The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterTwo
An errand boy rushed by with a heap of towels. Spying Gwendolyn, he stumbled to a halt, attempting a hasty bow and nearly spilling his burden.
“Oh!” Gwendolyn exclaimed, rushing forward to help him keep his stack. “Keep your eyes ahead,” she admonished once the towels were saved. “No one will fault you for it, not even the King.” The boy nodded enthusiastically, then attempted another bow, and Gwendolyn shook her head, smiling with her rebuke. “Straight ahead!” she commanded, pointing down the hall, and away the boy dashed with a mountain of towels bigger than him, his bottom wagging like a pup’s tail. The towels were headed for the salt bath—a medicinal piscina her father had ordered constructed some years past using blueprints traded by a Phoenician merchant.
After hearing about their healing springs, the merchant asked to see one, and when her father lamented the vanishing pools, the merchant offered his blueprints.
It was really quite inspired, Gwendolyn thought. Constructed so it siphoned sea water into an inner-city pool from the bay below, waders came to ease their joints and for various other ailments. They worked similarly to the hot springs, with two major differences: the hot springs were naturally heated and provided by the grace of gods. The salt bath was made possible by the ingenuity of men, yet there was no way to heat the pool; and therefore, it was not so enjoyable to use during the Winter. But despite this, it was quite the attraction. Visiting merchants came oft to make use of it during warmer months, diverted from nearby ports.
Another servant rushed by with a cart, his sole duty to replace the old, spent torches with fresh ones, newly dipped in pitch. Another came with a broom, and another with a bucket and mop. The spirit of the moment was vastly changed from the sleepy languor Gwendolyn encountered on the way into her father’s Konsel. During this short time since her mother’s departure, the Queen had already put the entire palace to work.
From the ivy-tangled courtyards to the King’s polished-granite audience hall, servants rushed about, making ready for their distinguished guests. But this was when her mother’s talents shone best. Whatever “savage” influences Queen Eseld had before her arrival, there were none more sophisticated than she. She was the Mestres of Cornwall, the lady of Trevena, and no one worked harder at being Cornish than their Prydein Queen.
Thankfully, her mother was right about this, as well; there was much to be done—enough to keep her busy and away from Gwendolyn. It had been too long since they’d had guests of such import—not since her first meeting with Urien, five years past, when Gwendolyn was still too young to understand the significance of their union.
She had thought Urien fine, in the same manner one admired an elder brother, but she’d never once imagined herself on his arm, nor in his bed.
Now Gwendolyn was old enough to understand the import of what was happening here today, and if she didn’t like Prince Locrinus, she would be stuck with him, regardless.
Sadly, the chances were far greater that he would not like her, and come what may, tomorrow, she would be meeting her betrothed—her second, at that!
The very thought unsettled her belly so she wasn’t hungry—good thing, because by now, the hall would have been cleared of Alyss’ wonderful morning cakes.
And despite this, she continued in that direction, intent upon checking with Yestin, to see if he had need of her this morn. Even now, she suspected her mother’s maid was in her bower, waiting with a mountain of dresses, and no doubt this was the reason Demelza had been late this morning. But, if she could, once she was finished with the maid, she intended to steal away, and it was better to check with the steward now than to have him search for her later, and risk involving her mother. Doubtless, they were already planning the welcome feast, everything from the musicians to accompany the meal to the victuals themselves.
Queen Eseld would have her say, of course, but it was the King who must approve expenditures, and in his place, Gwendolyn. No matter that Queen Eseld so oft took his place while he convalesced, the approval of expenditures was a task assigned to the heir—which Gwendolyn was, no matter that her mother despaired of the fact.
Nor did Queen Eseld appreciate having to approve her dawnsio expenditures through Gwendolyn, even though Gwendolyn would never dare thwart her.
Without question, her mother would lend her dawnsio to the event—at a cost no one would ever dispute, because the service they provided was invaluable.
Along with the Druids, the dawnsio, Awenydds and Gwyddons all served important roles for the kingdom—as priests, historians, philosophers, and scientists. They continued an ancient tradition, teaching epochs of history through a choreographed dance, which was widely considered to be one of the most esteemed roles a woman could aspire to. To the unskilled eye, it would appear the dancers were posturing to entertain, but every gesture bespoke volumes.
Altogether, there were twenty-one dancers, plus twenty-one understudies—a pair from each of Pretania’s tribes, not including the isle of Mona, where the Druids lived—fourteen for Prydein, eight from Westwalas, six for each of Cornwall’s boroughs, and two each from the remaining tribes. Each dancer was carefully chosen by the Queen and her Awenydds, not merely for her beauty, but for her mental acuity as well. Unlovely people need not apply, and Gwendolyn was rarely even invited to watch. Purely out of necessity, because someday she would be queen, she had been taught to interpret the dance, but her mother clearly didn’t want daily reminders that her own daughter didn’t measure up to the perfection she’d cultivated in her dancers.
Not once in Gwendolyn’s life had her mother ever complimented her face, and this was well and good… if only she hadn’t heard a thousand buttery praises fly from the Queen’s lips, all for others—including Ely, who at fifteen was now the understudy for Durotriges, whence she and her family hailed. A twinge of envy resurfaced, though Gwendolyn suppressed it, hardly pleased with the sentiment. Her relationship with her mother wasn’t Ely’s fault any more than Ely could be faulted for her natural beauty. And neither was Gwendolyn’s countenance anyone else’s doing—blessing or curse, it was her own burden to bear.
Much to Gwendolyn’s surprise, she found Ely lurking outside the great hall, spying on her uncle. Surrounded by sweepers, her father’s steward sat hunched over one of the lower tables, scribbling at his ledgers. His loyal hound sat beneath the table, ears perked, eyes peeled, hoping the maids would uncover some disgusting treasure to sweep his way. If he could and his master would allow it, Gwendolyn knew that dog would be out from beneath that table, sniffing at piles of rushes, content enough to gobble greasy straw, but even the dog was afraid of his master’s bark. Rightly so; because aside from the King and Queen Consort, and of course, Gwendolyn, Yestin held the highest post in the realm—higher in some ways than the aldermen, because he controlled the Treasury and the men who guarded it. And regardless, he was still Elowyn’s uncle, and rather than face him, the silly girl would hide behind the door, chewing at her cheeks.
She was so deep in thought that she didn’t hear Gwendolyn approach, and when Gwendolyn laid a hand atop her shoulder, Ely yelped in surprise.
“Gwendolyn!” she exclaimed, then winced, turning to peer through a crack between the hinges to see if her squeal had attracted Yestin’s attention.
“Oh, Gwen!” she sobbed. “I am undone! I’ve been told my uncle means to pair me with the ambassador’s son for tomorrow’s feast.”
“Which ambassador?”
“Trinovantes,” she said. “The new one.”
Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you welcomed the opportunity to find yourself a good husband?”
“Oh, I do! But, really, Gwendolyn, have you met him? His face is flat as a morning cake! Indeed,” she said, when Gwendolyn’s frown deepened. “I’m told he was kicked by a mule.”
“Gods,” said Gwendolyn, her brows slanting with dismay—not the least bit feigned, but not for Elowyn’s sake. Despite that she understood Ely meant nothing by the insult, she was naturally sensitive to the poor man’s dilemma. She understood more than most what it felt like to be judged by one’s appearance.
“I just know she asked for the pairing to turn me off the thought of a husband.”
She, being Lady Ruan, although Gwendolyn suspected otherwise. Ely’s mother was far too kind. Although it struck her in that moment that perhaps all mothers and daughters were destined to have quarrels—or so it seemed. As kind as Lady Ruan was, Ely clearly took issue with her, more lately than ever. Though at least Ely’s mother didn’t think her a changeling, and never once employed torture to glean the truth of the matter. Gwendolyn couldn’t say the same.
“Perhaps ’tis because she knows you are the kindest of souls, Ely? Someone like the ambassador’s son will have need for a speck of compassion.”
“Harrumph!” said Ely, though her shoulders slumped. “Mayhap tis true, Gwen, yet this doesn’t lift my mood knowing he’ll come soon to spirit you away.”
He, meaning Prince Locrinus whose presence was already felt, despite that he’d yet to arrive. And this must be the true cause of Elowyn’s distress, she realized. Sliding an arm about her friend’s shoulders, Gwendolyn tried to lift her mood. “Only if he likes me,” she jested.
“Oh, I know he will!” Ely returned. “And nevertheless, if he does not, has he more choice than you?” She peered up at Gwendolyn, her sweet blue eyes swimming with tears, and Gwendolyn frowned. Leave it to Ely to speak plainly. As her own mother had already pointed out once today, the dragon banners must be united—dragons rampant, one to guard the sea, the other to guard the land. Choices such as these were not the prerogative of princes or princesses. Even if Prince Locrinus found her as displeasing as her mother clearly did, he, too, would have little choice. Come Calan Mai, she would be wedding Loegria’s eldest son beneath the Sacred Yew, and she would don the torc of his house in a ceremony that hearkened back to the Dawn of Days. This was the indisputable truth.
“What shall I do without you?” said Ely.
Gwendolyn’s voice softened. “Never fear, dear friend.” She pulled a wisp of hair from Ely’s beautiful face. “I’ll make another appeal to take you with me when I go.”
“My mother will say no,” argued Ely, and Gwendolyn knew it was true. Already, she’d asked twice, and Lady Ruan would not part with two children.
So far as Ely’s older brother was concerned, he was already bound to come with her. From the day he took his vow to serve as her personal guard, Bryn’s fate was sealed. As Gwendolyn’s Shadow, wherever she went, so, too, must he go. As was the custom, he even slept in her antechamber, and the only time he wasn’t duty-bound to be at her side was when Gwendolyn was safely ensconced within the palace. At the moment, he was probably in the Mester’s Pavilion, with his sire, receiving orders for his comportment during the Prince’s arrival and Gwendolyn blushed hotly over the realization, because her mother liked to complain that she and Bryn were overfamiliar.
“He’s your servant,” she would say, yet this was sometimes difficult to recall when the three of them—she, Bryn and Ely—had grown up nearly as siblings.
She gave Ely’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Loegria isn’t far,” she consoled, and then she turned Ely about and, with a glance into the hall at Yestin, decided he would be at his ledgers for many hours to come. At the moment, Ely needed a distraction, and Gwendolyn knew how to provide it. “Come,” she demanded. “Yestin can wait. I’m off to choose my wardrobe for thevisit, and you know how desperately I will need your opinion. Given my druthers, I’d wear a jerkin and keep a spear in my hand.”
Ely giggled, allowing herself to be lured away, and the two walked, hand in hand. Alas, though Gwendolyn was jesting, she also spoke true. She was not the most discerning of fashion, but when the Prince arrived, she intended to present herself well enough that he would embrace her as an equal. With all his golden finery, she didn’t wish to face him looking like a troll, as so often she felt beneath her mother’s scrutiny.
Spying Gwendolyn’s companion,Demelza lifted a brow. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?” she asked.
Ely hitched her chin. “I am not needed.”
Old as the faerie hills, Demelza was her grandmother’s maid before she was her mother’s. Hence, she was the one who’d taught Queen Eseld all the intricacies of the Cornish court. No doubt, age gave her authority. “Says who?”
To Ely’s credit, she stood taller beneath the maid’s scrutiny. “So says Mother Superior. She told me to make myself scarce.”
Hearing this, Demelza lifted both brows.
So, too, did Gwendolyn because the revelation said so much.
“And what did you do to displease her?”
“Naught,” said Ely, with a pink stain on her cheeks. “I merely pointed out that Gwendolyn had terrible taste in attire. I suggested that, despite all your great effort, Demelza, she might benefit from a discerning eye.”
“You said that?” Gwendolyn asked.
And here she believed it was her idea for Ely to attend her.
Very quickly, Ely shook her head, peering back at Demelza, who’d caught the gesture, because one grey brow lifted higher. “Well… not precisely.”
Demelza looked at the door, mayhap considering whether she was in any mood to deal with two unmanageable charges, but at long last, relented. “Very well, Elowyn. Go, sit. But do not disturb us. If your opinion is required, we’ll ask.”
Gwendolyn tried not to smile as Ely grinned victoriously and flounced over to the bed to hide behind a veritable mountain of dresses. No doubt she’d said nothing of the sort to Queen Eseld. If she’d angered the Queen at all, it was only because she wasn’t paying attention in class. That else Lady Ruan had whispered into her mother’s ear about Ely’s reluctance to dance.
No matter the reason, angering Queen Eseld was never the wisest thing to do—unless one wished to be saddled with a flat-nosed companion at supper. And now that Gwendolyn understood more about what led to that decision, she was quite certain it was her mother, not Lady Ruan, behind the pairing. As it was with her father, whatever Queen Eseld decreed, Lady Ruan would agree to, and if this were the case, there was no one in the palace who could change her mind—not Yestin, certainly not Gwendolyn.
Poor Ely.
Gwendolyn decided she would slip her a dress, knowing it would cheer her.
The Queen might not be too pleased that Gwendolyn had softened her rebuke, but she certainly wouldn’t care about the gown—and Gwendolyn should know. By now, she had stained, rented, or ruined so many dresses. Her mother never batted an eyelash. In truth, sometimes Gwendolyn wondered if she ruined them on purpose, only to see if her mother would care.
Unfortunately, to reprimand Gwendolyn, she would have to speak to Gwendolyn, and this wasn’t likely to happen, unless perforce.
Mind you, their relationship was cordial, their conversations never heated, but they were rare as piskies. And sometimes Gwendolyn felt her mother showered her with so many gifts merely to keep her from seeking an audience to ask for favors.
And nevertheless, judging by the number of gowns she had to try on this morning, her mother was entirely too generous, if not affectionate. Even with Ely’s help, it took more than three hours to try on every gown, but thankfully, Ely’s tastes were pristine, and Demelza didn’t object to her choices—nor did she protest when Gwendolyn offered Elowyn her favorite of the lot. “What time is the Prince due?” asked Gwendolyn anxiously, while Ely sat petting her new dress—a brightly colored cendal, dyed in a shade called Nightingale to match Ely’s fiery tresses.
She needed to get away, before it grew late, and she sorely regretted not meeting with Yestin because now there wasn’t time.
“At first light, so I’m told,” said Demelza, pulling at a thread on the dress she was altering.
Naturally, Gwendolyn was shorter than her mother—simply one more way she didn’t measure up. Her bosom was smaller, as well, and her hips wider, too. As a daughter, Gwendolyn was merely a pale shade—truly, for while her hair was yellow, her mother’s was dark as night and no matter that her manner of beauty was uncommon amidst the Dumnonii, Queen Eseld was unspeakably lovely—her eyes warm and rich as loam, lips neither thin nor cruel.
It was little wonder the King had been so willing to set aside a century’s worth of discord for the sake of their union.
When the thread did not come away, Demelza bent to set her teeth against the offending strand, snapping it quickly. In the meantime, Gwendolyn stood naked as an oak in Winter, arms crossed to conceal her bosom, the tiny hairs on her arms prickling against a draft.
Winter was gone, Spring had arrived, but April sometimes still harbored a bitter chill. “Have you met him?” Gwendolyn wondered aloud.
“Gods, no. How would I, child? I’m only a maid. Go ask your mother.” Demelza rose then, tossing the heavy dress over Gwendolyn’s head, tugging the material down.
Instinctively, Gwendolyn searched for the sleeves and sighed, knowing she would ask her mother for naught. “So,” she persisted, speaking through the thick material—a heavy, brushed suede, dyed blue, her mother’s favorite color. “Do you know if he’s anything at all like Urien?”
“Nay, child.”
Once Gwendolyn’s head emerged through the collar, she hitched her chin.
She wasn’t a child any longer. She was seventeen.
“I hear tell he’s beautiful,” offered Ely. “Perhaps ’tis why Bryn doesn’t like him.”
Gwendolyn cocked her head in surprise. “Bryn has met him?”
Ely smiled the faintest of smiles. “Oh… I don’t know,” she sang, and Gwendolyn frowned.
“You mustn’t fret, Gwendolyn,” said Demelza, her lips somehow moving around the pin in her mouth. She tugged rudely at Gwendolyn’s sleeve. “I’m told he’s quite handsome, but really, you oughtn’t ask such questions. Rather, the question should be: Does he appeal to you?”
Gwendolyn felt this way, too. But she didn’t like it that everyone seemed to know more about Prince Locrinus than she did—including Ely, though naturally Ely would know more, because she spent so much more time with Queen Eseld.
With a sigh, Gwendolyn allowed her head to fall back, neck sore, and wearied of posing so long—even wearier of dissembling. She glanced at the high window, gauging the time.
“How can I know what I think until I meet him?”
“Verily,” agreed Demelza, as though she had validated her point. “And yet, whatever the case, you must get your mind straight, because the result will be the same, whether you find him appealing or nay. You will marry, no matter, and if you are inclined to enjoy your husband, perhaps you will.”
“Humph!” said Ely. “That is what my mother says about the dawnsio when I say I wish to wed a man instead. This is what it’s like, you realize—the dawnsio.” Ely sighed dramatically. “But my mother says ’tis inevitable I will dance, because Queen Eseld loves my form, and I must embrace my calling.”
“She speaks truly,” said Demelza. “You have a rare talent, Elowyn.” She plucked another pin from the pinpush and placed it into her mouth.
And face, Gwendolyn wanted to add. No doubt, it was Ely’s face that Queen Eseld loved most, for, in truth, Ely was the epitome of beauty—hair like flames, eyes cerulean, like the sea. As stunning as the Queen was, it was Ely who was blessed with the beauty of their rás.
“Humph,” said Ely, again. “It is not my calling. I’d sooner die a thousand deaths in childbed than dance a single night for fat, greasy dukes!”
“Ely!” exclaimed both Demelza and Gwendolyn, although Gwendolyn said it with a yelp of laughter.
“Well, then, perhaps you will enjoy your flat-nosed companion?” suggested Demelza as she knelt at Gwendolyn’s feet.
“See, Gwendolyn! I told you!”
Gwendolyn’s thoughts sobered, returning to Prince Locrinus, and perhaps sensing the turn of her thoughts, Demelza said, “This is the way of it. You’ll not be the first to wed a man whose face and heart are unknown to you. And yet, no matter, I’ve known many who found joy in their unions, merely because they chose to—your mother being one. You must decide you will love him, and eventually you shall.”
“What of me?” Ely complained. “I shan’t be allowed to wed any man! Really, Demelza, I don’t want to dance!” Elowyn pushed her new dress aside, adding sullenly, “Oh, yes, I know that once I am invested, I can take a lover if I wish, but it does not please me to welcome a man into my bed under a veil of night and never hold my own babe in my arms.”
Put so gloomily, Gwendolyn vowed again to speak to her mother. But, at the moment, Demelza had left a door wide open to inquire about Queen Eseld, and Gwendolyn intended to seize the opportunity. “So my mother came to her marriage with a full and willing heart?”
“Of course not,” said Demelza matter-of-factly, putting her needle to the hem of Gwendolyn’s gown. “What woman does? And yet your mother understood her duty, and she accepted it with grace and faith. In the end, she came to love your father dearly.”
Gwendolyn thought about that for a moment, then asked, “So, did you know my mother before she arrived?”
“Nay, child.”
Gwendolyn knit her brows. “Then how can you know what she felt?”
“I simply do.”
“Gods. You are unyielding, as usual,” Gwendolyn said hotly. “I am certain my mother commends you for it, Demelza, but I find it boring!”
The maid stood, reaching up to tap a finger against Gwendolyn’s cheek, not the least bit perturbed. Very gently, she said, “Have I ever forsaken you, Gwendolyn?”
Gwendolyn shook her head because, nay, she had not. And yet, neither was Demelza sworn to her. She was bound to her mother, and thus would do her mother’s bidding in all things.
The maid sighed wearily. “You must trust me,” she said. But Gwendolyn’s shoulders slumped, and the maid immediately reached about to tap her back. “Stand straight,” she demanded. “If you slump, the dress will drag.”
And that was another thing: While she was shorter than her mother, she was not short for a woman. She had her Prydein grandmother’s look, or so she’d been told.
“What if I am taller than he is?” Gwendolyn worried, all the more sullen now, considering everything that could go wrong. “Won’t that displease him?”
“You shan’t be,” announced Ely, peering up from a handful of jewels she was inspecting. “I’m told he’s quite tall, and quite golden—a golden idol for a golden bride! Don’t you think this necklace would look divine with that gown?”
Gwendolyn turned to appraise the jewels draped from Ely’s fingers—a silvered curtain of sapphires meant to be worn with a matching tiara. But the tiara was not among the pile of borrowed jewels. Evidently, her mother had not seen fit to lend it this time, but the necklace alone was worth more than all the pottage in the city.
“Your mother would be pleased,” added Ely, and some part of Gwendolyn longed to run, screaming in frustration, because it was always some gem or gown Queen Eseld saw fit to compliment, never Gwendolyn herself. And, really, she lent them so oft, as though her jewels could somehow make up for some defect of Gwendolyn’s person. As a consequence, Gwendolyn was learning to despise the accoutrements. “Lovely,” she said.
“There,” announced Demelza. “We’re through.”
“At last!” said Gwendolyn, and when Demelza peered up to meet her gaze, Gwendolyn shrugged. “I’d like to go hunting.”
Only she didn’t actually intend to go hunting. She still meant to inspect that glen. However, though Demelza might know of the King’s plight, Ely did not. For obvious reasons, it was vital to the realm that the King maintain an appearance of good health.
“Please, Gwendolyn,” begged Demelza. “Go ask your mother. Considering the circumstances, she may not approve.”
“Why?” Gwendolyn smiled, lifting both brows. “Because I might harm my lovely face?”
Ely snickered, and Demelza cast both girls a withering glance.
Self-deprecation was the one thing that always upset her mother’s maid. “There is naught about your face that is unlovely,” she scolded as she retrieved her sewing basket. And then, muttering beneath her breath, she departed.
“So, now you’ll go hunting?” said Ely.
“I will, indeed.”
“And will you ask your mother?” Ely flicked a glance at the handsome gown Gwendolyn had discarded on the floor, then another at the neatly folded pile of worn leathers on the chair beneath the window. But she knew the answer already.
“Nay,” said Gwendolyn.
Ely sighed heavily. “Well, if you mean to defy her, I should not go. She’ll tell my mother, and my mother will make me spend the entirety of your Prince’s visit entertaining Lord Flat Face!”
Gwendolyn laughed despite herself. “I’m sorry,” she offered, even as she fetched her hunting attire from the chair. “Where is Bryn?” she asked.
“Oh… I don’t know,” answered Ely, but it was clear by the way she peered up through her thick lashes, that she knew, and was protecting him—as she always did, whenever she thought Gwendolyn might incur her mother’s wrath.
If only she and Ely could trade places, Gwendolyn lamented, for Gwendolyn was not made for gems or silk. Instead, she was more at home in the woods, with a blade in her boot and a bow in her hand. “Never mind,” said Gwendolyn as she dressed.
When she was ready, she found her quiver and made for the door. “I’ll find him myself,” she told Ely. “You stay and play with my mother’s jewels.”