The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterEight

The next morning, with Demelza trailing behind her, Queen Eseld called upon Gwendolyn. And then, for once didn’t rush away. Wearing a pleasant smile, along with a few ells of scarlet cendal, she patted Gwendolyn’s cheek, informing her how utterly proud she was.

She also brought with her a very unusual gown that she wished for Gwendolyn to try on—a design that appeared to be an odd mix between a warrior’s tunic and a ceremonial robe. It was like nothing Gwendolyn had ever seen her mother wear, and yet it was stunning.

Fashioned of a crimson-dyed buckskin, it bore markings Gwendolyn was only vaguely familiar with—Prydein, she believed.

“My wedding dress,” the Queen said.

Having already lifted the gown by its shoulders to better inspect it, Gwendolyn blinked over the modesty of its design. “But—”

“The style of my people,” explained the Queen, and Gwendolyn laid it back down, brushing a finger over the exquisite emblazonry.

“’Tis… lovely,” she said. And yet, it was the last thing she would ever care to wear—not because it wasn’t beautiful. Strange though it appeared, it was also one of the most exquisite designs Gwendolyn had ever had the good fortune to see, much less the opportunity to wear. Alas, though, she was terrified to touch it again, lest she ruin it and earn her mother’s wrath.

“It is now yours,” said Queen Eseld.

“Mine?”

Her mother nodded. “Aye, Gwendolyn. It may surprise you to learn I never had the courage nor conviction to wear it again after my nuptials, yet I know you will, and it would thrill me to see you do so.”

Gwendolyn peered up at her mother with surprise. She had never actually considered that such a thing would take courage or conviction. She had rather believed Queen Eseld only lacked the desire—perhaps even that she was ashamed by her meager beginnings. Not that Gwendolyn ever thought she should be. Her mother was a princess, after all. It was only that her father had always referred to them so… primitively. And her mother never disagreed.

Gwendolyn didn’t know what to say.

While she couldn’t claim it was the only gift her mother ever gave her, it was certainly the most personal gift she had ever received.

In fact, the dress was precious, and Gwendolyn wondered why it was her mother had never even shown it to her before, but the question was short-considered.

However, considering the unexpected gift—generous beyond generous—and after the wonderful evening she’d had with Prince Locrinus, she refused to allow anything to quash her mood today. So much hope was affixed to this union—so much hope. And now, for the first time, Gwendolyn had pleased her mother as well.

Things were looking well. Indeed, they were.

She stood there, admiring the dress, pride lifting her spirits higher.

Someday soon, all kingdoms would be as one—a feat that could only be accomplished by the coupling of their dragon banners. But after last night, the “golden one” of prophecy could well be Prince Locrinus. In truth, all that recommended Gwendolyn as Pretania’s champion was a tangle of hair that no one had ever proven was aught but unruly.

“Naturally, you must pair it with hosen,” suggested her mother, showing the split at the front, then lifting a flap. “Traditionally, a Prydein ceremony is performed upon horseback. To my people, a good horse is the symbol of great leadership, and a chieftain’s daughter must come to her marriage with a worthy mount, as her promise that she’ll never be a burden to her husband, but an equal in all things.”

Was this why Gwendolyn was so good with horses? Had she inherited this trait? One thing was certain, she could ride a horse better than any man. And yet, Gwendolyn knew so little of her mother’s people. All she knew was that her mother had come to her father under a suit for peace, and little beyond that—only that Queen Eseld was traded during a civil meeting between tribes, and that her grandmother was also a queen, and her grandfather a Caledonian chieftain.

Even more intrigued now, she peered up, wanting to hear more. “Did you marry my father that way?” she asked.

“Alas, nay,” said Queen Eseld, with a sigh. “I did not. I wore this gown, but we took our vows in a consul’s tent before a prelate at the festival of Calan Mai.”

“Oh,” said Gwendolyn.

Her mother sighed again, and it sounded like a lifetime of disappointment must have been released with that breath. “I dreamt it would be different, but this was the way.”

How sad, Gwendolyn thought—to be deprived of one’s fondest dreams. Her mother should have had the wedding she’d desired, and if Gwendolyn could find some way to make up for her disappointment, she would try. However, she would be content enough to mend this rift between them, a rift she had never sought, nor did she entirely comprehend.

As for her own wedding… naturally, Gwendolyn had her own anticipations—to be wed before her friends and family, to a prince whose heart was as beautiful as his mind.

She would be crushed if any part of this turned out to be false.

And really, though Prince Locrinus’ face was covetable, she didn’t care about that. She, more than most, understood the injustices of being judged for such things, and she would never do such a thing to anyone else. Even if she did not think him beautiful, she would have endeavored to find beauty in him, regardless.

She was still admiring the dress, but she pondered aloud. “I only wonder, did my father refuse your tradition?”

With such grace of movement, as though it were the gesture of a dance, Queen Eseld pushed a lock of shining black hair behind her shoulder. “To the contrary, dear one. Your father has never refused me aught. From the first, he has welcomed me as befits a queen of this realm. My father would be pleased.”

At the turn of their conversation, Gwendolyn’s heartbeat quickened. She had to keep herself from blurting a hundred thousand questions, fearful of never having another opportunity. And yet, she knew her mother well enough to know she must proceed with caution.

“Have you not spoken to my grandparents since you wed my father?”

“Nay,” said Queen Eseld, with an odd note in her voice—wistfulness, frustration? “I have not.” She exhaled impatiently. “Enough reminiscence for one day!”

She smiled brightly, seemingly unfazed, and perhaps unaware that her refusal to share more would diminish Gwendolyn’s spirits. “We have so much to do, and so little time!”

Disappointed despite her mother’s enduring good humor this morn, Gwendolyn hitched her chin, wondering if Queen Eseld’s detachment from her own mother could be the reason she was so aloof toward Gwendolyn. Perhaps she simply didn’t know what it was to be a mother to a young woman? Or even a wee child.

Could it be… not so much that she still believed Gwendolyn to be a hideous changeling, but if she’d never had a genuine relationship with her own mother, she wasn’t predisposed to having one with Gwendolyn?

It could be.

It seemed plausible.

Unfortunately, Gwendolyn knew firsthand how Ely’s mother behaved with her own two children, and it was nothing like how Queen Eseld ever behaved with Gwendolyn.

In fact, Gwendolyn had never even thought of Ely’s mother as Lady Ruan. She was mother to Ely, and mother to Bryn, and truth be told, mother to Gwendolyn as well.

This was why yesterday’s ordeal upset Gwendolyn so much. To see Lady Ruan so disappointed in her made everything so much more difficult to bear. Someday, when she dared, she might ask Demelza how her mother had been with her as a babe.

Had she been coddled? Was it always Demelza who’d cared for her?

Gwendolyn wanted so desperately to believe that Queen Eseld had once held her to her bosom, cradling her head, and petting her messy curls. Demelza liked to say she was born with a mass of ringlets so thick she broke every comb she ever tried.

Unwittingly, Gwendolyn lifted a hand to her tresses, running her fingers through the thick tangle of curls. It wasn’t fine, nor shiny, but Prince Locrinus had complimented her and the memory of that compliment made her smile a tiny, private smile.

Could it be that it shone for him? Was it possible that he saw not the tangle of curls she struggled to brush each day, but the golden filaments promised by the Prophecy?

The thought alone made Gwendolyn giddy, because so it was said that only her true love’s heart could bring out the true beauty in her. And if he saw her tresses as golden, then perhaps he saw beauty in her face?

Her palms dampened simply over the thought of seeing him again, and her breath quickened painfully. She felt a telltale flush creep over her body.

Over by the bed, her mother made busy gathering some jewels she’d let Gwendolyn borrow yesterday—primarily the lovely sapphire necklace that matched her tiara.

So often her mother shared from her private coffers, but it occurred to Gwendolyn in that moment, as her mother gathered her precious gems, that her own dowry chest remained empty. So, too, was Ely’s, but for a different reason.

How much longer before she must leave? Little more than a month, Gwendolyn realized, counting the weeks on her fingers.

Thanks be to the gods, although her relationship with her mother was bittersweet, her bond with her father was strong. She didn’t know what she would do if she went away, never to speak to him again. But she felt quite certain they would meet often to parley, except with Loegria as Gwendolyn’s newest priority.

Still, she would never stop caring about Cornwall or its people. And gods willing, with her new husband at her side, she would serve the realm well.

“I thought you might wear the gown today,” her mother suggested as she prepared to leave. “Really, Gwendolyn, if you must go traipsing about the countryside—as I know you will—I must have you present us to our best advantage.”

Startled by the abrupt change in her mother’s demeanor, although she might have expected it, Gwendolyn said, “I shall endeavor to do so, Mother.”

And yet, escorting Prince Locrinus about a city he would someday rule could hardly be considered “traipsing about.” So then, was that what this was all about? Had her mother come only to ensure Gwendolyn presented herself to “our best advantage”?

Gwendolyn’s smile faded. Why couldn’t it ever simply be about a girl and her mother? “Thank you,” she said, resigned. “’Tis beautiful. I adore it.”

And she did. Truly.

And anyway, it was a compliment of sorts—to be trusted to represent her Prydein kindred. By wearing this dress, not only would she be seen to represent Cornwall, but Prydein, as well. And of course, her mother’s people should be represented, even if so oft her mother seemed content to ignore her humbler beginnings.

Gwendolyn sighed then, because it didn’t matter why Queen Eseld had proffered the dress; what mattered was that Gwendolyn wore it. To that end, she found her best leather hosen and donned them at once. With Demelza’s help, she slipped on the ceremonial robe as well, and once she was fully attired, she was surprised to discover how odd the garment felt.

It was firmly fitted, with no extra material about the arms—and now, she regretted all those blueberry cakes! The only free-flowing part of the gown lay below the waist, which was essentially made of four conjoined flaps to give the impression of a full-skirted dress.

And now she realized why it must be paired with her hosen, because any movement at all would expose her limbs. Alas, though she and her mother were approximately the same size overall, her mother was taller and leaner than Gwendolyn; therefore, the buckskin squeezed her upper arms and, if the bosom hadn’t been fashioned to accommodate a woman’s breasts, it would have flattened her as well, because the girth was too tight.

Additionally, because her mother’s breasts were considerably larger than hers, she found the cups entirely too generous.

Testing the bodice, Gwendolyn frowned as the material, stiff with age, collapsed and remained concave. With a gasp, Demelza rushed forward to fill the space between the dress and her flesh with a round of cloth, and Gwendolyn tugged it back out, horrified by the prospect, refusing to make herself look buxom. She tossed it on the floor.

Gods. How embarrassing!

Her mother had returned, Gwendolyn realized. Now she stood in the doorway, watching as Demelza flitted about, attempting to dress Gwendolyn to some satisfaction. Her gaze shifted to the cloth Gwendolyn had refused.

“I meant to keep it a surprise. However, for your dowry chest, I also mean to gift you the breastplates and shoulder plates designed to accompany that gown.” A wistful smile tugged at her lips. “After all, Gwendolyn, I am aware of how I have failed you. If there’s only one thing I wish to remedy before you leave, it is to prepare you fully for your role as Pretania’s queen.”

Surprised by her mother’s admission, Gwendolyn met her doleful gaze. “I—” she began, intending to offer absolution, but her mother pressed a finger to her lips, and said, “Beginning at once, just as soon as our guests have departed, I expect you to train daily with Málik Danann.”

Again, Málik?

Gods.

Gwendolyn longed to protest, but her mother’s expression forbade it.

Hot tears threatened, but she blinked them away. This was no happy gift! It was the worst thing her mother could have said to her!

“There is so little time, Gwendolyn. Though I can plainly see the Prince is already besotted with you, your future is yet to be written. Your father is right, dear one—you must be prepared.”

Besotted?

Gwendolyn’s emotions swung again. Was it so apparent?

“You must face your role as queen, not merely with the grace of a lady, but with the strength of a warrior, and I must confess I regret I forsook my own education. I allowed my instruction to fall by the wayside, but I would have you do better, Daughter.”

How swiftly the mood had changed.

Gwendolyn longed to argue that Bryn’s tutelage was good enough for her. She didn’t want to study with Málik. But so stunned as she was to spy the sudden welling of tears in her mother’s eyes, it rendered her speechless.

Gwendolyn nodded dumbly, and her mother tossed up a hand, turning her back to swipe a finger beneath her eye. “I am away,” she chirped. “Demelza will see to it you are properly dressed, and the Prince awaits his lovely princess.”

Again.

Lovely?

“Oh, yes!” Queen Eseld returned to the threshold, hand raised, as though just remembering something. But this time, when she met Gwendolyn’s gaze, all traces of her tears had gone. “King Brutus and your father have yet to formalize your bride price, but considering the success of last eventide, you may consider it done!”

She tilted her head, smiling with ill-concealed pride—and yet what this pride was for, Gwendolyn couldn’t rightly say. “Enjoy your day,” the Queen said. “Go wheresoever you please, do as you please, only be in attendance this evening for the Promise Ceremony!”

Tonight, it would be done.

“Yes, Mother,” said Gwendolyn.

And then she was gone, vanished with a spin of fine skirts. And with her sudden departure, Gwendolyn felt… again… inexplicably melancholy.

But nay, not precisely.

Rather, bereft. It was… an odd, but terrible void, as though she’d been gifted something of such exceptional value, but only for an instant. Then it was wrenched away.

This was the first time in her memory that her mother had confided in her so directly, and she had a terrible sense it might be the last—particularly considering the short time she had remaining in Trevena.

Gwendolyn swallowed with difficulty, but with her mother departed, she felt more comfortable complaining to Demelza about the state of her dress. “I adore it,” she said. “I do! But can naught be done for these sleeves?”

Demelza tugged at the stiff material, sighing. “It should have been oiled, and then stretched,” she said. “If only I’d known she’d meant to do this so soon.”

“You did not?”

“I did not,” the maid confessed.

“What about these?” Gwendolyn added, cupping her own two breasts, her cheeks burning hot. “I do not relish the thought of walking about with false breasts, but neither will I like it if the material collapses and Prince Locrinus sees me.” Her cheeks burned hotter yet.

“Fret not,” said Demelza, pulling harder at the cloth. “You are perfectly endowed, my child. Your bosom was made for your body. And no matter—I vow this material will soften and mold itself to your form as though it were made for you.”

Gwendolyn lifted a brow, considering her modest breasts. “Small as they are,” she lamented.

“Nonsense,” the maid argued. “I should not say it, but your mother is overly endowed. ’Tis hardly common to bear such large breasts with such a tiny waist. And there is naught wrong with your form, Gwendolyn. I have heard many a man claim that any more than a handful is a terrible waste, and you have a handful, or perhaps two.”

“Not two,” said Gwendolyn, and her cheeks burned hotter still.

In fact, she had a little more than a handful, but her hands were fairly small. She dropped them at her sides as Demelza continued fussing with the gown.

“The sleeves will be stretched at the first opportunity,” she said, pinching at the material, unfazed by her own frank speech. “In the meantime, I will endeavor to convince your mother to allow the use of the breastplates—today,” she added. “I shall go remind her how much your father admired the way she looked when she wore this… at first.”

“At first?”

“Well, he did. To begin with. But she came to him a wildling herself, full of her own self-importance.”

Gwendolyn pursed her lips. In so many ways, her mother was still like that. Not much had changed. And yet she daren’t impugn her own mother, so she said, “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes. She carried a poniard to bed for a fortnight, fearing she might be slain.”

The maid pulled aside the collar of her gown and revealed a small scar at the small juncture between her neck and shoulder. The look she gave, with both lifted brows, left Gwendolyn aghast. “I made the mistake of waking her too early.”

Gwendolyn laughed, though she was horrified. “Did she believe she would be slain by my father?”

“Oh, no, child! Your mother speaks true. Your father worshipped the ground she walked upon, yet this was not something your mother seemed to comprehend until she found her place in your father’s court. Eventually, she put her instruction to use with the dawnsio, and traded her dagger for a scepter.”

Gwendolyn lifted her brows. She would have liked to have known her then. The old Queen Eseld was far more intriguing.

Demelza winked then. “She’ll give you the breastplates today. As you know, she would deny you naught.”

Of course not. Her mother would never say no to something like this. Appearances were everything to her. “Thank you,” said Gwendolyn, sorely hoping the breastplate would conceal her bosom. And then she was suddenly excited to see what the vestment would look like altogether—a Prydein princess? How thrilling to represent her mother’s people! How magnificent to have a small connection to her grandparents, even despite that she’d never met them. Someday she would, she vowed.

Someday.