Page 22 of The Cornish Princess
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 thefaerealms.
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.
Thedawnsio—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.
