for his army to take Plowonida.

“Have you seen the new temple?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Nay, mestres,” said Lowenna. “The first stone was raised after my departure. I’ve not returned since. Now both my father and mother have… gone. Perhaps someday I will go.”

“I as well,” said Gwendolyn. Although she’d never been called mestres before, she wasn’t about to remind the lady of her correct title. As it was, the look on the poor lady’s face was so uncertain that Gwendolyn had the sudden yen to embrace her. All at once, she recalled the word Prince Loc used to describe her people—Æmete.

Really, she couldn’t imagine Lowenna ever using such a name for anyone, and she considered perhaps she was told wrong. No doubt, it was a dangerous misunderstanding, and wars were fought for lesser insults.

When Gwendolyn was queen, she vowed to make certain there were ambassadors for all tribes—not merely the most respected or feared—that their voices had the chance to be heard. No doubt her father had gone to great lengths to bring them closer together, but there was still much work to be done.

“Have you any brothers and sisters?” Gwendolyn asked.

“One—an elder brother,” said Lowenna. “I was the only girl. My village suffered a pox when I was young. My youngest brother died, with my mother and father, and Mawgan—my elder brother—found himself chieftain too young. He was the one who offered me to Cunedda, and for that I shall be eternally grateful.”

Her eyes softened when she spoke her husband’s name.

“I see,” said Gwendolyn, understanding more than she wished to. Likely it was the pox that had kept her from conceiving. Sadly, Gwendolyn knew it could ravage the womb.

How sad.

Lowenna was sweet, scarcely deserving of a life without children. Like Elowyn, she deserved to hold a babe of her own, and Gwendolyn hoped the gods might see fit to favor them someday. But clearly, the lady was quite contented, if perhaps ill-versed in the social graces.

Perhaps wishing to make everyone feel welcomed, she unknowingly paired Gwendolyn with Málik at the lord’s table. From the first night, they shared a trencher and cup, and if anyone wondered why Gwendolyn would dare enjoy such intimacies with a man not her betrothed, no one spoke the question aloud.

If nothing more, Gwendolyn found she enjoyed the freedom afforded her as a woman grown, without her mother about to rebuke her choices, or Demelza to advise her.

Also, so much as she loathed to confess it, it was also a relief not to have Ely about, scrutinizing her association with Málik… nor to catch her giving him such warm glances.

Indeed, with the hostilities behind them, she found she enjoyed his company, and despite that it was unheard of—one’s Shadow supping with his charge—Gwendolyn also discovered she didn’t care.

Upon her return to Trevena, she would be expected to comport herself as a Promised One, but here and now, in the hinterlands, so far from her father’s court, and so far from the eyes of all who’d witnessed the exchange of torcs, she was content enough to live as her cousins lived, free from convention and demands—free from all who might judge a simple friendship.

And neither did her uncle seem to care, though she knew that, unlike his naïve young wife, Cunedda knew better. No doubt he had turned a blind eye, perhaps considering that Gwendolyn would someday be his queen.

Every now and again, he gave her a knowing glance, either winking or smiling, and making her blush—most notably whenever she laughed at something Málik said.

And this she loved most about her uncle’s house: There was laughter aplenty. A far cry from her father’s hall, his was modest and warm. The lord’s table was long, offering seats to all, including the neighbors, whenever they came to call.

Any time a farmer came with a grievance, Cunedda listened mindfully, then invited the man to sup and drink whilst they ruminated over solutions.

Certainly, there was much about Cunedda that reminded her of her father, but though Cunedda was scarcely younger than her sire, his face did not show the same hard years, and his laugh lines were deeper than the lines in his brow.

In like form, his servants jested with their lord and lady, and her cousins told jokes as ribald as any man’s. Wine flowed. Small plates passed hands—not olives from An Ghréig, nor sardines from Hiberia, but simple pilchards, fished from nearby shoals, served with hevva cake and mead.

Borlewen was bolder than Jenefer and Briallen, and extraordinarily talented. One evening, she played the harp by the hearth, making up stories that put a blush in her father’s well-hewn cheeks. Yet another evening, she took a dagger from her belt—the one she’d been using to sup with—and splayed her hand on the supping table, stabbing quickly in succession between her fingers to illustrate her prowess with the blade. Everyone watched with halted breath.

The dagger itself was quite unusual. Poniards were normally meant to be used for slicing. Usually slender, with a triangular blade, this one was longer and double-edged, similar to a sword, and far more suitable for stabbing. More than the trick itself, impressive as it was, Gwendolyn was interested in the blade.

“Want to try?” her cousin asked with a wily grin, and Gwendolyn shook her head, crossing her arms.

“Indeed, I do not!”

“And you?” she inquired of Málik. “Art certain to be braver than a silly girl?”

Gwendolyn laughed at the barb, knowing her cousin meant no harm. To the contrary, there was a certain look in her eye that left Gwendolyn quite certain that Borlewen considered herself far superior to all men—Málik and her father included.

“Am I?” asked Málik with a half-smile. And then, after sharing a brief look with Borlewen, he shrugged and offered a hand.

Borlewen grinned victoriously.

Calmly, Málik spread his fingers, and once again, without waiting to bolster her courage, or taking time to assess the position of his hand, Borlewen stabbed quickly in succession, accurately missing flesh and bone and embedding the sharp blade deep into wood at the end, so it hummed for a moment as the grip shivered.

Gwendolyn lifted a brow, only now noticing the multitude of pock holes in the table, and she wondered how many fingers Borlewen had taken before perfecting her trick. Fortuitously, she still had all of her own.

“’Tis quite the talent,” offered Málik as he withdrew his hand and slid it back into his lap. And if he’d held his breath for a good end, it was not the least bit apparent.

Then again, Gwendolyn thought, without truly believing it, if he was fae… perhaps he could regrow his fingers and toes, like Núada of the Silver Hand, who was said to have lost his arm, then his crown, and regained it all after growing back the arm in silver.

“May I see the blade?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Certainly,” said Borlewen, proffering the dagger, hilt first. She grinned. “’Tis long enough to slide betwixt ribs, and prick a heart,” she said, with one lifted brow. “My father had it made for me.”

The marking on the hilt was the ancient guardian of Dumnonia—her father’s standard, of course—and there was a small black pearl in the dragon’s eye. These were rare, and one legend claimed that black pearls were formed in a dragon’s head, and that one had to slay the dragon to claim his pearls. However, this was clearly not true, for there were no dragons anymore—if ever they had existed. And still, it was quite an extravagant gift. Even amidst their own Cornish oysters, a simple white pearl was rare as a ghost orchid.

Cunedda entered the room, laughing boisterously as he overheard his daughter speak about the dagger. “And still she never took my hint. Notice the tongue?”

Gwendolyn looked again and found the barbed tongue missing—how clever!

“If he thought that alone would hush me, he must think again!”

Gwendolyn laughed, her brows lifting, and everyone joined her, Borlewen’s laughter ringing louder than all. Handing back the blade, Gwendolyn felt wistful for a family like this—a father that would laugh with her, far more than anything else. Gwendolyn had more than enough gifts of silver and gold. And they were all the same blood, but… Gwendolyn longed for such ease.

Alas, this was bound to never change. She was raised differently, and though some would say better, Gwendolyn didn’t think so. She had more, this much was true, but more was not better—take her cousins, for example. They lived as they pleased, plainspoken and free. And even Ia, with all her grief, had clearly experienced a love that was sweet and true, for no woman wept so bitterly over the loss of a man if she could despise him, nor wish him dead.

That night, nestled in bed with Jenefer, Gwendolyn and her cousins talked about the evening, laughing about the way her uncle seemed to believe no one could see him when he slid his hand beneath the table into the crook of his wife’s thighs.

“He doesn’t care,” said Briallen.

“Oh, he does,” argued Jenefer. “Rather, he believes himself too cunning—like Kitto, every time he nugs you behind the ale casks, Borlewen.”

Borlewen laughed. She drew up the woolen blanket to her lips to hide a smile, but her blue eyes twinkled fiercely.

“You must like it,” offered Briallen.

“Indeed, she does,” said Jenefer. To which she added. “Alas, you’d best take care, baby sister, lest you end with a child in your belly and no torc to declare you.”

“Blood and bones!” exclaimed Borlewen. “Better this than waiting so long my womb withers and dies—like Lowenna! At least this way I will have a child of my own to raise and plow my fields.”

“More’s the pity. They’ll be the only fields of yours to ever be plowed again,” countered Jenefer.

“Nay,” argued Borlewen. “One child will merely recommend me. I know how to please a man well enough that I’ll have six more in line behind him.”

“Six!” squealed Briallen, and Jennifer added, “Gods, you’re a wanton.”

Borlewen shrieked with outrage and flew out of her bed with a pillow in hand to pummel Jenefer. For a moment, the sisters grappled in jest, with Jenefer screaming and Borlewen trying in vain to shove her pillow against her sister’s face.

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Jenefer, laughing. “Stop!” Until all three were shrieking with laughter, and Gwendolyn even, despite that she took a knee in the thigh over Borlewen’s feigned fury. Later, when they were settled again and the laughter subsided, Briallen dared to ask, “By the by, Gwen, I must ask… have you never seen Málik’s cock?”

Appalled by the rude question—and from the meekest of the sisters—Gwendolyn slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her horrified laughter, and the sisters all recommenced to giggling.

“I have not,” said Gwendolyn, though she was smiling—perhaps as much by the prospect as the question itself.

Gods. The last time she’d spent any time with her cousins, they weren’t nearly so man-crazed. But that was a long time ago, and now they were women grown—plainly far more experienced than Gwendolyn. Or at least the way they spoke made her think they were.

“Why not?” asked Jenefer, baldly.

Borlewen was the first to remind them. “Because she is promised, silly twat. And yet, one needn’t bed a man to see his bald-pated druid.”

“Borlewen!” exclaimed both Jenefer and Briallen together. And again, all three girls fell into fits of laughter, and Gwendolyn, too. But thereafter, even when the room quieted, she couldn’t stop thinking of Málik’s “bald-pated druid.”

Bawdy as they were, her cousins had merely spoken Gwendolyn’s thoughts aloud.

Oh, to be so free of thought.

It was a long, long while before anyone spoke again—so long that Gwendolyn thought mayhap her cousins had fallen asleep. Suddenly, Briallen turned, and said, “Really, why do we need men? You should raise an army, Gwen. Take Pretania for us!”

“And then what?” suggested Borlewen, snidely, yawning loudly. “Live like Druids, giving each other green gowns, and waggling the occasional man to get ourselves a babe?”

The Llanrhos Druids were said to love amidst their own kind, and women were not well received. If a woman ever arrived on their doorstep, no matter her grievance, she would be turned away, for theirs was an ancient order that did not welcome creatures with menses—not even for sacrifice. Only a man could seek their counsel.

“I would like that better,” said Briallen wistfully.

“Of course, you would,” said Borlewen sleepily. Then everyone fell silent, leaving Gwendolyn awake, and longing… not merely for the easy banter of these three sisters, but for something else… something she daren’t name.

Forcing herself to think of Prince Loc instead, she tried to imagine their coupling, and… failed. Her brain simply did not wish to entertain such thoughts.

And neither did she.

Thankfully, she’d had enough strong ale to drift to sleep, even as her cousins began to snore.

The following morning,Gwendolyn found Málik in the courtyard, stretching to prepare for their usual morning routine. With the blush of the early morning light painting his form, his silvery color was awash with a dusky rose, and for a long while, Gwendolyn stood back, as she had in those early days after he’d first arrived in Trevena, only daring to admire him—his graceful movements, his long, sinuous limbs… the outline of his well-muscled form… the confidence with which he negotiated each exercise.

However, at the moment, he seemed, for the first time ever, oblivious to her presence, and Gwendolyn found herself with a trickster on her shoulder.

Oh, how she’d love to best him—only once.

Having come prepared to practice, she was ready. Careful not to make a sound, she unsheathed her sword, then flew at him, falling upon him just the way he’d taught her to do, minding her feet, so she stepped out precisely at the right moment with the sword positioned, ready to strike. Without warning, Málik spun to face her, withdrawing his sword from its scabbard more swiftly than he should have been able, considering their proximity.

He struck Gwendolyn’s blade so forcefully it might have cut the weapon in twain were it not good Loegrian steel. The force and sound the impact made sent a tremor down her spine, and a pang through her hand.

“Well done!” he said. But then, without hesitation, Gwendolyn spun about and parried, hoping to catch him unawares.

Once again, he found her blade, striking harder than he did the first time. “Bedamned!” Gwendolyn cried, her fingers screaming over the abuse.

“Never spin.”

“You did!”

“I am me,” he said. “You are you.”

“Bryn said—”

“I know what your poppet says, Princess, but you’ll gain little advantage with a spin. It will not give you more force, nor any more leverage, and will present your back to your opponent. Always remember, your single directive is to avoid being skewered. To do this, you must keep your eyes on your opponent’s blade.”

Like a strange, sensual dance, he seized Gwendolyn by the hand, spinning her about, showing her what he meant, and, suddenly, she found her back nestled against his leathered chest, and he shoved the tip of his sword against her back. The sharp blade did not penetrate her tunic, but it came dangerously close. She swallowed convulsively, trusting him, even though every instinct told her not to.

Gods.

With Bryn, she had never once allowed herself to be so vulnerable, and here they were, leagues away from the safety of her father’s court, with a man whose loyalties she’d once questioned, allowing him to prick her with his deadly blade.

“Notice where the point is,” he whispered, and she heard the pop of the fabric of her leather tunic as the blade penetrated to kiss her sensitive flesh. “If you ever find yourself in this vulnerable position, do not aim for the heart. ’Tis difficult to hit anything of consequence when you stab a man in the back.”

“Here,” he said, pressing the tip a little harder, so it gave her flesh a sting. “Here, to the right, not the left, you will pierce the reins. The pain will be excruciating, and your opponent will drop like a stone.”

Gods.

Gwendolyn found herself frozen, and breathless—torn between longing to extricate herself from his embrace… and wishing to submit…

She had not felt this way in Prince Loc’s arms.

Never did she imagine herself so ready to kiss a man—so acutely aware of every nerve in her body, every inhale and exhale of breath… her own as well as his.

From across the courtyard came a sudden clang of metal, and Gwendolyn peered over to discover her uncle’s farrier working on her mare’s shoe—a favor she didn’t ask for but was grateful for. However, realizing they had eyes upon them now, her body flushed hot, and, after an excruciating moment, Málik withdrew, and Gwendolyn felt the sharp, cold blade ease away from her skin, somehow leaving her strangely bereft as his hand abandoned hers in midair. She turned to eye his sword, dazed and confused, but too curious not to ask. “Why does your sword have so short a grip?”

Málik leveled it before her, positioning one hand against the sword guard, the other on the pear-shaped pommel, demonstrating the proper way to hold it.

“Should I be using this design?”

He shrugged. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Far more swiftly than Gwendolyn could follow, he performed a crooked strike, meanwhile unsheathing the parrying dagger at his waist, and said, “Whether you wish to fight one-handed or two.”

Gwendolyn inspected her own arming sword, tilting it one way, then the other, attempting the same maneuver he’d only just displayed, but to no avail. She could easily wield a second blade with her own sword, such as the one she kept at her boot, but not whilst employing such an awkward maneuver. And yet she could see why this could be necessary. The most important thing in battle—so Bryn once said—was to remain flexible.

“It’s not possible,” he said. “For two reasons. First, most people need two expert hands to employ such a gambit, but your sword has design limitations as well.”

Gwendolyn attempted the maneuver again and found she lacked the mobility to hold the sword without finding herself in danger of losing it entirely.

“I understand why you were given that sword. Most women don’t have the strength or cause to wield a two-handed weapon. But you are good enough, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn couldn’t help it. She grinned. These were the times she felt most alive—when she was sparring with a partner, wielding her sword. It gave her a sense of control over her life that she wouldn’t trade for all the lace in Damascus.

“Someday I will teach you the other master strikes.”

“Master strikes?”

“The Strike of Wrath, the Cross Strike, the Parting Strike and the Squinting Strike—some of the finer techniques of a longsword.”

“I would like that,” Gwendolyn said, though, at the moment, she was far more curious about his sword. “May I try yours?” she asked.

“Of course.” He traded swords with her, testing the length of hers by measuring it to his heel. It was too short.

Gwendolyn did the same, finding his blade far too long. She had to bend her elbow to avoid scraping the tip across the ground. Clearly, his arms were much longer, and this sword was fashioned particularly for him. Even hers was not so well honed, for she had grown much since her fifteenth year.

“You could have one made,” he suggested. “Of course, yours would be shorter, but this would suit you, and it would allow you more freedom to parry as you please. I have already surmised this is your strength.”

“Parrying?”

“Indeed,” he said, nodding. “Try the sword. Go on. Make use of the grip as needed for leverage. Aim diagonally by raising the pommel and pull back as you thrust forward with the hilt, but don’t forget to step and add your hip into the cut as you would any other strike.”

Smiling, Gwendolyn positioned her hand, one fist near the guard, the other on the pommel, then tried his crooked strike again.

This time, it felt better. Indeed, she sensed the longer grip would allow her to place more strength into a swing when she needed it most, thereby avoiding the impulse to spin.

In fact, if she used both hands and kept the swing closer to her body, she could parry quicker, and if she needed to, she could use it one-handed as well.

Feeling emboldened and thinking perhaps that while she had the advantage of his sword, she would test Málik again, she stomped her foot to bait him.

Without delay, he positioned her sword in his hand, closing the distance, stepping into her, and cutting the air before her, even as he stabbed the parrying dagger toward her side, right at the level of her heart, as he came to whisper into her ear.

He grinned. “Most knives will not reach the heart from this angle, Princess, but mine will.” His breath was warm, and sweet—like mint grass—and his mouth was far too close. Gwendolyn’s breath hitched as he withdrew and said, “Take heart, I never once saw your poppet parry with such skill.”

Warmth spread through Gwendolyn’s breast, into her face, and though she lifted a brow over the compliment, it thrilled her, nonetheless. “Truly?” she asked.

“Truly,” he said, and winked.

And then, once more, within another blink of an eye, he had Gwendolyn on her bum, red-faced and embarrassed to have been bested only by his simple praise.

His lesson for the morning complete, Málik grinned unrepentantly, like a wolf, his sharp canines revealed, and then re-sheathed both his blades, and offered Gwendolyn a hand, lifting her up from the dust. Only now she wondered if he’d anticipated her all along. “Did you know I was watching you?”

“Of course,” he said, with a smile as crooked as his strike.

“How so?”

He touched the tip of his nose, and his nostrils flared as he confessed, “I know your scent, Princess.”