The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterThirty-Seven

“Please, Gwendolyn. Smile,” her mother rebuked, as they stood observing the preparations in the courtyard below, awaiting their cue. In only a few moments Gwendolyn and her party would be expected to descend the ramparts, and together, she and Prince Locrinus would ride to the Sacred Yew together, trailed by all of Cornwall, so it seemed.

The Loegrian party had only just arrived. King Brutus had dispatched his messenger to advise Gwendolyn to be ready to depart the city immediately following the ceremony—in his words, “To give the couple privacy and time alone.”

But, perhaps more significantly, Prince Locrinus had heard of Gwendolyn’s ordeal in Chysauster, and, to avoid further treachery, he had arranged for the two of them to travel by some unexpected route… alone… with a small entourage to serve them, so they could travel more swiftly. She was grateful for this care, but whilst the entire kingdom remained in Trevena to make merry, and celebrate their nuptials, the Kings’ heirs would slip away, to consummate their vows in the privacy of a tent in the middle of nowhere, with only Gwendolyn’s lady’s maid to witness her blooded sheets.

This was not the way she had imagined her wedding night would be. But it was far too late for regrets—and even were it not, there was no other choice to be made. She was her father’s only heir, and as the Prophecy demanded, the dragon banners must be united.

The afternoon sun burned hot, making Gwendolyn sweat in all her layers of finery—something she evidently wasn’t supposed to do, and one glance at her mother made her feel even more unbecoming, as she imagined kohl melting about her eyes, beneath her veil.

According to custom, Gwendolyn could not yet see her betrothed, not till the instant she was unveiled—like a sculpture meant to be admired, or a gem to be worn.

It was a silly custom, she thought—mortifying, no matter that it was intended as flattery. As pretty as he was, Prince Locrinus wasn’t wearing a veil. And yet, Gwendolyn was grateful for hers, because it would hide her tears as she marched to her fate.

Gods.

There was nothing wrong with Prince Locrinus, she told herself. So what if he wasn’t interested in her Dancing Stones, or that she didn’t like the way he’d made her feel in the cave.

For an instant, Gwendolyn had liked him, and she could—and must—endeavor to do so again. Simply because she had unreasonably allowed a cold-hearted fae into her life, into her heart, was not the Prince’s fault. As betrotheds were concerned, hers was quite certain to be envied, and if the scene below was any sign, he already was.

In anticipation of the Prince’s arrival, all the young ladies of her father’s court were attired in white or gold, else both, and all the men with robes to match. The setting sun shone on their metal accoutrements, blinding Gwendolyn where she stood on the ramparts.

It was clear to all who had eyes to see that Prince Locrinus had won himself the hearts and minds of her people, and no matter that he was not yet their rightful King, they were no doubt pleased he would someday be—and this he had managed with only a single visit, and a winsome smile on his too-comely face.

Indeed, he was the golden child, the sort for whom life came so easily—not that Gwendolyn had cause to complain, considering her station.

Whatever anyone thought of her countenance, no one would dare mistreat her, although it vexed her to no end that he could so easily win everyone over, and she, as a woman, had to work so bloody hard to gain the same respect.

And regardless, she was ashamed of the resentment she felt in her heart for one so beauteous as he.

After all, who shouldn’t favor beauty?

Were Gwendolyn not already beguiled, she mightn’t have found anything to complain about—and yet… she was… and did.

By the eyes of Lugh, the only thing she had ever coveted—beauty—was the one thing she now reviled, for what was beauty alone without a heart and soul to match?

Look at him,she thought. Only look at him!

Even his golden robes were finer than hers. Why must he always arrive with such pomp and ceremony?

Gwendolyn’s bridal gown was simple, but quality. Its design reminded her of an elder woman she once met from An Ghréig, with straight, flowing lines that hid her woman’s curves and a golden belt cinched high beneath her breasts to accentuate her bosom—Trojan, or so Demelza claimed.

Her crown this eve was the intricately carved forehead crown her mother gave her, the one embedded with the rainbow moonstones—Prydein.

Simple as it was, by her finery alone, she would represent three great tribes. And yet, even from this distance, Prince Locrinus was so blindingly golden and so beautiful that it put Gwendolyn to shame.

“Gwendolyn, please! Don’t look so glum,” her mother persisted, and then, turning once more to watch the Prince, she said, “This is the difference between a woman and a child, my dear—a woman faces adversity and makes the best of her situation. I will apprise you what my mother once said to me: If you look for joy, you’ll surely find it. If you look for grief, you will find that, as well. But, if you accept your fate with grace and faith, you may yet discover your greatest joy.” Essentially, it was the same counsel Demelza had given her.

Her mother smiled then, and said, “At any rate, I have never seen a man so fine. You are fortunate, indeed!” Then you wed him, Gwendolyn thought glumly.

And truly, it galled her that she had vied her entire life to receive an instant of the regard her mother so willingly gave to her betrothed. Even now, Queen Eseld found it far more appealing to gaze at him than she did to consider her only daughter.

Only Málik had ever truly seen her.

Only Málik had ever treated her as an equal, expecting her to live up to her promises.

Unwittingly, Gwendolyn lifted her fingers to her lips, remembering the feel of his mouth, the sharpness of his teeth, the taste of his tongue.

I am undone, she thought.

Undone.

Unquestionably, if she refused to consummate this marriage, her mother would gladly offer to catch her by the ankles—and only to think of it, something like bile rose at the back of her throat over the thought. Battling the urge to weep—a thing Gwendolyn rarely did but was doing quite oft now—she caught her hands and held them before her, if only to hide their trembling. But it wasn’t merely nerves that made her belly ache. It was something else entirely.

Time was growing short.

Already the sun was beginning its descent.

Awaiting their cue as well, Ely and Demelza joined them on the ramparts, but neither spoke. Both stood aside, stone-faced, and in the presence of Queen Eseld, both were mindful to keep opinions to themselves. And yet, Gwendolyn knew intuitively that Ely was grieving as well, her heart heavy knowing that she, too, would be expected to depart the city within the next few bells—dragged away from the only life she had ever known… these halls wherein they’d played together, the fields where they’d run, the shoals they’d climbed, the oysters they’d loved.

Gods willing, perhaps Ely might eventually forgive Gwendolyn for her duplicity, even despite that Gwendolyn couldn’t regret having allowed herself the time with Málik.

Even now, she couldn’t regret a single moment.

If he asked again, would she go?

Knowing her father’s plight, how could she not wed Prince Locrinus?

Not for the first time, Gwendolyn cursed the infernal Prophecy.

But no matter—even if she refused to marry, she might never see Málik again. He’d run away with her heart and the sword. Even now, standing next to her mother, Gwendolyn longed to cast herself into her mother’s arms and beg not to go. But no one was more adamant than Queen Eseld that Gwendolyn must fulfill her destiny.

“Our banners will be united!” her mother had said fiercely, and if she was passionate about nothing else, she was passionate about this.

Below the ramparts, Prince Locrinus was making his way toward the gathering place whence the procession would depart, appearing contented to soak in the praise. Apparently, his younger brothers were attending, as well as his mother.

By now, the entire countryside had gathered, and the city gates were left wide to admit all who cared to follow the procession.

There was a crush clear through the courtyard, all the way past the Mester’s Pavilion, past the barracks, across Stone Bridge, and clear out the gates, onto the King’s Road.

Down below, to one side, Gwendolyn could see that same little girl with her mother, the one she’d spoken to on the bridge on the way to the market. They were both holding brightly colored flowers, waiting for their chance to give these as an offering.

Conspicuously absent from the celebration were three of Gwendolyn’s favorite cousins… and their dutiful father and his wife. A knot formed in her throat as she remembered their final moments—Lowenna’s twisted body being dragged by her grieving husband.

It was a sight Gwendolyn would never forget.

Her own father stood below, flanked by his Shadows, and for now, he was steady on his feet, looking resplendent—and quite golden by right, for his livery, like their dragon standard, was gold and white—and this was a curious thing Gwendolyn only now realized: the choice of Prince Locrinus’ colors, the absence of crimson, even in his cloak, despite that he was flanked by his red-cloaked guards.Curious as well was the fact that he never once peered up to seek his bride, though Gwendolyn could have missed his glance, as she was peering out over the palace gates, over the parklands, searching the horizon… for someone else.

Someone who was long gone from this place, and perhaps even this isle.

Someone who had likely already cast her out of his mind and his heart.

She would never forget that final, hardened glance.

And still, some small part of her prayed he would come trotting through those gates, as he had during that wintertide evening, that he would ride into the courtyard and pause before the ramparts, begging Gwendolyn to leap into his arms—but it was impossible.

Down below, the Awenydds were gathered now as well.

The entire city seemed to hold their breaths.

Prince Locrinus assumed his mount, and beside him waited Gwendolyn’s mare. The entire procession to the Yew would take no more time than it would to descend to the harbor. Gwendolyn could see the great tree from her perch, stately and majestic, like a twisted, old sovereign guarding its land. That’s where the Elder Druid awaited now.

“Art ready?” asked her mother.

No.

She was not.

Gwendolyn nodded, and with all her heart, longed to reach for her mother’s hand. Alas, Queen Eseld was not the hand-holding sort. She gestured for Gwendolyn to precede her, and Gwendolyn dutifully obeyed. Her mother and maids fell into step behind her, and Gwendolyn made her way toward the stairs.