The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterThirty-Four

Gwendolyn had never worried overmuch about being outside the palace gates, but the landscape had never appeared more sinister, with the road ahead and behind swarming with shadows. The near moonless night was a ready cloak for betrayal.

Their chosen horses were sturdy blue roans, accustomed to hard work, if not so much travel. The journey was slow, because they were forced to stop often to water and rest them, but fortunately, they encountered no one along the Small Road, and night descended into near blackness. The pain at Gwendolyn’s thigh was a nagging reminder that there was treachery at hand, and the galloping gait of their horses a constant reminder of their urgency.

She daren’t consider what she might discover when she arrived home and feared the worst—a coup. After all, if someone dared attack the King’s daughter in the home of her uncle, a powerful duke, they might not have intended to answer for it later. No matter that she’d said nothing of this to Málik, for fear of making it true, she worried they would arrive to find the gates locked and her father’s head on a pike.

Whatever should happen, Gwendolyn trusted Málik to protect her—a prodigious change in feeling since their departure from Trevena. This man she had once so loathed had become the one man she didn’t wish to live without. And yet, having wielded a sword unto death, and watching her beloveds cut to pieces before her eyes, she understood how vital it was that she never rely on anyone but herself. Málik taught her that.

He gave no mercy and expected none in return. And neither would Gwendolyn, once she discovered who was behind this murderous affair. Vengeance took root in her belly and she could feel its rootstock strengthen and grow.

Now, at last, she understood why her father had reprimanded her over Bryn. She must never, ever allow herself to be a pampered princess, and she realized, despite all her bluster, that she had been precisely that.

Worry roiled through her belly, though not for herself. Her father was a well-respected man. Their allies had benefited under his rule. The last time war had come to their gates was during her grandfather’s reign, when all the tribes were still at war and there was no High King to rule them all. Only now, she feared her people had grown discontented, and her thoughts returned to the glen.

The land was the life of the people; the king was the strength of the land. Little by little, that glen had deteriorated. And what would happen once it was gone?

Gwendolyn could feel it, she thought… a shift and darkening of the future—storm clouds forming ahead, like the blood clouds that ushered in darkness for Ériu.

By the time they reached the vicinity of the promontory, the horses were well-winded, sides heaving, and Gwendolyn dismounted as soon as she dared, leading them quickly off the road, toward shelter—a refuge she knew so well she could find the way even in the dark.

Málik followed without a word. Perhaps knowing intuitively why she made the rest of the way on foot, he, too, dismounted, and swept forward to seize the lead from her hands, guiding both horses away. “I’ll tend to them,” he said. “You, go.”

Trusting him to do what he should, Gwendolyn obeyed, only first retrieving the blanket from her horse’s backside, and then, whilst Málik sought a secure place to hide the horses for the evening—somewhere off the road, where no one could see them—she ascended the cliff alone, anticipating a cold, discomforting night, even with the blanket in her hand, because they couldn’t risk a fire. At the moment, she would have given a hundred coppers to have that horse pelt she’d so admired on the missing guard’s horse. It would have been far warmer than this.

Her muscles aching, and her calf burning, she made the climb, and grimaced when it began to sprinkle—a cold, spring rain that seeped into everything it touched and settled deep in the bones. Grateful for her good, sturdy boots, Gwendolyn ascended with care, knowing firsthand how slippery these cliffs could be.

The promontory itself was deceiving. At first glance, it would appear there should be no easy way up, but there was a path on the ocean-side, where the trail wasn’t quite so steep. However, the shelter was merely a shelf against the cliff side, exposed landward more than seaward and visible for leagues—both good and bad, because they could spy on anyone who traveled by, but if they were spotted, they would be trapped here, with no way down, except one… those rocks below. But the fall would be deadly, and if the rocks didn’t kill them, a vengeful ocean surely would.

Weary to her bones, Gwendolyn defied the pain in her legs, and the need to stop to weep. Finally, reaching the promontory, she ferreted out a good place to make a pallet—far enough from the edge of the cliff, against a small nook that should protect them from the wind and rain.

To make the pallet, she pushed aside all debris, knowing it would be impossible to find enough bracken here to pad a good bed. Shivering already, she crawled beneath the thin woolen blanket and huddled as far as she could into the nook. Sadly, this was how she must sleep—with her back against the wall, as rain pattered her boots.

Thankfully, Málik wasn’t long, and neither did he question the need to share a pallet, though he doubtless needed his sleep and the blanket far less than Gwendolyn. Yet knowing they must rise together with the sun, neither did he hesitate to join her, especially once he heard the chattering of her teeth.

Gods.

Even her lost cloak would have been better than this, but that, too, was gone, likely burnt in the fire in the room she shared with her cousins—Málik’s as well, though his place of slumber was not in the house. Like everything else she possessed—or nearly—that cloak had been her mother’s. Thankfully, she still had her beautiful Prydein gown, soiled as it was from so much dirt, smoke, blood, and sweat. Pulling the blanket to her chin, Gwendolyn acknowledged the disparity between her true life… and this…

All her given days, if she’d thirsted or hungered, she could ring a bell for sustenance. If she was dirty, she rang for a bath. If she needed a blanket, she sent Demelza to procure one. If she needed clothing—well, she never needed clothing. Her mother saw to it she wanted for naught. Only now, as she shivered beneath a threadbare blanket, feeling the chill wind creep into her tattered, wet clothes, she understood what it felt like to need things she couldn’t have.

As for that continued lesson… Her belly grumbled loudly. There was nothing in their saddlebags, and neither did she get to eat her eggs. Quite likely, they were still sitting in that hearth pot, over a long-spent fire… as cold as she was.

Her mood sour as the smell of this blanket, she started as Málik pinched the coverlet between two fingers and tossed it off her legs. Without asking permission to do so, he lifted her hosen to inspect her wound. Finally, satisfied with what he found, he tugged the hosen back down and settled himself beneath her blanket, drawing Gwendolyn close, before producing a bit of salted meat from the purse at his waist.

“’Tis healing,” he said. “I was worried the shivering could be a sign of fever.”

“Where did you get the meat?” Gwendolyn asked, grateful but guilt-ridden that he had taken it upon himself to shield her from the rain.

“The cupboard at Ia’s, before those idiots arrived.”

Gwendolyn nodded, her lips trembling miserably, though if she dared give into her grief right now, she would find herself a puddle on the ground. And therefore, she refused to cry, even when Málik drew her close to keep her in the warmth of his arms. Not once did she recall such a warm embrace—not from her father, nor from her mother.

Never from Demelza.

Nor Ely.

Certainly not Bryn.

Only once, ever, did she remember Lady Ruan lifting her up into her arms—when Gwendolyn fell and skinned her knees. Lady Ruan then carried her straight to the healer, and dumped her on a cold table, and left to fetch her mother—who never came.

This…

Thiswas different.

Like the way he’d held her down in the fogous.

Some part of Gwendolyn longed to stay here and never leave. Forget the world at large. Forget her duties. Forget Prince Locrinus and her promise. Forget her vows and crown. Forget the treachery…and the dead.

Only to be held… like this.

Always.

Forever.

Two hearts, beating as one.

“Did you eat?” she dared to ask, after a while, only hoping the miserable cold hadn’t stolen her voice.

“Not yet,” he said, and by the way he spoke, Gwendolyn knew he didn’t intend to. He was saving whatever food there was for her, and though she wished to reprove him, they were only a half a day’s ride from home. If she must herself, she could go without, and empty the larders when she returned. And no matter what anyone said, she would sit Málik down at the lord’s table, and would command him to be fed—anything his heart so desired.

He deserved that, and more.

Eventually, her teeth stopped chattering.

Málik’s heat was enough to keep her toasty. Up above, the moon was scarcely a sliver in the sky. Judging by its shape, only a few more days till she must take her vows.

For Gwendolyn’s people, a new moon represented a time for rebirth. Whatever was wrong before that moon was reborn, it could be undone by the new cycle. And yet, here and now, she feared there were mistakes to come.

Unwittingly, her hand moved to her bare throat, where the torc no longer rested, and, for this, there would be a consequence to pay.

Tomorrow.

Tonight, she didn’t wish to think about that.

She snuggled closer to Málik, sighing.

Tonight, she was safe.

Alas, everything she’d ever believed of this man was true. He was arrogant and cold—not to mention overbearing—when he hadn’t any right to be. He spoke to her as though he thought himself a prince above all, and Gwendolyn only a poor servant. And yet…

She shivered anew, this time not because of the cold… but with a sudden, intense awareness of the man beside her. After a while, the rain stopped, though Gwendolyn still didn’t stir. She could pretend to be overjoyed by the prospect of wedding Prince Loc.

But she was not.

A sob tore from her throat.

A tear slipped past her lashes.

Instinctively, Málik drew her closer.

“Hush,” he whispered. “All may seem lost, but the daylight will bring you clarity.”

Gwendolyn nodded gratefully.

He shifted suddenly, turning to face her. “You aren’t alone,” he said, reaching up to brush a hand across her brow and then back to tangle his long fingers through her hair. “You were never alone, Princess, and I will not leave you.”

More tears slid past Gwendolyn’s lashes, and, not for the first time over these past few days, she dared to lay her damp cheek against Málik’s chest to weep, so grateful for his soothing words, trusting in her heart that he spoke true.

She wasn’t alone.

Gwendolyn had never been alone, not even when it felt as though she was. She had her mother. She had her father. And now she had Málik.

“Tomorrow will be brighter,” he promised, and Gwendolyn’s throat tightened as she shook her head, more tears dampening his leathers. “Not for my cousins,” she said. “Not for Cunedda.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.” And his voice was deep and hoarse as his hand petted her hair. “You are not the spoiled princess I once believed.”

Gwendolyn strangled on a bit of laughter. “Neither are you the hideous creature I once conceived.” And yet, and yet…

Giving lie to her words, she saw the moon glint on the sharpest of his teeth as he smiled, and the smile was as intimate and minacious as… a kiss.

The moment was rife with tension, filled with anticipation, tender, but bittersweet.

Longing and sadness.

Málik tapped a finger beneath Gwendolyn’s chin, lifting her face to his gaze, although she couldn’t actually see him so well as he likely saw her. “You needn’t do it,” he said.

Gwendolyn blinked. “Do what?”

“I should not say it, but I will… come with me, Gwendolyn,” he pleaded. “Forswear the crown and come to a place where no adversity may seek you.”

Gwendolyn laughed softly. “And where would that place be, Málik? If there is one thing I have learned, it is that there is adversity everywhere, always.”

“Not where I am from,” he said, and then, after a long, excruciating moment, when Gwendolyn did not push him away, he dared to press his lips over her own.

They were not warm, but hot—too hot to deny.

It drew Gwendolyn like a moth to flame, but where his mouth was soft and pliant, his teeth were not.

Somewhere in the fog of her brain, she understood these teeth represented danger, and yet not the sort she’d once supposed. Even knowing she should not, she dared to cling to him, pulling him nearer, greedy for the taste of his mouth.

Gods.

Aside from Prince Loc, she had never tasted a man like this before this, even despite that she had imagined herself kissing Málik just this way—full-mouthed, with lips pressed hungrily together, bodies melting into one another, as she sipped greedily from the nectar of his mouth.

His teeth, so sharp, dared to catch her lip, and he pricked it ever so gently, then lapped her thereafter. And on his tongue, Gwendolyn could taste the copper tang of her own blood.

She sensed his restraint in the grip of his hands about her upper arms, and hadn’t even realized he held her so firmly, until she felt him shudder… and… if she uttered a word… a single word… only “yes”… he would dive deeper into her mouth, to plunder its depths.

Tentatively, Gwendolyn offered him the tip of her tongue, and he suckled greedily, then offered his own, the trading of these forbidden caresses titillating but… prohibited.

Greedy for more, she dared to deepen the kiss, and some small noise escaped him that sounded suspiciously like a growl. Her body responded at once, as she longed for his hands to roam her body, but daren’t ask.

Thiswas how her body was supposed to hunger, like lovers coupling in the woods on a summer solstice, with the sweet scent of pollen heavy in the air.

Dearest gods…

Deep in Gwendolyn’s heart, when she imagined herself carrying a babe, her belly swollen with child, it was Málik’s she envisioned.

She didn’t know when this had changed, or if ever it did—perhaps she’d wanted Málik all along, only knowing in her heart this love was forbidden.

“Gwendolyn,” he rasped.

Gwendolyn’s heart hammered against her ribs, like a prisoner begging to be set free. She desperately wished to give herself to him, but… she was… promised.

It was Málik who tore himself away, staring expectantly through the shadows. “Gwendolyn,” he begged.

“I have a duty to Cornwall,” she said brokenly.

“You don’t love him,” he argued.

“I will,” she vowed. “For Cornwall, I will love where I must.”

“I understand,” he said, and the look on his face was thoughtful.

Gwendolyn felt the need to explain. “I cannot deny what I feel for you, Málik, but I was born to serve my people, and I cannot fail them now. I am my father’s heir—his only heir—and I am duty-bound and promised by my word.”

“I understand,” he breathed. “I do.” And then he pulled her close again. “Sleep, Princess. The day has been long. Tomorrow will arrive too soon.”