The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterSeven

The tension in the hall grew palpable. Even King Brutus tapped his thick fingers on the lord’s table—the rap, tap, tapping heightening Gwendolyn’s fears.

One, two, three….

One, two.

One, two, three.

One, two…

She counted dozens—nay, hundreds—all the while trying to deflect all the worried glances. In her heart, she agonized, but she was prudent to be certain none of her suffering was writ on her face. Her expression remained placid, her smile enduring.

Every now and again, when she could take it no longer, Gwendolyn adjusted the order of the small plates before Prince Locrinus’ empty chair, repositioning them so he could enjoy whatever delicacies he so desired.

After a while, she studied faces—this one was worried, that one was not. This one was salivating after the dancers and hadn’t a thought for anything but the creature in his braies.

That one was pinching heads from pilchards, and tossing them beneath the table—why, Gwendolyn couldn’t fathom, but tomorrow, Yestin’s dog would love him dearly.

She needn’t have recognized the faces of the men in her father’s guard to note the newcomers who sat so stiffly, and whose hands remained frozen at their middles, as though preparing to unsheathe invisible swords. Instead of livery, they wore finery, and instead of weapons, they wielded poniards—the only blade allowed.

As it was anywhere else, it was impolite to attend a feast girded for war, and that included a sovereign’s Shadows. At most, they could keep a dagger hidden in their boot, but visible weapons or armor were forbidden, even for ceremony.

For Cornwall’s sake, there were only two within this hall who required the highest level of protection. One was the King himself, the other his heir. But not even for them would exceptions be made. Not tonight. Come what may, they were subject to the Brothers’ Pact.

The very most the Elite Guard could hope for was to remain close to their charges, in case of treason—an offense for which the penalty would be death without trial.

According to the sixth law of the Brothers’ Pact, no man who supped with a brother or friend should ever do so with a false face. Wine could be spilled, not blood.

Defiance of this law would enrage the gods, and they in turn would curse the land, and the land was higher than any King; its death would be his downfall.

And therefore, since drunkards had no discretion, weapons were simply not allowed. Proximity was the only viable defense, and the highest tables were reserved for the Elite Guards and the Shadows of both royal houses.

Apparently, Málik mustn’t consider Gwendolyn’s welfare to be of any import because he’d eschewed his rightful place, taking a seat at one of the lower tables, and for this, she bristled—again—because it was easier to be angry with him than it was to worry about Prince Locrinus.

However, were this Bryn, he would have fought tooth and claw for his rightful seat, positioning himself as close to Gwendolyn as possible.

Alas, he was not Bryn. Only an arrogant pretender, and Gwendolyn was certain he had no more care for her than he did for Pretania.

Why, then, had he taken this charge? More significantly, why would her father assign him to shadow her? Was the illness already ravaging his mind?

Málik might be a worthy opponent for sparring, and he could be entirely capable of fulfilling this duty. Perhaps he was overqualified for the task, considering that he’d been employed to train the entire Elite Guard, but Gwendolyn had never once seen him do obeisance to her father, and neither did he have the bearing for that. She hadn’t any sense that he had loyalties to Cornwall, nor to anyone. Rather, his currency was his sword, and he lent it to the highest bidder. Her father’s was merely the fattest purse… at the moment.

But fortunately, this was not a Konsel for war, only a celebratory feast—not that her intended had deigned to arrive.

“He’ll be along soon,” offered King Brutus, seeming to read her mind, but even his voice betrayed concern. Gwendolyn reminded herself that it wasn’t merely brides who suffered attacks of nerves. She remembered when her uncle Hedrek’s elder son married that Iceni girl; he’d combed his hair for a full bell before the ceremony until his own father called him a girl.

Yet what if Prince Locrinus had already glimpsed her and was displeased? What if he’d defied his father and fled the city?

What if, even now, without his father’s knowledge, he was halfway returned to Loegria? Everything that could go wrong marched through Gwendolyn’s thoughts, demanding attention.

“Smile,” her mother said brittlely, then bent to whisper, “A woman must do what she must, Gwendolyn. Come what may, you will face the day with grace.”

But no one needed to remind Gwendolyn how momentous this occasion was, nor how much was at stake—at last!

Prince Locrinus arrived, his entrance more dramatic than his sire’s. He came, flanked by two red-cloaked guards who were armed to the ears. On sight, they drew gasps from the guests, then swiftly withdrew into the hall. And yet, if his guards’ appearance seemed daunting, the Prince’s was anything but. He drew another gasp from the guests, all on his own. The rumors had done him no justice, for he was all they’d claimed and more—tall, handsome, imposing… and… yes, indeed… very, very golden.

A golden idol for a golden bride.

Gwendolyn hadn’t realized her jaw dropped until her mother cleared her throat. When Gwendolyn looked at her, she tapped the back of a long, painted nail beneath her own chin—even now, unwilling to touch her own daughter.

Gobsmacked, Gwendolyn shut her mouth, then blinked, as though against a bright light. He was… well… he was… the most stunning creature she had ever beheld—mayhap not with Bryn’s masculine appeal, nor Málik’s strange, ethereal beauty, but with a splendor all his own that put a shadow on the sun itself.

“Well, don’t stand there,” her mother said. “See to your guest.”

Yes, of course.

That was the custom.

Since no one but the royal family could ascend unescorted to the dais, he was waiting to be led to his seat. But Gwendolyn suddenly couldn’t move. All eyes fell upon her—everyone eager to see how the Prince of Loegria and the Princess of Cornwall would comport. But this, at last, was the moment of truth, the instant when she might be judged, and her heart pounded like a forger’s hammer.

Swallowing with difficulty, Gwendolyn commanded her feet to move, but her legs felt squishy like pudding. And then, like a halfwit, she rose, bumping her knees on the table, and then sliding around the table, her skirt catching on a wooden splinter. She wrenched it free, then stumbled down the first few steps, all arms and legs, without the least bit of grace. Fortunately, if anyone noticed, no one said a word, nor did they laugh.

All chatter ceased as she made her way down the aisle, an emissary for the time, and soon, by the grace of the gods, to be a bride.

His bride.

Dressed in gold, from his head to his boots, the Prince’s robes—a creation of intricate embroidery on shining, yellow silk—fit him unerringly. His hair, too, was golden, though not the pale, silvery shade of Málik’s hair, nor the fiery gold of hers. Rather, his was more sun-toasted wheat. As though that were not enough gold, she realized as she neared, that his eyes, too, were a curious amber shade.

The visage of him was stunning.

Even his eyelashes glittered beneath the torchlight, and she wondered if he used some type of maquillage. “Highness,” Gwendolyn said breathlessly, with a quick, courteous bow and a trembling smile.

Prince Locrinus grinned, and all thought of Gwendolyn’s ruinous day vanished, made inconsequential by the blinding light of his beauteous smile.

The most profound relief washed over her, and from that instant forth, Gwendolyn was aware of little else—not their dinner guests, watching so intently, nor her mother, whose rapt attention normally bore spikes into her back.

Indeed, the hall itself was lost to her, as though vanished behind a veil, not unlike theCloak of Concealment, which guarded the fae realms.

Gwendolyn might have found herself red-faced by her gaping, except for the glorious truth that Prince Locrinus seemed equally taken by her.

“Your hair,” he said, and reached for a strand, then remembered himself, halting that hand midway between them. “’Tis… extraordinary,” he said, and then, with eyes that gleamed as fiercely as his golden attire, he bent to whisper for Gwendolyn’s ears alone. “Truly, we shall make a golden match!” Gwendolyn’s heart leapt into her throat.

By the eyes of Lugh, was this what it felt like to be struck dumb by love? Remembering herself, she laughed, embarrassed, merely relieved to hear such flattery.

After a moment, Prince Locrinus asked for her hand, and Gwendolyn gave it readily. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed it tenderly, his lips easing into a companionable smile. And then, as though he meant to keep her safe from all harm, he tucked her trembling hand into the crook of his arm, and said, gesturing toward the dais, “Shall we, Princess?”

Disarmed by his courtliness, Gwendolyn nodded. And she couldn’t help herself—a wide, genuine grin unfurled as they turned to ascend the dais, thrilled to note her parents’ expressions, and King Brutus’ as well. Her worries now seemed all for naught, and not even Málik’s presence or Bryn’s absence could dampen her mood as they took their seats—at least so she believed, until her mother leaned close to whisper in her ear.

“Don’t muddle this,” she said with a half-frozen smile.

Gwendolyn’s cheeks flamed.

Fortunately, Prince Locrinus didn’t hear her, and, if her mother was concerned, she worried for naught, because the evening progressed better than anyone could have expected.

The dawnsio—without Ely—performed excellently, the choreography never better. The victuals were superb, and even despite having to put together the feast a full day in advance, Yestin’s attention to detail was lost to none.

To show off the great many delicacies their city could procure, the high tables were all laden with imported fare—so heavily, in fact, that according to his own admission, not even King Brutus ever indulged so well. Gwendolyn overheard him say so to her father, but neither had she. This was a far grander feast than any they had ever presented to guests before, including for the occasion of her first betrothal, a fact King Brutus must have noted, though he remarked upon it not at all.

On the dais alone, there were more than twenty exotic hens, all placed at intervals along the table for guests to pluck at—most of these imported from Alkebulan, and perfectly roasted.

Instead of pilchards, as was served at the lower tables, some of the small plates were filled with a small, salted fish known as sardines that were imported from Hiberia.

There was also plenty of freshly baked bread, some meant for pulling and dipping in rosemary oil, others hard-crusted, with all the soft interior removed. These were used as trenchers and were placed deliberately for couples to share.

The doughy center of the bread was then used for stuffing of hens, and the stuffing was flavored with fresh oysters fished from their own Cornish beds.

Truly, there was nothing like a good oyster, and there was a marvelous place beyond the Dragon’s Bay where the currents aligned in such a way that the pressure salted them delectably.

Sometimes, when fishers hauled in new batches, she and Elowyn and Bryn would fly down to the docks to pilfer a few for themselves.

Only sometimes “a few” turned into “a few too many,” and though Gwendolyn never suffered a malaise from oysters, Ely once did, and swore off oysters altogether. However, as a testament to their supreme excellence, her moratorium only lasted until the next harvest, when they once again stood cracking shells straight from the crates they were hauled in.

A sudden surge of nostalgia washed over Gwendolyn as she watched her intended scrutinize an oyster so intensely. That same army of bees took lodgings in her belly, buzzing about with such vigor that it made it difficult to eat.

As she sometimes watched her mother do for her father, Gwendolyn gathered up the small plates as they were being passed, stealing them for Prince Locrinus, and then waiting until he had his fill, before replacing it with another.

“Olives,” she said, perhaps too excitedly, as he gave up a plate with a slice of smoked cheese. Only one left, and he set it before Gwendolyn. “From An Ghréig,” she explained.

“Ah, yes,” he said, licking his finger. “Olives we have. But this cheese is…” He rolled his eyes with an expression of delight. “Extraordinary!”

“Like my hair?” Gwendolyn teased, then felt silly repeating the compliment.

A smile tugged at his lips. “Nothing compares,” he said.

Gwendolyn found herself batting her lashes—a ridiculous gesture she had never truly understood until now. “Smoked,” she explained, as he lifted a brow.

“Your hair?” he asked, and Gwendolyn laughed softly.

“Nay, Highness. The cheese!”

His tone shifted now, his voice low and serious. “You must bring some home with you when you come.”

Home.

He lifted another olive to his lips and Gwendolyn watched him eat it, scraping the dark meat from the pit with his straight, white teeth. She blinked, confused, her heart hammering with such vigor. “My hair?”

“Nay,” he said with a chuckle. “The cheese.”

“Oh,” Gwendolyn said, blushing, embarrassed again. Of course. What a silly girl she must seem.“Alas,” she said, “no one in Trevena has this recipe. It comes to us by the northern tribes, although I’m quite certain we can have some exported.”

“Imported,” he corrected, gesturing about the hall with a finger before reaching for her hand and threading his fingers through hers. “Very soon, this will no longer be your home. Any exports we will be fortunate enough to negotiate will be imports for my beautiful queen.”

Beautiful?

Disarmed by the compliment, Gwendolyn hadn’t the heart to rebuke him, because, well… actually… they were meant to rule both kingdoms, not merely Loegria.

Cornwall would always be Gwendolyn’s home, foremost in her heart.

And yet, he sounded so utterly sincere, and when he flattened her palm against his chest in just such a way, over the beat of his heart, it left her without a voice to protest. The look on his face was so hopeful, so heartfelt, and his lips parted to reveal another blinding, white smile that stole Gwendolyn’s breath. All she could do was smile in return.

“So then,” he asked. “Of which northern tribe do we speak? The land beyond the north winds? Else Prydein?”

“Neither,” said Gwendolyn, eager to regale him with knowledge he might not already have gathered. “From what I am told, they come from the North Seas. Their dragon prows are made to plow through—”

“Ice,” he said with a half-smile. “I was only jesting. We have met the Ostmen—barbarians, garbed in whatever pelts they can find, dogs, if needs must.”

“Oh,” said Gwendolyn, embarrassed again, and to cover her chagrin, she engaged him with a related question. “So, did you meet… these… Ostmen in Loegria?”

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Ériu. After my last sojourn, we took a ship home, captained by a helmsman from Hyperborea.”

“Hyperborea,” she repeated with genuine interest, and he dipped his chin meaningfully. Gwendolyn had never heard of this place, but she didn’t wish to be disagreeable.

“At least to me, he seemed no different from any of the barbarian hordes I’ve met—be they Franks, Suebi, or from the Vandal Kingdom. Every single one has a bent to shout too much, and run about bare-arsed, despite the bitter cold.”

Gwendolyn blinked.

Bare-arsed?

Unwittingly, her thoughts returned to Málik, but not because she considered his bare arse, only wondering how much of hers he’d spied.

Sadly, Gwendolyn had never heard of the Vandal Kingdom either, so she said, “Oh. Yes, I see.” He was quite knowledgeable, and she suddenly found her meager education quite inadequate. Thereafter, she let him talk and sat back to enjoy the evening, pleased enough that it was going so well. At the instant, everyone conversed contentedly as they filled their bellies with the finest of delicacies. Only Málik, supping at one of the lower tables, seemed bored and disengaged, although at least he didn’t appear to be cross.

Rather, his face was again without expression, only now and again flicking glances at the dais to make certain of his undesirable charge—Gwendolyn, naturally.

When she inadvertently caught his gaze, she chafed under his scrutiny, and turned away, though not before wondering if he was alone by choice.

Seated amidst two lords and their ladies, he eschewed conversation as readily as he had his seat at the higher table. Gwendolyn wondered if he knew anyone outside the Elite Guard, and how her father came to employ him. She knew he hadn’t been in residence long—certainly not long enough for Gwendolyn to learn much about him. Everything she knew, she knew from Bryn. Though admittedly, she sometimes watched him from the balustrade when he and Bryn sparred; she had learned a lot about him simply through his choices.

He wasn’t merciful, neither was he lenient. Rather, he was unyielding, tireless, and shrewd. And yet, despite that he was as arrogant a creature as Gwendolyn had ever encountered, there was something intrinsically magical in his movements.

Indeed, for Málik Danann, even a walk down the hall seemed more like a choreographed dance. In like form, the removal of his sword from its sheath was done with grace, and he wielded that weapon with effortless precision.

Nothing he did was ever… extraneous.

In fact, where Málik was concerned, there was economy in his every movement, and more to the point, he never went out of his way for any reason at all that didn’t somehow serve him, which only made his betrayal of Bryn this afternoon even more unpalatable.

What could have been his reason?

He was watching the dancers, but there was nothing in his expression that gave Gwendolyn any sign he was enjoying the show.

Rather, she had the sense that he was otherwise attuned to every movement in the hall—every gesture everyone made, and perhaps all that was said.

The stories she’d heard about the fae were innumerable. They could grow silver limbs. They could read thoughts. They could shift shapes.

But how curious the thought—how tedious it would be to hear everyone’s conversations all at once. If that were one of Gwendolyn’s fae gifts, she would certainly go mad.

Once again, averting her gaze from the thorn her father had burrowed in her side, Gwendolyn peered up at the Prince as he, too, surveyed the hall. She hadn’t even realized he was talking, and he suddenly knit his brows as he noted the direction of her gaze.

Gwendolyn pretended not to notice—it was that or apologize, and somehow that felt wrong, as though she were confessing to something despicable.

Instead, she dared to ask about the one thing she most wished to know. “Was it fascinating?”

“Quite,” he said, and another slow grin unfurled. “Though not in the way you might think. Tell me, Princess… do such things normally entertain you?”

“Immensely,” Gwendolyn confessed. “Someday, I hope to visit Cnoc Fírinne for myself, and mayhap when ’tis completed, I should like to see the new Temple in Eastwalas as well.”

His brows twitched. “The Æmete Temple?”

Gwendolyn blinked, careful not to frown. “Well, yes, though… that is not what we call it. Nor do I believe they refer to it in such manner themselves.”

Theybeing the Dobunni—a consortium of tribes occupying much of the borderlands. Eastwalas was essentially Dumnonii territory, but it also bordered upon Silures, and Ordovices in Loegria, as well as the Catuvellauni to the east, and Atrebates to the south.

“Æmete is what they call us,” she explained, “Though I do not believe ’tis meant to be kind.”

“What does it mean?”

“Æmete?” she asked. “Well—” She lifted her brows. “It means… ant.”

He made a scurrying motion with two fingers. “You mean those crawly creatures?”

Gwendolyn nodded.

“Ah, yes, I see,” he said. “Alas, if anyone should be called such a thing, it should be them. Shouldn’t it?”

Gwendolyn blinked. “Because they are a multitude?”

“Nay, Princess.”

The way he said her name—or rather, not precisely her name, only her title—gave Gwendolyn gooseflesh.

“Because they are inconsequential.”

The woven spell was suddenly lost.

“They are not even canny enough to join forces as we have.”

“Oh,” said Gwendolyn.

“Really, had they done so, perhaps Cornwall would not have stood so long.”

The furrow in Gwendolyn’s brow deepened. So far as she was concerned, no one was inconsequential, not even Málik. But Cornwall had not endured so long because Pretania’s other tribes were ignorant or insignificant. Although she appreciated the fact that he was treating her as an equal, neither dismissing her opinions nor behaving as though she hadn’t the mental acuity to discuss political matters, Cornwall had remained strong because they were strong.

Alone, her people had established a well-visited port. They’d learned to mine what the land offered. And they’d learned the disciplines of metallonourgia, creating alloys previously unknown. Nay, they did not have such advanced disciplines as did the Trojans, but they certainly had more than the rest of Pretania.

Gods.He mustn’t realize what he was saying, and considering his demeanor else wise, Gwendolyn forgave him. Indubitably, his was the perspective of a newcomer to this land. He couldn’t possibly understand how much they’d endured, nor how far they had come.

Prince Locrinus leaned close to confide in her. “I’m unsure whether you’ve heard, but Plowonida recently burned at the hands of the Iceni. It stands unclaimed. As my future queen, I will tell you that, as soon as we can gather an army, my father intends to drive them east to establish a new capital for Loegria. We will call it Troia Nova,” he said, grinning broadly. “It is from there you and I will rule.”

“Troia Nova,” Gwendolyn repeated, though her brows rose of their own accord. She had heard no such thing about Plowonida, but the ramifications of such a campaign would be far-reaching. It was more the custom to abandon a stronghold after a fight, withdrawing to well-defended battlements. According to her father, most often what drove men to battle was not so much the coveting of another’s land, but the need to protect what was theirs.

Indeed, Cornwall had thrived so well in part because they did not weaken their defenses by spreading themselves far and wide. However, if Plowonida had been abandoned by the Catuvellauni… if the Loegrians dared to move into Eastwalas… if they truly had the means and numbers to take and keep that city…

What would the Iceni do? Would they attack again after waging and winning a fight with the Catuvellauni? How would they fare against Loegrian weapons?

Troia Nova.

King Brutus had been awarded the land he now occupied by a joint Konsel of Pretania’s tribes—a Konsel for which her father was headmester.

Gwendolyn understood the Iceni had a longstanding feud with the Catuvellauni, mostly because the High King of Plowonida had once seduced their beloved queen, but that was a matter of retribution. Not since the Tuatha Dé Danann were defeated so long ago had men seized municipalities that were not theirs to take—not since the sons of Míl agreed to honor one another’s borders. As the Prydein used to do, men might snatch a harvest under cover of night, but they would never, ever bring tillers to plow another man’s fields.

And really, not once in living memory had an enemy dared to take a city after a battle was fought, much less lands that were not properly got. What the Loegrians were proposing was opportunistic, and yet Gwendolyn couldn’t think it precisely wrong… not precisely.

Simply because something had not been done before did not mean it was not to be done. If the Catuvellauni did not want Plowonida, and the Loegrians did, and if, in fact, it could be sustained, then it might be considered a strong military tack, though Gwendolyn wondered if her father knew Loegria intended to expand beyond their current borders so deep into Pretania—well beyond the Eastwalas Temple. Gwendolyn longed to ask more about it, but the revelation had completely befuddled her.

“You are quite learned, and it pleases me,” said Prince Locrinus, smiling with unreserved approval. “I prayed to have an equal as my partner, as I never intended to rule at all, much less to rule alone.”

Gwendolyn’s heart warmed to him again, hearing the pain of his brother’s loss in his voice. “At heart, I am but a simple man, whose greatest desire it is to discover the mysteries of this world.” Reaching for Gwendolyn’s hand, he squeezed it gently.

“Now, despite the grief I feel for my brother’s plight, I find myself well pleased with our match, and someday, if it pleases you, I will take you on a sojourn to Cnoc Fírinne, and we shall visit the Eastwalas Temple as well.”

Gwendolyn’s heartbeat quickened. It was the sweetest thing he might have ever said to her. The thought was like a love philter. “That would be a most welcome gift,” she said, her heart filling with joy. Thereafter, the evening was a delight—so much so that Gwendolyn put all the day’s troubles behind her—all her doubts, too.

Even Queen Eseld smiled with undisguised approval, and Gwendolyn felt… lovely and brilliant, and… oh, yes… golden… and so full of hope.

All night long, they talked, and talked, and talked.

Only now and again, Prince Locrinus would appraise Gwendolyn with a private smile that seemed so full of promise and possession that it set loose a dole of doves in her breast.

Later, when they said goodnight, leaving their fathers to discuss the final details of their betrothal, Prince Locrinus walked Gwendolyn to her bower door, leaving her with a burgeoning sense of hope… and a tiny seedling of… love?

Was this love?

Certainly, it was something—something beauteous and satisfying.

Already she admired the man she’d been promised to wed, and now she couldn’t wait to share her life with him.

“Until the morrow,” he said, before taking his leave, and Gwendolyn sighed contentedly, basking in the evening’s joy. Even once he was gone, she lingered outside her chamber door.

But at long last, she turned, with a final, wistful glance down the hall in the direction her sweet prince had gone, only to spy Málik coming around the corner.

The sight of him surprised her as much as it displeased her, even though she should have expected him. Sucking in a breath, she rushed through the antechamber, straight into her room, slamming her door, and thrusting her back against the iron-riveted wood as though she feared he would come bursting through.

Of course, he did not.

He would not.

She heard him enter the antechamber a moment later and settle himself… until nothing but darkness and silence crept beneath her door.

Only then did she make for the bed.