The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterFour
Gwendolyn made her way down the familiar path toward Porth Pool, her mood lifting even as she went.
A swim would clear her head, and that could only aid her mother’s cause, improving her temperament, and perhaps it would even give her a more healthful glow.
Who could object to such things?
Some people claimed that beauty itself was a gift of the spring, and if that was true, then for the sake of the realm, she could use all the help she could get.
Although, in truth, Gwendolyn didn’t know what other people saw when they looked upon her, the most obvious consequence of her “gift” was this: Depending on how they viewed her, people treated her differently. If she feared anything at all, it was the possibility of spending the rest of her life with a man who did not, or could not, love her, because of her face. She prayed that when Prince Locrinus finally looked upon her, he wouldn’t see what her mother saw.
Tomorrow she would know for sure.
The thought sent a rush of starlings aflight, this one straight from her heart.
For obvious reasons, she knew Bryn would relent, but she didn’t feel too terrible about that, because as reluctant as he was to cross her mother, he also relished a good swim.
He worked too hard, she reasoned, never thinking of himself. If it weren’t for Gwendolyn, he might never rest, and therefore, she was doing him a favor—at least that’s what she told herself as she skipped along, eager as well to immerse herself in the warm, healing waters.
Porth Pool wasn’t as big as Dozmaré, where the Lady dwelt, but this pool was the last of its kind. As near as it was, few ever ventured here until the bloodroot and trilliums bloomed because the Winter woods were inhospitable and Jakk Frost was a tricksy fae who guarded these woodlands jealously until long after Spring’s first melt. Too many luckless fellows had been discovered hereabouts, bones wrapped in threadbare cloaks, curled up by long-dead fires.
Doubtless, most of these men had been searching for Porth Pool, for its restorative powers, because even during the midst of Winter, its waters remained warm and its ability to heal was strong. Even during midwinter, folks were driven to locate it, but the mists surrounding it could make men lose their way, and some said it was possible to lose their way completely and cross the Veil. Certainly, if the piskies had their way, luring men with their foolish fire, no man would ever find the pool. And yet, once upon a time, these pools had been plentiful throughout Cornwall. Now, there were only a handful remaining.
Whereas the rest of the forest was still waking from its long slumber, because of the temperate clime and warm steam, Porth Pool was always lush. Like an oasis, it lay hidden in a glen filled with oak, rowan, and hawthorn trees, all sacred to the gods. About two years ago, all the trees began to form disease—nowhere else in the woods save here. The oaks formed leaf blisters; the rowans ceased to give fruit; and the hawthorns became spotted.
Alas, the Gwyddons tried everything in their power to restore them, but ’twas said the land was attuned to the spirit of the age, and the ysbryd y byd was suffering.
Much to the dismay of the Awenydds, and particularly over these past few years, people coveted things shiny and new, turning their hearts and minds from the Old Ways.
At one point, the Gwyddons might have been among those whose minds were turned toward progress, but they were foremost men of spirit, and so now the scientists worked closely with the Awenydds to see if together they could make a difference. If, alone, they could not manage, they must call upon the Druids, whose magik was ancient, but dangerous.
For now, the best they could do was to mitigate the damage every Spring, and it was important to catch the blight before it took hold for the year.
If not, they risked the chance that the trees would perish, and if aught at all changed in this sacred place, it would alter the environs enough so it might endanger the pool.
A little south of Trevena, near the older tin and copper wheals, there used to be another such spring. Now it was nothing but a winterbourne.
Eventually, this, too, could be the fate of theirs, but it was early yet, and if there was any sign of blight, this time, they would call the Druids to tend their glen before it sickened further.
With their long, white beards and frizzled brows, the Llanrhos Druids were simply not men to be trifled with. They, like the Tuatha Dé Danann, were born of ancient blood, and whilst her own father was considered Pretania’s first High King, the Druids were the arbiters of this land, tasked with enforcing the will of the gods.
If her father’s goodwill inspired peace amongst the tribes, the Druid’s curse inspired fear, with good reason. Any grievances that could not be rectified among themselves could be brought before their door, but the outcome was never certain, for the Druids’ laws were not the laws of men, and their resolutions were frightening, and sometimes, the method of their judgment came at the expense of the plaintiff’s death.
Gwendolyn once heard of a man who went to plead his case to the Llanrhos Court, begging them to intervene on behalf of his good name. Of course, being a man, they agreed, and whilst he stood, smiling with satisfaction, they shoved a dagger into his belly, cutting him to his entrails, and made their judgment about his innocence by the way he stumbled and fell, and the way his entrails revealed themselves, as well as the splatter-tell of his blood.
No one should ever summon them without great care.
Feeling a stirring in her heart, a surge of love for her beloved father, Gwendolyn quickened her pace, eager to reach the glen before Bryn, and to see how the trees had fared through the long Winter—better than Urien, she hoped.
When finally she arrived, she exhaled a long breath, delighted to find that the trees were all hale—mostly—and realizing Bryn would delay his arrival only a moment to afford Gwendolyn a measure of privacy, she quickly disrobed.
No matter, it would be easier to survey the entire glen from the water, with all the trees surrounding her. Trusting the waters to be warm, she dove in and sighed with delight.
Wonderful. Blissful. Soothing.
Gods.This was what she needed today—a dip in the pool to steal all her troubles away. Holding her breath, she dove deeper.
Oh, yes, this!
This was how she imagined a mother’s womb should feel—cozy, warm, and safe.
Cradling her knees, Gwendolyn spun about, turning and turning, allowing her momentum and the water to carry her as it would.
Acceptance with grace and faith.This was the way of the Awenydds—the enlightened ones,those whose hearts were attuned to the Old Ways, and who still believed the warp and weft of all life was biddable through the Aether.
When at last Gwendolyn opened her eyes and peered into the crystalline waters, she blinked, fascinated, as tiny points of light swarmed beneath the surface…
Piskies.
It was impossible to see them from above. One could only spy them from beneath the water’s surface, and only from certain angles. Their minuscule bodies darted about like water spiders, leaving wakes like silken webs. Their bites were equally vicious, though water spiders were bigger, and skated above the surface, even as piskies swam beneath.
Sometimes, during the twilight, they rose above the pool, their wee bodies twinkling like stardust. And yet it was said that if one’s heart was not true, piskies would assail en masse and sink their fangs into one’s flesh, leaving their victim with a fever that would either rent them from their miserable life once and for all, else purge them of the black in their hearts.
Fortunately, they never bothered Gwendolyn, and if only one listened, one could hear them chattering, their tiny voices gurgling like a brook.
Perhaps if the Prince and his father lingered long enough, Gwendolyn might bring him here to share the blessings of this place. She didn’t know if they had such springs in Loegria, but a learned soul such as he must surely appreciate its beauty and history.
One of the larger piskies rose to the surface, and Gwendolyn followed. Compelled, she reached for it, but it eluded her and vanished into a ray of golden light, the sound of its answering giggles like bursting bubbles.
Emerging into the sunlight that slid between the thickening boughs, Gwendolyn inhaled a hawthorn-scented breath, reveling in the cascade of warm water that tugged gently at her curls.
It was only another moment before Bryn emerged from the woods. Hands upon his hips, he glared down into the pool, shaking his black hair in disapproval. But that didn’t stop him from ordering Gwendolyn to turn about, spinning a finger to beg privacy for himself.
Smirking victoriously, Gwendolyn did as he bade her, turning away, wading over to a shallow spot in the pool so she could stand and inspect the low-lying foliage.
Together, she and Ely and Bryn had swum here so many times—as often as they could. No doubt Ely would be heartily sorry she missed the day’s fun, but that’s what she got for worrying so much about what Queen Eseld thought.
Sometimes, one must take one’s fate into one’s own hands and follow one’s heart.
She heard Bryn’s bellow, then felt a hefty splash, and spun about with a wide, happy grin, prepared to splash him once he re-emerged. But her smile died on her lips when she spotted the figures emerging into the glen—one in particular, with arms crossed, the look on his face full of contempt.
Behind Málik came two of her mother’s Shadows.
And then, for the ultimate insult… Queen Eseld herself.
Evidently,King Brutus had sent a messenger ahead to announce their early arrival. Gwendolyn and Bryn missed him by two blinks of an eye. Any instant, the Loegrian party was due to arrive, and despite this, her father had called everyone of consequence into his hall to witness Gwendolyn’s censure—the first such reprimand she’d ever received in her life.
Outside, in the corridor, she could hear servants rushing about, shouting for last-minute preparations. But despite Queen Eseld’s need to oversee such arrangements, the commotion didn’t faze her at all. Her darkened eyes remained fixed upon Gwendolyn, narrowed and wrathful.
“I know not what to say,” said the King, and the look on his face was one of bitter disappointment.
Yet Gwendolyn didn’t understand why he should be so angry.
Was it the simple fact that she’d gone swimming with Bryn when so much needed to be done? Or was he enraged because her mother was? Or were they both simply furious because she had allowed Bryn to skirt his duties? And with Bryn for allowing her to avoid hers?
Mayhap all these things, but it still made so little sense, considering that the only thing that had changed since yesterday afternoon was the simple fact that her betrothed was en route to the city. She understood that both she and Bryn had other, more important duties to tend to, but the diversion had been harmless, and how many times had she done precisely the same as she’d done today—each time no one ever said a word.
“You’re a woman, grown,” said the Queen. “Betrothed!”
Soon.
Not… yet.
She wanted to say it aloud, but the words simply wouldn’t emerge through the constriction in Gwendolyn’s throat.
Blood and bones.
She had never seen such a look of fury on her father’s face.
She wanted to speak in her own defense, but words simply would not come—particularly when she saw her father’s face had turned so florid, and his trembling hand clutched at his chest, as though in pain. For a terrifying instant, Gwendolyn worried—for the witnesses he’d welcomed into his hall. Would they now discover the illness that was slowly claiming him? All because of her!
The circular window above his throne filtered in the sunlight, bright enough to cast her father’s face in shadow to those who were not so near, but she was, and she could see how pallid his skin had turned.
Gods, if he died, here and now, she would blame herself evermore.
Gwendolyn swallowed convulsively, fear clutching at her heart. Behind her, she was acutely aware of both Málik and Bryn—the latter anxious, the former filled with loathing.
Everyone present within the King’s hall now waited as King Corineus calmed himself, and with her mother seated at his side, gave Gwendolyn a scolding unlike any she’d had in all her days. “The time for disobedience is done,” he said, when he could. “Very soon you’ll be consigned to a wife’s duties.”
“Nay,” interjected her mother. She placed a hand upon her husband’s arm, perhaps to settle him, despite her own ire. “A queen’s duties,” she reminded gently.
“Do you know what this means, child?”
“Please, Corineus,” begged her mother. “Do not call her that any longer. I warrant ’tis the reason she behaves like one—because we do not expect better. She has lived no less than seventeen winters, and I was the same age when I came to be your bride.”
“Truly,” he said.
And then, with a heavy sigh, her father pressed two fingers to his forehead, as though he didn’t know what more to say or do—or perhaps he was already taxed by the ordeal.
For the good of the realm, the two must remain in accord, always of a single mind—lately, most often her mother’s, Gwendolyn thought bitterly. She would not leave here today without discipline. King Corineus spoke now, only covering his eyes. Like a veil, his hand slid down to cover his face. “So it seems… the time has come for me to take sober measures.”
And then, after a moment, he withdrew his hand from his face to reveal eyes that were dark and swirling with disappointment. He flicked a glance at Bryn. “As of today, Bryn Durotriges will no longer serve you,” he declared.
Gwen’s heart leapt in protest. She found her voice at last. “Nay! Why?”
“Silence!” her father barked. “Your mother speaks true, Gwendolyn. He cannot be trusted to perform his duties like a man—very much like you, he remains only a child, subject to a child’s whims. Proof of this is plain to see.”
He then turned to Bryn. And it was in that instant that Gwendolyn understood what true peril she’d placed her friend in, because the man who regarded him now was not at all familiar to Gwendolyn. He was not her father, but the King.
He sat straighter, his eyes smoldering like coals. In them, Gwendolyn saw the fury and determination with which he’d once lifted and disposed of the giant Gogmagog, even suffering from broken ribs, tossing his broken body into the sea.
He spoke mainly to Bryn, though his voice reverberated throughout the hall. “Considering how you two were discovered, young Durotriges, if I believed you meant to avail yourself of my daughter, I would have your head, here and now.”
“Father!” Gwendolyn protested.
“Silence!” he snapped, without looking at her, and all sound evaporated from the hall, but not before Bryn’s mother cried out in dismay.
Fearful of what was to come, Gwendolyn turned to meet Ely’s gaze, and Ely’s eyes, too, were round and wide. This hurt most of all—the simple fact that she had by now disappointed everyone, not only her mother and father. Sadly, she was accustomed to her mother’s displeasure, but this was the first time in all her life she’d garnered the same from others.
“However, because I know my daughter to be the source of your misconduct, I shall be lenient. From this day forth, you’ll no longer serve the Princess.”
Clearly relieved, Bryn fell to his knees, bowing his head.
“Yes, Majesty,” Bryn said, his voice raw with contrition. “I am deeply regretful for my part in today’s misfortune,” he said, and Gwendolyn couldn’t tell whether it was chagrin or anger that gave his neck so much color, because he wouldn’t look at her.
Suddenly dismissing him, her father pivoted toward Gwendolyn. And she knew that whatever he said to her now—whatever it should be—she would best be served by silence.
His eyes, dark as tempered steel, held her gaze so she daren’t even look at her mother, but then again, why should she? There would be no sympathy or help to come from that quarter.
“From this day forth,” he said, “You’ll be served by Málik Danann.”
“Father!” Gwendolyn cried, but her father lifted his chin, unmoved by the tears that brimmed in Gwendolyn’s eyes.
He offered her the flat of his hand, silencing her once and for all. “So I have said, so will it be! Go now, prepare yourself to greet your betrothed. Do nothing more to shame this house.”
“Yes, sire,” she said, hot tears burning her eyes.
With the entire hall still planted firmly where they stood, Gwendolyn roused the nerve to turn and face them, and then made her way between them, toward the doors. No one dared look at her. Save one…
Málik Danann.
His icebourne eyes met hers, and Gwendolyn thought she saw him smile.