The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterThirty-Eight
Few knew how long they lived—Druids and yews—but this ancient tree had stood in Trevena’s shadow so long as Gwendolyn had memory.
Newly arrived from Llanrhos to officiate her ceremony and later to take measure of the glen for her father, the elder druid appeared to be the yew’s very twin, with crags in his wizened old face, gnarled old limbs, and skin pocked with age.
Some yews were ancient as the faerie hills, present when the world was made, elder witnesses to the passing of ages—never so silent as one might believe, for they were also known to be bringers of dreams, and the Druids oft took their visions from the vapors they produced.
All things were made known during these waking dreams, and even now, the elder druid stood inside the hollow, eyes closed as he summoned the ysbryd y byd—the spirit of the age.
As warm as the day was, anyone else standing below the tree’s branches risked more than hallucinations, and the holding of breaths was less a response to the occasion as it was to the yew itself. When finally the druid spoke, there was a collective gasp of relief. He looked at Gwendolyn, seeing her straight through the veil, even despite that his old grey eyes were milky with age.
“Today, we call upon the elements to bring unto this union the harmony they share. From Air, we beg curiosity and peace. From Fire, we beg courage and passion. From Water, we beg stillness and strength. And, from Earth, we beg humility and gratitude. Join hands!” he commanded, his voice like thunder, and Gwendolyn offered hers though it quaked.
At once, Prince Locrinus accepted it, placing it gingerly over the back of his own, as the Druid sang, “Now is the time between times, when all light is swallowed by darkness…
“This be the hour for our dead to return to our realm, while piskies dance through the sacred glens, shifters may change forms and the ben-Sidhe howls against the wind.
“It is also a time whence all possibilities and promises are born. Are you prepared to fulfill your destiny together?”
The question seemed posed solely to Gwendolyn, and though she knew it wasn’t so, she must be the first to reply. “I am,” she said, her chin quivering behind her veil. She daren’t even look sideways at her betrothed, and she willed away tears that threatened to spill.
“Indeed,” said Prince Locrinus, with such confidence that Gwendolyn wished she could borrow from him.
The druid’s voice carried over the field, amplified from his hollow in the tree, as though he spoke through a herald’s trumpet.
“With hands joined, and by your own free will, bound by the laws of man in accord with the Brothers’ Pact, and betokened by the torc of your noble houses, we call upon you now to claim one another! Your marriage will be your gift to the realms, binding each together!”
Knowing this was her cue, and with the yew’s fumes already making her feel heady, even with the added protection of her veil, Gwendolyn retrieved her hand to remove the heavy torc from her chain, her fingers fumbling with the latch, and then moved forward to place the torc itself about Prince Locrinus’ neck, discarding the chain. Someone rushed forward to scoop it up from the ground at her feet, and with trembling fingers, Gwendolyn arranged the torc so his dragons’ heads were staring at the apple of his throat.
The hue of the torc’s metal cooled beneath the shade of the ancient yew, and the eyes of his serpents winked a dull grey—a chameleon, perhaps like its wearer.
Prince Locrinus smiled at her then, with so much warmth and so genuinely, that Gwendolyn’s heart filled with hope—indeed, this was the man she should love.
Resolved, she stepped back again, and Prince Locrinus quickly removed Gwendolyn’s torc from his chain, and then he, too, stepped forward to place it about her throat, discarding the chain and placing it quickly about her throat.
Made for a woman, hers wasn’t nearly so heavy as his, and it settled easily, with the dragon snouts so close together they appeared to be kissing. Gwendolyn couldn’t see them, but she could definitely feel them.
Compelled to, she adjusted her torc. And then, as he had done for her, she gave Prince Locrinus a tremulous smile, and vowed to be the wife he deserved.
Between them, the druid nodded approvingly, and said, “You are now joined in matrimony as Prince and Princess of Pretania! Go forth this day to your dwelling place, together, never to be put asunder! May you live long and prosper!”
And then it was done. Gwendolyn lifted her veil, revealing her face, and Prince Locrinus smiled, straightening to his full height, seizing her by the hand, forgoing the customary kiss of peace, and turning her about to raise their joined hands so everyone could see.
A great huzzah rose amidst the gathered crowd, rippling over the field in waves. At once, the celebration removed itself from the vicinity of the tree—all save for the druid, who remained, eyes closed again, his lungs filling with fumes, and both his hands splayed upon the yew as he prayed. Gwendolyn marveled that as decrepit as he appeared to be, his tolerance for the yew poison was so great. Much like hemlock, the toxin was strong, the vapors equally so.
And regardless, the druid would remain this way throughout the twilight, and on the morrow, he would attend her father to tell him what visions he saw—including those he would call upon for the sake of the glen. Gwendolyn only hoped the blight would be curable, though tonight, she daren’t dwell on such things—not when she must keep a smile on her face.
King Brutus was the first to rush forward to congratulate the newly wedded couple. He kissed Gwendolyn on the left cheek and said, “What joy you will bring to our house!”
Prince Locrinus’ mother was quick to do the same. She gave Gwendolyn one soft cheek to nuzzle, then the other, and then embraced her fully. “Daughter,” she said. “I will treat you as though you were my own.” Her voice was kindly, and Gwendolyn’s breath hitched over a lump of sudden joy.
Locrinus’ brothers followed—Kamber and Albanactus, each more winsome than the other. “Alas,” teased Albanactus. “If only I were the one born first!” He lifted Gwendolyn’s hand and kissed it swiftly. Then Kamber did the same. “Princess,” said Kamber, and then added, “We shall forever remain your humble servants.”
Gwendolyn’s father was slower to reach her, but whatever strength he’d lacked these past few days, he now mustered for this embrace, squeezing Gwendolyn so tightly as he whispered in her ear. “You are beauteous, Daughter. I am proud.” And then he turned to Prince Locrinus and crooked a finger at him, and said, “Get me a grandson, young man!”
Embarrassed, Gwendolyn smiled, once again mentally preparing herself for the night to come. Queen Eseld came to embrace her next and for the first time in all Gwendolyn’s life, the embrace was genuine and long—so very long, and so terribly bittersweet. It brought a new sting to Gwendolyn’s eyes. “Mother,” she rasped, as Queen Eseld held her close.
“My dearest, sweet child,” said Queen Eseld. “I am so pleased for you. Today you have brought great joy and healing to our people and our lands. I only wish with all my heart that your grandmother and grandfather were here to witness this day!”
Gwendolyn nodded, her voice too thick to speak as her mother extricated herself from the embrace, and then patted Gwendolyn gently on the cheek.
And that was that.
Prince Locrinus stood by her side, solicitous and kind, making Gwendolyn rue the moment she’d dared give her heart to a heartless creature—who, by the by, couldn’t even remain in attendance long enough to see she was wed, less to celebrate her moment.
One last time, she allowed herself a sudden and overwhelming surge of fury over Málik’s abrupt departure, but she vowed this anger must be a cleansing. After today—this moment—she would think of him no more, and she would be a wife and princess.
Prince Locrinus took her by the arm, drawing Gwendolyn away from the bantering crowd. Drawing her aside, he lifted his hand to a wayward curl and brushed it away from Gwendolyn’s face, his eyes shining with…
Love? Joy? Desire?
“Beautiful,” he declared. “I cannot wait to have you to myself. But first!”
He turned to wave a hand into the air, and the throng parted to reveal Gwendolyn’s bridal gift… a grey-white mare with a golden mane and tail, to replace the one she’d lost.
Its lithe body was armored with golden scales, including a croupiere, crinet and peytrol, with a shaffron that bore a golden horn. “From Gaul,” he said. “Imported for you. This breed is highly prized, loyal to a single master.”
He smiled companionably. “As I will be loyal only to you. Until the day we are called to serve, my lady, we will travel together, east to west, north to south, if only so our people may gaze upon their beauteous queen. This is my gift to you—not merely the horse.”
He bowed then, humbling himself before her, and Gwendolyn’s heart did a small, tentative leap of joy. Not only because of his kind words, or his sweet gift, or his promises, but more than anything, Gwendolyn wanted to travel, and clearly he’d heard her and understood this, and he cared enough to give her such a wondrous gift.
Without warning, he swept Gwendolyn into his arms and carried her to the golden saddle, then settled her atop. Thereafter he grinned broadly, like a wee boy, and waved for his own horse to be brought forth. “Shall we begin our journey together, Princess?”
“Oh, yes!” Gwendolyn exclaimed, excitement bubbling up within her as a murmur grew throughout the crowd. All at once, she felt heartily ashamed for all the terrible things she’d thought of him. Love where you must, she heard Demelza say.
Love where you must.
Love where you must.
And now she understood why he’d wished to take her away so soon after the ceremony, and the knowledge swelled in her breast until her heart must surely be twice its normal size. This was his Bride’s Gift to her, she realized, and it was splendid. Whatever reservations she’d given asylum to, she set free, ready to fly with her prince by her side. Hope sprang from some unforeseen well. Gwendolyn peered down at him, commanding her heart to change, and her mother’s words whispered into her ear…
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.
Gwendolyn reveled over the feel of the horse's flesh between her thighs, and she sat tall and proud in her new saddle as the Prince found his own horse and mounted beside her. Indeed, he was fine—every muscle in his body straining against his golden garb—his legs encased in glittering hosen, his arms and chest with painted gold leather, emblazoned with a version of his own dragon, also in gold. But nay, she looked closer, and saw it was both their standards combined. His dragon. Her colors. Their house.
A new standard for a new age.
Another huzzah swept through the crowd, and this time, though Gwendolyn noted her husband bent to take her reins, he constrained himself, and smiled instead, straightening in his saddle to give her a flourish of his hand. “Where you go,” he said, “I follow.”
And with those words, a tiny seedling of love unfurled within Gwendolyn’s breast—tiny, tiny but strong. One last time, she peered back to seek her mother’s gaze and found Queen Eseld smiling happily. Her father and mother were bantering easily with their new relations, and she knew in that instant… she had chosen well.
Eager now to meet the entourage they would travel with, and keen for a new adventure, Gwendolyn gave her mount a nudge with her knee, but then, something caught her eye… a lone figure in the distance, on the bluff over the sea—a dark silhouette against a lowering sun, and the sight gave her heart a little twist.
She knew who it was but turned away.
Love where you must, Demelza had said. Well, the one thing Gwendolyn loved most in this world—more than anything else—was her father, this land, and her people.
Resolved at last, she turned her back to the glittering sea.