Page 1 of The Cornish Princess
ChapterOne
Gwendolyn heard the wail of a sentry’s horn but thought little more of it. Rolling onto her back, she yawned, then stretched, basking like a cat beneath a warm swathe of morning light that spilled in through her high window.
Trevena was a bustling city, luring merchants from as far away as Phoenicia and Carthage. She was thoroughly accustomed to the hurry-scurry, and yet no one but Ely or Demelza ever dared disturb her here in her private quarters. Therefore, when the rap sounded on her chamber door, she started. Rolling quickly to find her feet, she misjudged the distance to the edge of the bed, and with a yelp of surprise, landed in the rushes.
Unfortunately, at this hour, her antechamber would be empty with no one available to greet her mystery guest.
Another knock came—rude and insistent.
Stifling a groan, Gwendolyn scrambled to her feet, hurrying to locate her gown. No doubt, Demelza was still preoccupied with her mother, and, not for the first time, she wondered why Queen Eseld steadfastly refused to assign her a lady’s maid, when there were plenty of worthy applicants who coveted this position, her best friend Ely being one.
The answer was obvious, of course, and it vexed Gwendolyn to no end, because it gave her mother another means to spy. Meanwhile, this wasn’t the first time Gwendolyn had gone clambering from her bed only to don yesterday’s attire.
Worse yet, her tunic had a large blueberry stain—irrefutable evidence she’d been flouting her mother’s wishes again, sneaking about the cook’s house in search of pastries. Infuriating as it was, her mother was right: At this rate, her wedding gown probably wouldn’t fit by the time she must wear it, and despite this, Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself. She was nervous.
One more sharp rap on the door, and she cursed the day she was born—not for the obvious reasons, but for the one curse those damnablefaeriesnever confessed to. She wasn’t clumsy precisely, but neither was she so gracious as her Queen mother.
And regardless, while Gwendolyn admired her mother’s indefatigable determination to be what she was not, she wanted more from her life—so much more.
She wanted to travel, not merely to see Pretania, but to look upon Cnoc Fírinne in Ériu and see with her own two eyes the last bastion of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Someday, she also wished to meet her grandparents.
Also she meant to visit the new Temple of the Dead in Eastwalas.
Most of all, she yearned to be accepted and loved for who she was, regardless of how one perceived her face.
Sighing gloomily over the thought, Gwendolyn rubbed at the stain on her bosom, then went stumbling toward the door, and drew it open.
“Yestin!”
“Myttin da,Highness,” said her father’s steward. “I’ve come to tell you that your attendance is required in your father’s Konsel—immediately.”
Gwendolyn blinked. “Mine?”
She tapped a finger to her breast, one brow lifting in surprise. Really, it wasn’t so much that her father had need of her. These days, he needed help in performing many of his duties. It was more the early hour. Though perhaps it meant he was feeling better?
The steward’s eyes narrowed on Gwendolyn’s stain; and then, perhaps recalling where it lay and whose breast it occupied, he lifted his gaze to glower at her—as though it were her fault his eyes had wandered. Lifting a grizzled brow, he said again, “Immediately.” As though Gwendolyn hadn’t heard him the first time. And then, he refused to say aught more, except to reveal that a messenger had arrived from Loegria. It wasn’t until she slid into her chair at the far end of her father’s war table she learned the dreadful news…
King Brutus’ son, Urien the Elder—her betrothed—was dead.
Deader than a doornail, so they claimed, and equally stiff, considering he’d been gone now for more than a fortnight, and his father was only now imparting this news.
Groaning inwardly, Gwendolyn slid down into her chair, some part of her fearing the very worst—thatshehad somehow been the cause of this, that one look at her countenance had driven the poor prince to his grave. And now they would foist her upon the younger…
Prince Locrinus.
Clearly, negotiations were over, and despite that no woman should know her true worth, Gwendolyn did: seventy heads of cattle, two hundred goats, fifty hens, two peregrines, and two thousand ingots of Loegrian steel. Additionally, because Prince Urien’s death was not perceived to be her fault—thank the gods—her dowry should remain the same, and her bride price was expected to rise by another twelve aurochs, thirty goats, and one more cartload of ingots. Overall, not such a terrible a sum, but none of it was worth more than the Loegrian steel—that strange, precious metal that arrived on their shores along with Brutus and his warriors.
As usual, there appeared to be some complication, and judging by the pinched look on her mother’s face, Queen Eseld had already grown impatient with this discourse. Her displeasure intensified with Gwendolyn’s arrival, and seeing her mother’s soured expression, Gwendolyn wished she were anywhere but here.
Anywhere—truly.
Anywhere.
In the freezing rain.
Midwinter.
