Page 26 of The Cornish Princess
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 scarletcendal, 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.”
