The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterThree
There were only a handful of places Bryn could be: in the stables, pampering his beloved mare; in the Mester’s Pavilion with his sire; else in the courtyard, practicing at swordplay. These were the first places Gwendolyn would look. If he wasn’t at any of these places, then he would be in the cook’s house, charming kitchen maids into parting with a morning cake, or two.
Without question, Ely’s brother was a simple soul, unfettered by personal desires—all except for those regarding his belly. He was devoted to his family, unwavering in his sense of duty, and he was also quite good at his occupation—a natural consequence of the long hours spent in training. And, he was so good that he held several distinctions, including a few for hand-to-hand combat, archery, swordplay, and not the least of his skills: equestrian handling. Over the years, he’d taught Gwendolyn everything she knew.
And yet, all this said, it was difficult for Gwendolyn to take him too seriously when they’d shared the same wet nurse.
The one thing Bryn was not, however, was forthcoming. His deep, soulful eyes held secrets he was neither willing nor capable of revealing, and more and more, she felt the truth of this as a barrier between them. Like Demelza, Bryn was imperturbable, and no matter what Gwendolyn said or did, he faced her with that same self-assured half-smile that never failed to catch a favor from the kitchen maids. This was only natural because he shared the same countenance with his sister. But unlike Ely, Bryn was far more certain of himself—and this, too, was only natural, because Bryn was older. Three years senior to his sister, one year to Gwendolyn. By the time Ely came about, Gwendolyn and Bryn were already close as ticks, and Ely had toddled about behind them like a sweet little pup. It was only later, after Bryn was sworn to Gwendolyn, that his demeanor changed, and she grew closer to Ely.
She found him in the first place she looked—in the courtyard, sparring with his new partner, a pointy-eared Sidhe Gwendolyn neither liked nor trusted. No matter that hemust be scarcely older than Bryn, and not much more than Gwendolyn, he behaved as though he thought himself better than everyone, despite her station—not that Gwendolyn considered herself superior merely because of a crown. Simply because one’s rás was the elder rás, did not presume one’s dominion. Rather, one must earn one’s place in this world—everyone, including kings.
And regardless, Málik was quite the swordsman, dancing about on the nimblest feet Gwendolyn had ever seen.
More than anything, she loathed she was so compelled to watch him, and she loathed it all the more that she admired his style. Indeed, sometimes, in the privacy of her bower, she practiced maneuvers like his. And, here and now, determined as she’d been to ignore him, she watched them cross swords from the corner of one eye, holding her breath as he twirled like a dancer, then landed gracefully on his feet, like a cat. Unfortunately for Bryn, seeing Gwendolyn distracted him. To his detriment, he relaxed his sword arm, and that damnable Sidhe turned the flat of his blade against the side of Bryn’s arm, whacking him hard, his ice-blue eyes glittering fiercely.
Irksome elf!
Even thinking such blasphemy made Gwendolyn feel ashamed, yet no one in her life had ever infuriated her more than Málik Danann—not even her mother.
Danann! Danann! As though he had a right to the name. For all she knew, his blood spilled the same as hers. Anyone could claim to be anything at all.
Her cradleside visit notwithstanding, no one had ever actually met a true-blood fae in so long, and so much as Gwendolyn loved Demelza, even Demelza’s story gave Gwendolyn pause. All her life, she’d sought to meet one—until him. But if faekind were anything like him, she didn’t wish to know any more.
Silver-haired, silver-eyed, he certainly favored the stories of his ilk, including his teeth, which were frighteningly sharp. Whenever he smiled, he looked as vicious as a wolf.
Daring to meet his gaze now, Gwendolyn found a telltale glimmer in his eye, hard as diamonds, and much to her disgust, it sent a quiver down her spine.
In answer, she gritted her teeth because he was both smug and arrogant—the difference being that one was all about being annoyingly pleased with oneself; the latter a matter of abundant pride, coupled with a blatant contempt for others. Somehow, Málik managed both—always smirking, never affable, always judging. And if Gwendolyn read his expression right, he had clearly judged her and found her wanting. “I’m off to hunt!” she announced, instead of stopping to ask Bryn to join her—and truly she would have, instead of presuming he would attend her, but it irked her terribly that Málik gave her his usual look of disdain, as though her presence eternally wearied him.
As it was, he was quite fortunate her father no longer put heads on pikes, as her grandfather used to do, because Málik’s might be a perfect candidate—not that her father would agree, mind you, because, somehow, the sorry creature had inveigled him, as he seemed to have inveigled everyone, Bryn and Ely included.
Nay, she hadn’t missed all the times Ely tried to convince Gwendolyn to go watch her brother spar, when in truth, it was Málik Ely cared to see.
His partner at once dismissed—and she had to confess it filled her with glee—Bryn hurried to catch her. “Gwendolyn… please, please tell me you asked your mother?”
Gwendolyn kept walking, readjusting the strap of her quiver so it wouldn’t slip down her arm. “Yes, of course,” she lied.
“Good,” he said. “Good. The last thing I need today is another rebuke.”
She dared not look at him. “Oh? And did you receive one already?”
“Of course.”
“What for?”
His voice held a note of pique. “Need you ask?”
“Nay,” Gwendolyn said, and kept moving, one foot in front of the other. No doubt it had something to do with her—as always. Bryn had one small weakness—he couldn’t seem to deny Gwendolyn when she begged. And yet, Bryn was an intelligent man; she couldn’t help if he saw her reason and capitulated.
Lamentably, even once they were inside the stables, Gwendolyn still couldn’t look at him. She knew him too well, and he knew her equally so. He would read the truth in her eyes, though her silence did not reassure him. “You didn’t ask, did you?”
It wasn’t a question and Gwendolyn gave him no answer, insomuch as silence wasn’t an answer. But it was.
Grumbling beneath his breath, Bryn reached out to pull open the stall door, cursing as he did so. “Blood and bloody bones, Gwendolyn!” He only ever called her Gwendolyn whenever he was angry. “You’ll be the death of me yet!”
“Princess to you,” Gwendolyn teased, not so much to remind him of his station as to nettle him—though perhaps in part to remind him, because the last thing she needed at that instant was for Bryn to gainsay her and prevent her from leaving the city. These were the first days of Spring, after a long Winter, and Gwendolyn was eager to visit the glen to see if the blight had returned, and she really wanted for Bryn to come along. If he forced her to go ask her mother, no one would go anywhere today.
And really, though she could leave without him—no one would stop her—he would answer for that as well. Therefore, he might as well come along. It wouldn’t go unnoticed if she rode out of the city unescorted.
But it wasn’t only the glen she wished to see. She wanted to speak to him privately to ask him what he knew of Prince Locrinus, since no one else seemed able or willing to say aught—save for Ely, if only to reveal he was tall.
Although Bryn might not be so forthcoming with his own cares, he was the one person she knew who understood what was at stake and who would speak to her without prevarication. And yet, he was right, of course. Her mother would be furious, but Prince Locrinus’ arrival wasn’t anticipated until the morrow and Gwendolyn shouldn’t be expected to think only of him, especially where it concerned her father.
Moreover, though she realized the import of the Prince’s visit, she hadn’t any clue how long their guests intended to remain, or when would be the next time she might get out of the city, and simply be a girl, not a princess, or a would-be queen, and especially not a Promised One.
The Queen Consort would see her immersed in too many preparatory efforts, none of which bore any true value to anyone, including herself. At this point, there was no magik cream to change Gwendolyn’s countenance, and this was all her mother truly cared about. She would have Gwendolyn bedeviled with beauty regimens—the washing of hair, the combing of hair, the braiding of hair, the powdering of skin, the inking of eyes, the scrubbing of skin, the moisturizing of skin, the painting of skin—it was all too much!
Not to mention the endless reminders about manners and suggestions for how to behave in the presence of her new betrothed—what to say, how to say it, when to say it.
Most significantly, what not to say, and how to comport herself as a woman should, keeping a smile painted upon her face, even through a wash of tears.
Itwas enough to make Gwendolyn nervy as a bat fresh from slumber, despite that she did truly wish to make a good impression.
But if all that were not reason enough, Bryn also needed time for repose. After the Prince arrived, there would be no rest for him at all, and Gwendolyn hadn’t any questions about her duties tomorrow. She’d been taught from the day of her birth that her people were her priority, and this wedding would come to pass, if only for them.
She knew little about the Prince, but as far as she was concerned, far more than a perfectly powdered face, knowing something about his likes and dislikes could help her conduct herself so he might find her appealing. No matter what Ely claimed, Bryn must have surely met him at some point. How else would Ely know he was tall, or that Bryn didn’t like him? Really, what plausible reason could Bryn have to dislike a man he’d never met?
At any rate, she knew Bryn was keeping secrets of late, and she didn’t like it. If he’d met Prince Locrinus, then what good reason could he have for failing to say so?
Already, Gwendolyn’s nerves were frayed, and she still had one more evening to wait to see what Prince Locrinus would think of her. It was harrowing—truly—all this doing nothing. Only waiting to be judged. More than anything, it galled Gwendolyn that she should be reduced to caring about such things as her face. But alas, nobody, not once, ever, had said to her, “Practice your swordplay to impress your betrothed,” or, “Learn to ride better.” “Study harder.” But if she was meant to rule well, these were all things that were crucial to her role. Gwendolyn was an adequate swordsman, a very good aconter, and an excellent horsewoman. But these were not things her mother cared about—only her face, and at that, a face her mother could not even look at for an instant longer than she must.
Bryn said nothing more, but Gwendolyn heard him grousing as he left to gather the saddles. When he returned with both in hand, she plucked hers off the top without a word, opting to saddle her own mare. She didn’t need to be pampered at every turn. In fact, she preferred not to be. Bryn had enough to do on his own. She enjoyed fending for herself.
Anyway, if she were a man, she would have spent her entire life training to lead an army instead of learning to please a man. Wasn’t defense still the primary duty of a sovereign? Regardless of what one wore, or how one used the garderobe? Perhaps if Gwendolyn had had a brother, it might not fall within her scope of duties, but she didn’t have a brother. She was Cornwall’s heir—along with the husband she married. And therefore, it was incumbent upon her to learn every aspectof a sovereign’s duties.
Mayhap this was why Málik irritated her so bloody much, because she hadn’t had a single occasion to practice with Bryn since the day he’d arrived—rotten, misbegotten cur.
Once their horses were ready, Gwendolyn hauled herself into the saddle and exited the stable without waiting, reluctant to subject Bryn to any more rebukes. Perforce, he would pursue her, but she would rather have it said he came unwillingly.
As it was inside the palace, the city conducted itself at the same frenetic pace—merchants peddling wares in the courtyard, suppliers marching in their purchases, people rushing about in anticipation of the Loegrian envoy. Although this was not a usual market day, the market, too, was congested. Gwendolyn had to pass through to reach the narrow bridge that connected Stone Island to the mainland. Most of the merchants were congregated there, just inside the inner gates, hawking wares to anyone who ventured by. “Early spears!” called one merchant.
“Nettle tops!” cried another. “Nettle tops!”
And still another rushed forward to show Gwendolyn a lovely ell of azure cloth that looked like muslin. “Mollequin!” he said with lifted brows. “From the East! Here, let me show you, Highness!”
His black, wiry brows lifted higher as he petted his fine cloth, unwinding a length of the fabric so Gwendolyn could better see it.
“Not today,” she said, considering the manner of his dress and the multitude of gold rings on his fingers. She was not too impressed with such things anyway, but if he hadn’t worn so many rings, she might have offered him a copper and bade him to sell his cloth again.
Passing the permanent booths reserved for the most sought-after goods, she waved—at the baker and cordwainer in particular—before spurring her mount through the gates, onto the bridge, where there was considerably less foot traffic.
Clearly, it didn’t take long for news to travel. By now, everyone within twenty leagues of the city must have heard Prince Locrinus was expected, and every farmer and artisan in the area had come rushing to peddle their wares.
She passed a few small carts, then several men with packs on their backs, and finally a petite woman, strolling with a little girl, talking to her pleasantly, hardly concerned that they might be the last to find a spot in the market. Gwendolyn stopped for a moment to speak with them. “Myttin da,” she said, and smiled when the child’s brown eyes widened. Her mother was so surprised by the encounter that she stood with mouth agape.
“We’ve come to sell morels,” said the girl brightly, pointing to her mother’s meager basket.
“Indeed? I love morels,” said Gwendolyn, reaching into the pouch at her belt and producing a silver coin.
“Me too!” The child’s curls bobbed with her excitement as she jumped with glee. “Morels are my favoritest!”
Laughing, Gwendolyn said, “I would buy them all from you and save them for myself, but alas, I am off to hunt.”
“All by yourself?” asked the child with awe, cocking her neck back like a chicken.
“Indeed, a woman can hunt the same as a man,” Gwendolyn said. “Though I do not go alone.” She peered back to spy Bryn emerging from the market onto the bridge, and then turned back to address the little girl, thinking that, as dirty as she was, she was more precious than gold.
She tossed the silver coin down for the child to catch, and when she missed it, and went scurrying after it, the mother finally spoke. “Bless you, Highness! Bless you!”
“Thank you,” said Gwendolyn, but when the woman went to hand Gwendolyn her basket, Gwendolyn lifted a hand, and said, “Keep it, friend. Sell it again. Else keep some for yourself and your lovely child. I wish you good luck at the market today!”
“And you!” said the woman.
As Gwendolyn rode away, she could hear the child saying excitedly, “I found it, I found it!” “Keep it safe,” said her mother. “That was our Princess! This coin will bring us good luck.” A tickle spread from Gwendolyn’s heart, like tender little vines in search of the sun. It always made her feel so blessed to speak with her people.
She continued on, enjoying the warmth of the sun, peering down one side of King’s Bridge.
Trevena lay perched on an island of precipitous cliffs overlooking an angry sea. Joined to the mainland by a narrow pass, the city was founded by the original conservatives of this land, long gone now, but their magik remained—most notably in the Dragon’s Lair below the palace. Often by night and by sea, one could spy the dragon’s breath inside the cave—a warning to ships to keep their distance, at least until morning, when the churning waters were easier to navigate. This, as she’d learned, was a parting gift from the Ancients—the beacon that lured traders to their bay, guiding them safely within. It was, in fact, this marvel that first brought King Brutus to their lands, with all three of his gargantuan ships, each bearing a thousand warriors at the oars, and Prince Urien at the helm of one.
Gwendolyn wasn’t born yet.
The cove directly to the north of the bridge was too narrow for any but smaller vessels to navigate. However, the bay to the south harbored a well-used port. Even now, as she crossed the bridge, she could spy the bustle below—tiny folks from this vantage, and the usual crush of vessels hurrying to unload their hulls, hoping to clear the bay by nightfall.
Of course, even by day, only the most skilled sailors ever dared enter—if not for the jutting rocks, and deceptively strong currents, to steer clear of the staggering number of vessels anchored there, and the remnants of those that sunk.
Ships were far safer anchoring beyond the cove, and gods forbid anyone should be caught in the maw of the Dragon’s Bay when the sea god Manannán came to rage.
It was for that reason Trevena had endured so long, protected on all sides by natural defenses. And to this day, because of the gift of their Dragon’s Lair, their city thrived as a port—a matter of pride for her father, and for Gwendolyn as well.
Turning her attention from the harbor, Gwendolyn reveled in the lengthening silence. It was a lovely day for the ides of April. The sun shone brightly, warming the countryside a little more with each passing day. At long last, she gave a casual wave to the palace guards as she passed beneath the outer gates and made for the forest at an easy pace.
Only once her mare’s hooves bit into softer soil did she feel any true urgency to be away. And then she spurred the sweet beast into a canter, confident that Bryn would follow.
Tilting her head back with glee, she breathed in deeply. The countryside was a welcome departure. Already the grass was greener, and the distant trees were unfurling new leaves—the scent of them more welcome than any perfume from Illyria.
Finally, when she reached the tree line, Bryn dared to sidle up beside her. “There you are,” she teased, with a smile in her voice. “I worried you’d abandoned me.”
“Never,” he swore, and Gwendolyn knew in her heart that come what may, this would always be the case. Loyal Bryn would follow and serve her till death did them part. And if the need ever arose, he would sacrifice his life for hers—but he would choose to do so, not because it was expected, nor because it was his occupation, but because he loved her, not as a man loved a woman, but as a brother loved a sister. She trusted this and loved him, too.
Indeed, if there was one source of comfort to be found in the adventure to come, it was that she would never have to face her destiny alone. She would always have Bryn. Lamentably, her mood soured as she considered his new sparring partner. “I don’t know why you like that Sidhe so much,” she groused.
“Because he is true to himself,” Bryn replied. “Málik is who he is, without compromise or apology.”
“Oh, I’d say. Apologies are lost to that ignorant elf.”
It was not a polite thing to say, and Gwendolyn loathed that she’d felt compelled to say it, and perhaps she was even embarrassed, yet not enough to take it back.
Málik brought out the worst in her.
“Perhaps,” said Bryn, and left it at that, until Gwendolyn’s irritation got the better of her, and she added, “He is rude!” She cast Bryn a beleaguered glance. “I saw for myself the way he smacked you with his blade, smiling like a fox who swallowed the hen.”
Bryn smiled companionably. “I warrant ’tis naught more or less than what I would have done to him. We are friends.”
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Truly? And does it not bother you that your father gives him such favor? He came from where, Bryn? Nowhere, truly? Recommended by no one and yet suddenly this man is training our Elite Guard?”
“He has taught me well—more than my father.”
Gwendolyn fell silent, not wishing to argue, but not wanting to capitulate.
“At any rate, lest you forget, he was summoned here by your father.”
“Humph!” she said, straightening her spine, unwilling to afford Málik Danann any generosity at all. “I doubt this. And regardless, he enjoys showing off.”
Bryn’s lips thinned. “You know… I find it odd you would hold his rás against him—particularly you, Gwendolyn, since you seem so preoccupied with all things fae.”
She was preoccupied with all things fae.
Not anymore.
As children of the gods, the Tuatha’ans were supposed to have ruled eternally. Yet where were they now? Consigned to some dark underworld conceived for their penance, and why? If they were anything like Málik Danann, it must be because they were all arrogant fools.
Annoyed, Gwendolyn returned, “It is not his rás I hold against him, Bryn. It is his… attitude. He behaves as though he is born of gods.”
Bryn lifted a shoulder. “Aye, well, if the tales are to be believed, so he would be.”
Gwendolyn shot him another bedeviled glance, narrowing her eyes. “So he claims. Yet anyone could claim to be Danann and appoint himself such.” She forced a smile and gave Bryn an exuberant nod, false though it was. “Hello, friend. Have you met me? I am Gwendolyn Danann!”
Bryn shook his head. “I must disagree,” he said. “Aside from his name, he speaks little of his kind. You are wrong about him, Gwendolyn. All I know of Málik, aside from his prowess on the court, I only know through the gossip of others.”
“Humph,” she said again.
For a while, they cantered through the woods in silence. Alas, though Gwendolyn would have liked to have said she enjoyed the sound of Spring—the pitter-patter of creatures, the snapping of twigs beneath their hooves, and the warbling of birds—all she could hear was the sound of fury rushing through her ears.
“Alderman Morgelyn has been even more forthcoming about him than my father. Care to hear what more I know?”
Gwendolyn knitted her brows. “Nay. All I need know of him, I see in his eyes.”
It was true—according to the Awenydds, the truth of a man’s heart was like a flame in his eyes, and Málik’s flame burned bright with contempt.
“You, of all people, would be impressed,” Bryn taunted.
Once again, Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Gods forbid that Sidhe should win himself another disciple. He has more than enough admiration for himself to last him a hundred thousand lifetimes. And therefore I must sadly decline to allow you to regale me with such heroic tales—if indeed there are any to share.”
“There are.”
“Good. I don’t care.”
Bryn sighed, and said nothing more, no doubt loath to argue.
But Gwendolyn didn’t like it at all that he seemed so worshipful of Málik—particularly when he was the one who’d maligned him when he’d first arrived, and it was Gwendolyn who’d defended the ungrateful Sidhe—not that he would ever know it.
“Anyway…” She flicked her reins harder than she’d intended. “I detest the way he looks at me.”
“How so?”
Gwendolyn’s frown only deepened. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
“I see,” said Bryn, far too amiably, and then he changed the subject altogether. “Have you considered what would happen if your Prince should arrive early and your mother cannot locate you for his greeting?”
“She’ll make do without me,” assured Gwendolyn.
A small, ratty badger rushed across the path before them.
“Alas, I doubt my mother would have me as part of the welcoming party, anyway. I suspect that if she could have me wed Prince Locrinus without him ever having to glimpse my face, that is precisely what she would do.”
“You mistake her, Gwendolyn.”
“Nay, Bryn. And you must know how I adore you—as I do Ely—quite desperately for thinking me so utterly perfect. But we both know the truth. My mother doesn’t think me… worthy.”
Not for the dawnsio, not to carry the weight of the sovereignty, and certainly not to marry the likes of Prince Locrinus, despite that Gwendolyn was the only one who could.
By the by, Gwendolyn also suspected that if her mother could have masterminded some changeling magik of her own, she would have switched Gwendolyn and Ely at birth, and perhaps raised Ely as her own. No doubt she rued the day that someone like Gwendolyn ever came from her loins. Not only was Gwendolyn not a boy, but she was cursed, as well.
And despite this, Queen Eseld would never admit how she felt. She would go to her grave before speaking ill of her only daughter, no matter that her disappointment was there in the depths of her lovely Prydein eyes for all to see. Indeed, if the Prophecy held true, then it would seem her mother’s heart must not be virtuous enough to see beauty in her child, so she might never dare confess her true feelings, lest everyone else realize this as well.
“I am certain she loves you,” Bryn offered. “As we all do,” he added quietly.
“No doubt she loves the thought of me,” Gwendolyn countered.
“You say you wish to hunt?” asked Bryn suddenly, changing the subject once more, and pointing to a mass of grey-brown fur visible between the trees—a strapping, eight-point buck that sat watching from behind a dead bough. Like a stone effigy, the majestic beast stood still, only tipping its great head to keep a wary eye on the woodland’s trespassers.
“Too small,” Gwendolyn said dismissively, dismounting, and making enough noise to frighten the entire forest. Of course, the buck bolted, and a murmuration of starlings erupted from the treetops, speckled wings aflutter.
Gwendolyn was not here to hunt today. She was here to inspect the glen, nor did she wish to talk about Málik or her mother any longer.
Both topics distressed her—but neither so much as the health of the glen because it was the King who commanded this land, and the land that sustained him. Remnants of an age when the gods still dwelt here, the pool was filled with curative waters that could heal so many ills—if only it could heal a king. And yet, in so many ways, the haleness of the glen was a measure of her father’s health, and the reverse was true. It was his sickness that diminished the glen, and the sicker it became, the sicker he became as well. It was a vicious cycle that could lead to his death, and Cornwall’s, as well. This was why her marriage to Prince Locrinus was so crucial. The peace their union would foster was critical to Cornwall’s survival. Without the alliance, Cornwall wouldn’t last long enough to worry about the prophesied Red Tide.
As for Queen Eseld, though she was a conundrum, she was someone Gwendolyn deeply admired. Having come from Prydein as a young woman, she’d not only learned the Cornish language, but the language of the dawnsio as well. She’d embraced every role ever given her, always careful never to gainsay her husband, nor to give anyone the impression she acted against his will. In all things, her mother was a dutiful wife, and yes, perhaps mother, as well.
Gwendolyn knew her mother considered her interests above her own. But it was her attention she sought—a loving look here and there, the way she did with her husband.
And yes, of course, Gwendolyn knew that was different. A mother’s love for a daughter was not the same as her love for a mate—much as Gwendolyn’s love for Ely and Bryn was not the same as the love she someday hoped to have for her husband.
And yet… Gwendolyn often saw the way Lady Ruan regarded her children.
And sometimes she noticed a certain way Bryn looked at her… with a sparkle in his eyes that said he would welcome her embrace. But this wasn’t what Gwendolyn sought from him, and she didn’t feel the same, though how sorely she craved her mother’s arms.
“I am not in the mood to hunt,” she said, tilting a glance at Bryn, who was still mounted, watching her curiously.
“Who could have guessed.”
Gwendolyn grinned. “Let us swim instead.”
Bryn scowled. Neither was he tempted to dismount. He twisted his lips, peering back through the woods as though he considered leaving. “’Tis unwise,” he said finally.
“Why?”
“Because your mother will think it unseemly.”
“Gods! We’ve swum together a thousand times.”
“Everything is different now.”
Gwendolyn twisted her face. “Since when?”
“Since your betrothed is due to arrive at any moment,” he reminded, and Gwendolyn’s brows collided. She straightened her shoulders, unwilling to be led astray.
“He does not come till the morrow,” she argued.
“And still…”
“Well, I am going for a swim,” she said, turning her back to Bryn, and collecting her mare’s reins. “You may remain here.”
After today, everything would, indeed, be different, and that was all the more reason she must do what she needed to do. Come tomorrow, Prince Locrinus would be here, and if he liked her, they would be bound. After their ceremony, all her decisions would be made with him in mind. But right now, Gwendolyn was still Gwendolyn.
Unbound. Unwed. Uncowed.