The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Today must be the last day, Gwendolyn decided.

The very, very last.

The last, last, last.

And yet, much to her dismay, the questions Málik posed the night before were rifling through her head, revealing more and more questions, and they all desperately vied for attention, seeking answers. Mayhap it was a simple matter of two aldermen scheming for the same position, else it could be something more sinister… possibilities she really didn’t wish to entertain, because she was enjoying this time away—far, far more than she should.

Intending to break the news to her uncle before the noontide, she and Málik stood sparring in the courtyard, sweating off last night’s mead.

The muscles in Gwendolyn’s arms burned atrociously—never had they practiced so ruthlessly. She punished herself for her wayward thoughts, continuing to spar, even when her belly roiled in protest over the heat of the warming sun.

In fact, for the first time, beads of sweat formed upon Málik’s brow, and his movements were dawdling and unsteady—at least for him. For anyone else, they would still be quick.

Even now, Gwendolyn despaired of besting him, although he was definitely slower to parry than he should have been, and then, she noticed he went to defend without stepping, and because his feet were ill-positioned, he had to lean to defend himself.

Gwendolyn struck when she had the chance.

“Well done!” he announced, lifting an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. His cheeks were rosy and his lips flushed bright red.

Her cousins were still in the house, lingering at their father’s table after breaking their fast. Borlewen, she knew, hadn’t found her bed until the small hours, and as yet, her uncle and Lowenna hadn’t emerged from their bower. Gwendolyn was quite certain they were trying again for that son he hadn’t yet been blessed with. If nothing else, she must leave this place, because she was surrounded by the scent of sex. It was distracting her in ways she had no business being distracted. “You let me win, didn’t you?”

Málik grinned.

“Why?” she demanded.

Málik peered at Gwendolyn sideways and said innocently, “Are you accusing me of playing favorites, Princess?”

His use of the word Princess always sounded so suggestive.

She smiled back at him. “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

“Nay,” he said. “I would not. What good would that ever do you in battle? A ‘favor’ now would be to do you no favors at all.”

Knowing Málik as she did, Gwendolyn knew better than to re-sheathe her blade just yet. He was a master at seizing opportunities to put her down. “So, you are saying I beat you justly?”

Málik shrugged. “Perhaps so,” he said. “You are quite good, Gwendolyn, and I will be certain to tell your sire that your good little poppet served you well.”

Rolling her eyes over his favored barb against Bryn, Gwendolyn inhaled deeply, imbued with pride—at least for the moment. More oft than not, Málik’s compliments came with advances that sent her to her knees, but today she dared to rejoice.

Indeed, she was filled with ferocity, and she’d kept her head during Málik’s endless advances—never so simple as that might seem.

“For the hundredth time,” she said, “Bryn is not my poppet!”

Málik shrugged. “So you claim.”

Gwendolyn lifted a brow. “And yet you never seem to hear it, my friend.”

“Friend?”

“Friend,” she said, and meant it ardently.

Gwendolyn was heartily pleased now that he would join her in Loegria—relieved, in fact. He was more worldly than Bryn, and unlike Bryn, he didn’t coddle her, nor did he treat her with so much deference, even despite that he should.

As an instructor, he was merciless, and she had already improved so much, more thanks to him than to Bryn, though he always gave Bryn the credit.

“I hear everything,” he said. “But ears will sometimes lie.”

And then he froze, tilting his head, listening, with a hand to his pointy ear.

Gwendolyn thought he must be teasing her again, listening for her lies. But then, she heard the sound, as well—a soft, but distant rumble that grew louder as it neared.

It was only another moment before she spied the cloud of dust billowing toward them over the moorlands.

Hooves.

Horses.

Many.

The sound of their approach grew from a rumble to a roar, and Gwendolyn felt a quiver rush down her spine. She swallowed convulsively, for despite that she’d trained for this, she’d never once expected to have to use her skills. So long they’d been at peace—never even once had she actually heard war horns. She heard them now, quite unmistakably—a shrill wail that pierced her ears and sent another quiver down her spine.

Fear?

For a moment, Gwendolyn stood, feet planted on the spot, her boots unwilling to move, realizing how ill-prepared she was for battle.

“Raiders!” shouted one of her uncle’s sentry men from a nearby tower.

“Attack!” bellowed another. “Attack!”

Men scurried about.

Gods.As placid as their visit had been, it was easy to forget that this hill fort was a stronghold for all the nearby wheals. So it seemed she would experience a raid firsthand.

Sword in hand, hair mussed from sleep, Duke Cunedda came bursting from the door of his home. He lifted the arm that only hours before had raised tankards with glee.

Her cousins all emerged behind him, all three bearing weapons of their own choosing. Borlewen, still wearing Gwendolyn’s torc, arrived wielding a massive hammer. Briallen came with an axe, wearing a leather jerkin over her chainse. Jenefer came wielding a two-handed long sword. All three girls surrounded their father, but he shoved them toward Gwendolyn instead.

Her uncle’s men were quick to enjoin, but this was unlike Trevena, where there were layers upon layers of defenses—two gates, and here there was none.

Aside from the fogous below the village, there were few protections here—no walls, only one mean tower whence archers could take aim.

And yet, for all the modesty of this place, her uncle’s men were well trained. Even as Gwendolyn watched, his men took positions on the rooftops—one on the garner, one on the blacksmith’s hut, another two on the barn.

A few guards rushed to his side. The rest all found places wherever they could—two behind the wall of ale casks that only last night had harbored want-to-be lovers.

Another horn wailed, calling liegemen from nearby farms.

Málik took Gwendolyn by her arm, dragging her roughly behind him. “Stay close,” he commanded.

Across the village came shouts, women ushering children into the nearby garner. A few scrambled down a well. And then, once the children were safe, the rest of the women rushed to arm themselves to join the fray. Gwendolyn felt a rush as she assumed the fighting position—only this time it wouldn’t be for practice.

This time, she knew blood would spill.

This time she would not use the flat of her blade.

This time she would strike to kill.

Only when the column of roiling dust neared enough so she could see who had raised it, did she exhale in relief and reach for the back of Málik’s tunic, trying to pull him back.

“Nay!” she said. “Rest easy. ’Tis our own men, fear not.”

His pale eyes darkening to steel, Málik turned to meet her gaze and said, “Nay, Gwendolyn. These are not your father’s men. On your toes, Princess! Prepare to fight.”

Even as he said it, the riders tossed down their dragon pennants and bore down on the village, trampling her father’s pennants, and leaving them ragged and tumbling in their dust.

Gods.

This was happening in truth, a battle waged. But nay! Cornwall was at peace, allied with Loegria—who would dare?

The first crack of metal rang, and the horrid sound made Gwendolyn’s teeth ache.

Even as they trampled the first line of defense, cutting down her uncle’s men, still Gwendolyn doubted her eyes.

Scarlet sprayed the air and splattered the ground.

In horror, Gwendolyn watched as the lead rider’s sword cut down a weaker iron blade that met his midair, and then the man who’d dared to wield it—a bare-chested man who’d never even had time to dress from his drunken slumber.

Bile rose at the back of Gwendolyn’s throat, but she readied herself to swing, even as riders dismounted and her uncle joined the fray with a roar.

“To me!” he shouted. “To me!”

Ahead of her, with a mighty bellow, Málik joined as well, and, with her heart in her throat, Gwendolyn swung for the first time in all her life to maim or to kill.

Metal sang against metal, a terrible anthem of death.

Crying out as she felt her blade slice into flesh, she saw more crimson spray. And despite that, she thought… this must be a dream… a terrible, terrible dream.