The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterFive

That swiftly, her joy was lost.

Fury fired Gwendolyn’s march down the hall.

Málik?

Málik!

He was cold, taciturn, disdainful, and arrogant, and despite that she didn’t know him well, she didn’t want to know him at all. Only now, instead of taking her beloved friend with her to Loegria, she would be forced to take a soulless elf.

Gods, she loathed him—loathed him to the core of her being. Even more now that she knew he was the reason her mother had found them in the glen. He was the one who’d told her where they’d gone, and then he’d escorted her directly.

Certainly, Gwendolyn knew Queen Eseld would have found them on her own, but it was Málik’s scornful face she’d first spied emerging from those woods, with that smug, self-righteous expression she wouldn’t soon forget.

By the eyes of Lugh, she wasn’t in the mood to forgive, regardless of his promotion—no matter that he would soon be her new Shadow. He could attend to her all he wished, but Gwendolyn would never, ever trust him, nor would she care for him the way she cared for Bryn.

Stupid, heartless elf.

“Go away!” she said as he appeared behind her, even knowing he would refuse.

“Alas, Princess, this would be my greatest joy, but I cannot,” he said evenly, and he didn’t miss a step, remaining behind her all the way back to her chambers.

Annoying.

Infuriating.

Irksome.

Elf.

Gods, she loathed the appellation and the spirit in which it was given just as much as the Sidhe must loathe it as well, because it was never used with any good intention, and still she couldn’t think of him as anything else.

It was kinder than the names she’d like to shout at him right now, though she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Already he was smirking behind his hand—and not even behind his hand, for she wouldn’t soon forget the smile he gave her as she quit the hall.

Gwendolyn had once loved the notion of faekind, and she felt connected to them through her gifts—so why, for the love of Danu, did he have to be even part-blood?

To Gwendolyn’s dismay, if she quickened her pace, so too did he.

If she slowed, so did he—until Gwendolyn was livid and ready to pull out every strand of hair on his too-comely head.

Why was it that the most beautiful creatures were also the deadliest?

And by the by, she loathed the way he called her Princess, as though it were a blasphemy all its own.

Unable to bear his presence, she spun to face him once she reached her door, prepared to leave him in the antechamber. “You will not be welcomed within,” she said furiously. “Ever!”

It was despicable enough that he must take up residence in her antechamber, sleeping only a few yards from her bed. She glanced at the meager cot that had once belonged to sweet Bryn and noted that her antechamber was already stripped free of Bryn’s belongings.

Had this already been decided, even before Málik led Queen Eseld to the glen?

Cold and unaffected, his hands swung to his back, his face devoid of expression, his eyes silvery and bored. Gods, he was made of stone.

“Naturally, Princess. Indeed, from here forth, the only male who’ll be welcomed within your bower will be your lord husband—after your vows are spoken.” He smiled thinly, betraying some trace of emotion, but none that was remotely benevolent. “On pain of my life,” he added.

Was that a threat?

Worse! Was he implying she would dare entertain men in the privacy of her bower? Not even Bryn had ever attended her within. He’d slept in her antechamber, and she in her bower, always behind closed doors. At most, he had stood upon her threshold, only when the door was open and someone else was in attendance.

“I have windows,” she longed to say, but she held her tongue because she would never intentionally disrespect her betrothed. Thus, there was nothing she could say regarding his declaration, because no man had ever entered her chamber, including her father, and none would be welcomed still—most especially not him!

And neither would she crawl out some window, sneaking away like a thief.

She couldn’t prove his irksome smile was anything but courteous, but she felt the cut of his sarcasm down to the marrow of her bones. Somehow he’d reduced her to growling like a dumb beast. “See you do not disturb me,” she said, and then she opened her door, giving him one last warning glance before entering her chamber and slamming the door.

Hard.

Very hard.

The sound of it shook the rafters.

Gods,she would like to say she’d slammed it in his face, but dutiful as he was, he had already turned his back to the wall, resigning himself to waiting until she re-emerged—a thing that might never have happened so swiftly except for the knock on her door.

Still furious over the turn of events and realizing it wouldn’t be Ely—not this soon after her brother’s demotion—she marched back to the door and tugged it open, eager to flay Málik with her words. But it wasn’t Málik’s face that greeted her.

It was Demelza, directing a procession of servants into her chamber to fill a bath. But though Gwendolyn couldn’t see Málik, she sensed his presence acutely, and she knew he was privy to every word she uttered. Therefore, she resolved to say nothing, determined to share as little of her life with him as possible.

She might be forced to deal with him as her Shadow—for the time being, so long as she remained under her father’s roof—but someday, she would be Queen, and as Queen she would choose her own Shadow, and she would restore Bryn to his rightful position.

If he would have it.

Gwendolyn felt dreadful over her part in his demotion—worse than words could convey. And even though she longed to weep on Ely’s shoulder, she knew her dear friend wouldn’t be visiting her again this day. Likely their entire family had convened to mourn the loss of their eldest son’s status, and despite that none of them would dare speak a cross word to or against Gwendolyn, she also knew they were likely as disappointed in her as were her own parents.

As disappointed as Gwendolyn was with herself.

Indeed, were she them, she might be furious.

Gods, she’d like to believe her father wouldn’t carry out his threat to detach Bryn’s head from his body, but she couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t. Illness or nay, her father wasn’t a milksop, and he wasn’t in the habit of saying things he didn’t mean.

How stupid she had been.

How selfish.

How thoughtless.

At the instant, Gwendolyn desperately longed to punish herself with swordplay or something equally physical, but she daren’t leave her room, or she’d be forced to suffer his company as well. And then it occurred to her—she had also lost her sparring partner and mentor, only to gain a new one—Málik Danann, whose presence even now was as keenly felt as the steam from her tub, scarcely visible, but seeping into every pore of her flesh.

Thankfully, Demelza said nothing whilst there were servants in attendance. Already Gwendolyn was too close to sobbing. But finally when they left, and the bath was full, Demelza spoke. “In the tub,” she said. And that was all. No I-told-you-so. No endless lecture about Gwendolyn’s solicitation of these unfortunate events. But neither did she offer sympathy.

Sadly, Demelza needn’t say or do anything for Gwendolyn to comprehend her own culpability. She was well and truly in the wrong.

She had taken advantage of Bryn’s friendship. She had led him astray. Swallowing hard, she recalled that he’d tried to dissuade her from leaving the palace without consulting her mother, and then again from pursuing a swim.

He was far too kind to gainsay her, all to his own detriment. As his Princess, not his charge, she had a responsibility to look after his wellbeing, even as he should endeavor to shelter her from harm. And yet, she had not. Instead, she’d nearly cost him his beautiful head.

Gwendolyn sighed, a sound not unlike her father’s dispirited one.

“Enough self-recrimination,” snapped Demelza. “Get in that tub before the water cools. Would you put these servants through another conveyance?”

Nay.She would not.

Gwendolyn didn’t argue.

For perhaps the hundredth time this day, after trying on so many gowns, she disrobed, discarding her leathers and hosen, and climbed into the tub.

However, unlike the piskie pool, the bathwater was already growing cold after having made the trek in so many buckets all the way from the cook’s house.

“I am told the Prince will be in attendance for tonight’s supper,” said Demelza. “Naturally, you will be paired with him for the evening meal.”

Directly to his left, beside her mother, whose place was at her father’s right hand. Once their vows were heard by the Awenydd priestess, Gwendolyn, too, would be seated at her husband’s right hand, though with one significant difference…

Should King Corineus die, it would not be her mother to rule in his place, it would be Gwendolyn. Her mother was neither a natural-born citizen of Cornwall, nor could she be recognized as a queen in her own right. She was only Queen Consort, and despite that her father had elevated her so high, the aldermen would never approve of a Prydein princess for succession.

According to the aldermen, Prydein chiefs were as common as magpies and equally thievish. Thus, without her husband, Queen Eseld would have no say.

However, should Prince Locrinus fall in battle and with Gwendolyn’s father already gone, she would rule both nations.

In all things, in all ways, she would be her husband’s equal, but this was small comfort to her right now whilst she was subject to the will of so many.

And regardless, the one person she would never lie down for was Málik Danann. Her thoughts returned to the guard outside her door.

She had swum nude with Bryn a thousand times, and never once had she felt, even for an instant, the way she did right now, only breathing within his proximity.

To be sure, a heavy oaken door between them wasn’t enough.

She’d prefer an ocean—would that he’d return to Ériu, or wheresoever he was from. Certainly, the thought of swimming with him was unthinkable—and Gwendolyn didn’t have to ask herself why. She suspected the answer to this question—if she could be honest with herself—hadn’t so much to do with her dislike of the man as she would like to confess.

It was something else…

And that something else was the same something else she’d felt as she’d emerged from the hot spring with Málik present.

No matter that he’d politely turned his back—and so far as she knew, faekind didn’t have eyes in the back of their heads—somewhere deep down, she’d sensed he was just as aware of her as she was of him… and no doubt equally reproving.

Perhaps this was the crux of it all—the simple fact that she must be judged daily, not only by her mother, but by the likes of Málik Danann.

“Did you hear me, child?”

Gwendolyn blinked, peering up at her mother’s maid with some confusion.

Nay, she hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

Nothing at all but the pounding of her own heart. But it wasn’t the thought of meeting Prince Locrinus that had her pulses in a gallop. It was…

Someone else.

Inconceivably, that small bit of truth upset Gwendolyn more than anything else that had transpired this day—because… of course, she must be thrilled to meet her betrothed.

Málik Danann was only an inconvenience—an obstacle that might soon be removed—perhaps sooner than anyone realized, if she impressed her betrothed?

With that in mind, she finished her ministrations, and removed herself from the tub, then dried herself, and chose the finest of all the gowns she’d tried on today—another blue gown that Ely seemed to favor well—and then, when she emerged from her room, with her hair braided and coiled on both sides, wearing the sapphire necklace Ely chose, she emerged with new resolve.

And yet she might have asked herself why it was markedly more important to rid herself of a rude “elf” than it was to impress her new betrothed.