The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterTwenty-Seven

Over dinner that evening, the spirit between them was changed—something slight, though of major consequence.

Gwendolyn noted Málik smiled more readily, and he teased her mercilessly, taking their shared cup every time she drank, and turning the glass ever so purposefully, lifting it so his lips fell upon the very spot her lips had only just touched.

It sent a shiver to her womb each time.

Did he realize?

Was it a game?

And yet, no matter. Instead of rousing her pique, it somehow stirred Gwendolyn’s blood—a fact that was nearly as disconcerting as was the truth that she thoroughly enjoyed it.

Over these past few days, he had ceased with the chiding remarks. Reserved though he remained most of the time, he was more forthcoming when she dared put forward a question about something she longed to know.

“How came you to be in my father’s employ?”

“I was sent,” he said.

“By whom?”

“My father.”

“Your father? I thought you said you were summoned?”

“Both, if you must know.” He gave her a sad, cryptic smile, and Gwendolyn found she hadn’t more nerve to pry.

Perhaps on some level, she feared that knowing the truth about him would change her life in ways she wasn’t prepared to allow. Only for now, his newfound good humor was a welcome distraction. So were his outlandish tales.

For one, he claimed the lyn yeyn quoit near Land’s End was a portal stone—like the one that stood southeast of Fowey Moor. He claimed it was used to travel betwixt realms.

“Gods, nay!” argued her uncle, burping very loudly after gulping down an entire tankard of ale. “That is a nursemaid’s tale, meant to frighten wee children. The truth is far less fantastic. Rather, ’tis meant to place bodies atop as leavings for the carrion—a gesture…of—” He burped again— “Gratitude to our gods… for the lending of life.” He slammed down his tankard, then lifted it again to show his maid, requesting more. “All to dust,” he said. “To dust we go again!”

To this argument, Málik merely shrugged and said, “Ah, well, what do I know?” Though he sent Gwendolyn a conspiratorial glance, and the tiniest trace of a smile.

Naturally, Gwendolyn was eager to learn more. All the questions she’d ever longed to ask of his kind now resurfaced and vied for play on her tongue. And yet, for all she knew, he was teasing her for sport—not fae at all, and not remotely sober.

Gwendolyn’s gaze shifted between her uncle and Málik—comparing them side by side. Was she the only one who saw him differently? Did they not note his pointed ears and sharp teeth and think fae? Or his pale complexion and silvery hair, or icebourne eyes?

As far as Gwendolyn could tell, her uncle didn’t appear to be treating him any differently than he would any other man, nor did he take Málik’s tales as truth.

Shifting his gaze from her uncle, Málik caught Gwendolyn staring again, and she averted her gaze, embarrassed now, wondering if she’d only imagined some fae relation—though shame on him for telling such tales.

Danann, they called him, it could be in jest.

What if none of it was ever meant to be taken as truth?

Indeed, what if the stories were only meant to be cautionary, as her uncle claimed, and her crib-side visitation only the fevered ramblings of a drunken maid?

Certainly, Gwendolyn had never known Demelza nor her mother to imbibe, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t.

Gwendolyn had never considered herself to be different, except by virtue of her royal blood, and there was nothing—truly nothing—about her condition that gave any truth to the Goldenchild Prophecy, except for the tales told by her mother and maid.

Her appearance was simply not proof. One person’s notion of beauty was not another’s. Some people treated her one way, others treated her another, and the person she spied in the mirror was neither beautiful nor hideous. She was only Gwendolyn—with breasts too small, hips too wide, mouth a little too full, and eyes neither green nor blue. Instead, they were the dullest shade of grey—the color of a storm by twilight.

Feeling maudlin this evening, Gwendolyn peered down into her cup, drained of mead, and considered pouring herself another. But nay, the beverage was too strong.

She glanced once more at Málik and, this time, found him watching her instead, his pale blue eyes all too knowing.

Where once she’d spied condemnation, she now saw something else… something warm and sweet… something dangerous and deep.

But this could not be entertained. She was already bound to Prince Loc. That would not change. Ever since the day she was born, her future was writ in blood by Málik’s own kind—else those he claimed were his kin, by the appellation he chose.

Straightening her shoulders, Gwendolyn offered him a tremulous smile, then rose, excusing herself, and made for her bed, feeling flushed and drained as her cup. Too much mead. Too much frolic. Too much laughter. Too much… everything.

None of this would serve her on the morrow when she must, at long last, leave and return to her true life—and despite this, before climbing into bed, she dared to remove the heavy chain from about her neck, and set it gingerly on a bedside table.

If only for tonight, she would like to be free of the reminder.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to yield to duty. Tonight, she only wished to be Gwen… cousin to Borlewen, Jenefer, and Briallen. Friend to Málik.

But the following morning,she didn’t reach for the torc.

One more day, she decided—one more day.

The time was at hand to prepare for her nuptials and remaining here—no matter how pleasant the diversion—would do her little good. She was already bound—promised by her own word and free will.

And yet… at least… at the very least… she could keep the memory of this time close to her heart. So, for now, she left the torc where it lay on the table, unwilling to don it again so soon. No one questioned her about her bare neck when she arrived to break her fast, and when Borlewen found the necklace upon rising, and tried it on, coming out of the room to reveal it about her throat, Gwendolyn smiled, and said, “It looks beautiful on you.”

Borlewen struck a pose. “Verily?”

Gwendolyn nodded. “Indeed.” And when her cousin made to remove it from her neck, Gwendolyn lifted a hand to compel her, and said, “Nay, please. Wear it awhile. I shall have worn it more than enough by my dying days.”

“Oh!” said Borlewen, twirling happily. “I am a princess! Promised to a great and mighty prince!” Gwendolyn laughed softly.

Indeed, it was a lovely torc—shinier than the torc of her house. Yet the sapphire eyes of its serpents glittered with vengeance, and Gwendolyn found the look of it disturbing. At least for the time being, she was content enough to let Borlewen pretend.

Later that night, after supping, whilst they were seated outside by a bonfire—a nightly occurrence in these parts—Gwendolyn found herself alone with Málik.

Once again, he did not comment on her bare throat, though his pale blue eyes found the torc about Borlewen’s neck and filled with questions—questions that Gwendolyn hadn’t any answers for, so she let it pass without explanation. Yet truly, her heart had grown heavier than that bloody torc, and she could simply not tolerate the weight of both. In due time, she would wear it again, and she would meet Prince Locrinus beneath the Sacred Yew, because that is what she was born to do. But that didn’t mean she must enjoy it, nor should she feel guilt-ridden for taking a few more days to enjoy this liberty—free from reminders like that glowering torc.

Let Borlewen wear it awhile. Her cousin certainly seemed to like it well enough, petting it like a precious lover, all the while her Kitto drooled over her shoulder.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn sat cross-legged on the grass beside Málik, covering her hosen with the flaps of her tunic, whilst two of her cousins sat flirting with visiting neighbors—Jenefer with the father, Borlewen with the son.

Prickles of grass poked through Gwendolyn’s hosen, but she didn’t care. She was far too contented at the instant.

“This should be fun to watch,” she said tartly, eyeing Borlewen with her Kitto. “If both should succeed here tonight, one will find herself a mother and sister, the other a sister and daughter by law.”

Málik chuckled low, a sound that never failed to stir Gwendolyn’s blood. At the instant, she was feeling a little melancholy, knowing they must soon leave… for everyone’s sakes—and, in part because she still needed to determine how and why Bryok was murdered. Alas, the longer she remained here, supping with Málik, sparring with Málik, laughing with Málik, the more she wanted to stay… the more she dreaded her wedding to Prince Loc—coming closer every day.

Already the moon above was a waning crescent, smiling down on them in this place where, mostly, no lady wore gems or silk.

No doubt her mother was up in arms over her continued absence. And doubtless she was furious that Gwendolyn wasn’t around to take instruction to prepare for the nuptials to come.

But more and more, Gwendolyn dreaded her wedding night, and all the while she fretted. Everyone except Málik seemed oblivious to her travails.

Gods, she was a mess.

Across the courtyard, Borlewen cozied with the farmer’s son, the two of them hiding in the darkest corner, behind a wall of ale casks, completely unconcerned that anyone might spy them—her father, if she wasn’t too careful. And yet would he care? Gwendolyn thought mayhap not, because he himself was out in the dark field, perhaps fondling his wife. In the meantime, her cousins seemed free enough to love as they would, though she knew her uncle—as any father would—must have limits to his indulgence.

Even as they watched, the farmer’s son took a generous helping of her cousin’s ample bosom in his hand, squeezing as his lips found Borlewen’s mouth. Only, to see this stirred Gwendolyn in ways she daren’t confess, but whom would she tell?

Málik?

The night was peaceful. The stars above winking, and with the moon spilling down over his silvery hair, the effect of it was like a halo. He was too beauteous for words—almost surreal. “What of you?” she dared to ask. “Do you ever intend to wed, Málik?”

“Who? Me?” he asked with a chuckle, as he chewed on a long blade of grass. “Nay, Princess, I was not made for that.” He winked at her then, but Gwendolyn knit her brows.

“How do you mean?”

He gave her the barest hint of a smile that sent her pulses skittering, even as it left her with more questions than answers. Gwendolyn heard tell that in some faraway lands, the queen’s Shadows were emasculated, and made into eunuchs. Perhaps Málik didn’t have the parts, and this would explain so much, although it would be such a waste, because his body seemed made for touching. By the light of a silvery moon, his wondrous skin shimmered like a pearl, and Gwendolyn found her mouth ever so parched—as it always was in his presence, only thinking, thanks to her dearest Borlewen, of his “bald-pated druid.”

A pox on you, Borlewen!

Málik’s ever-present smile turned lazy now.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “And nay, I’m no less a man than that silly fool over there, tripping over his tongue to impress your cousin.”

Not for the first time, Gwendolyn wondered if he could read her thoughts. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to always glean what she was thinking.

“In fact, I wonder if you will wish to wear your beautiful torc again, with Kitto’s drool all over it.” It was Gwendolyn’s turn to laugh, but at the instant, she didn’t care about that torc—not at all. “I never see you tripping over anything to impress anyone,” she said, to which he replied, “Don’t you, Princess?”

Disarmed by the question, Gwendolyn averted her gaze, somehow embarrassed.

Gods.

“Gwendolyn,” he whispered, watching her intently.

His gaze lingered on her lips as he once again removed the reed from his mouth and lapped his own lips, ever so slowly. “Have you never… wondered…”

Her heart beat madly.

“… what’s inside your father’s Treasury?”

Gwendolyn sat back, her eyes going wide.

His question was a surprising diversion from their conversation. And though she was perhaps relieved, she hadn’t expected it. “Well, of course,” she said. “Naturally. And yet, the secrets it holds are for my father’s eyes alone. I shall know in due time.”

“And you believe the aldermen feel the same?”

Gwendolyn thought about that a moment, and said, “What do you mean?”

“Well, do you believe they are content enough to leave this knowledge to your father alone? Have you never considered whether they have, for a moment, taken a gander within?”

“I—well, no,” Gwendolyn said, shaking her head. The entire notion was preposterous. “Only once in my life has anyone ever defied the King’s Law, and that man paid for his offense with his life. Why, by the eyes of Lugh, would anyone dare?”

“Unless they didn’t believe they would be caught,” he suggested, giving her a single, meaningful nod, and Gwendolyn thought about that another moment, watching as Málik tossed away his blade of grass and plucked himself another.

What if someone defied the King’s Law?

What if he was caught?

What if Bryok was the man who’d caught him?

The question posed all new possibilities.

The Treasury guards were always on duty, else waiting to assume a shift. Only once every new moon were they allowed a day of rest, and then they resumed a shift of opposite hours. But each shift was assumed in pairs—two guards for every watch.

When Gwendolyn returned, she really must inquire who was Bryok’s shift mate—was it Aelwin?

She eyed the blade of grass that had returned to its place between Málik’s teeth. “That must be delicious,” she teased.

“A mere distraction,” he allowed, and Gwendolyn asked, “What for?”

“For what I’d really like to be tasting instead…”