Page 4 of The Cornish Princess
In some ways, her authority surpassed the Queen’s, and yet knowing she daren’t utter a word against her mother, Gwendolyn pursed her lips. When her expression remained inscrutable, Alderman Aelwin finally gave a pleading glance toward the Queen, eschewing her title as he said, “As I understand, the Princess’ dowry chest has not been delivered. Is this true, Mestres?” He hitched his chin at First Alderman Bryok, but the First Alderman averted his gaze, jaw taut, as though he would have no part in this discourse.
Queen Eseld ignored the veiled accusation, and, to her credit, she also ignored the omission of her title. “Mydaughterwasalwaysmeant to wed this Maytide, Konselman. This news changes little.”
Actually, it changed a lot so far as Gwendolyn was concerned—Locrinus was hardly Urien. But at seventeen, if she did not wed this Maytide, it could be another long while before another opportunity presented itself—a long, long while, during which her womb could wither and die. Only once in a great while did the new moon align itself with Calan Mai, and for a princess of Pretania, wedding vows must be spoken on this sacred day, with the Llanrhos Druids in attendance—to bid the gods bestow blessings of peace and fertility, not merely for the wedding couple, but for the land itself. This was why so many years had passed since her meeting Urien and her upcoming nuptials. They were waiting for the most opportune time to align their houses, and now, for the sake of the realm, her wedding could not be postponed.
Yet the Aldermen knew this…
“Majesty,” pleaded Alderman Aelwin.
“Enough!” declared her father. “Enough! Enough!” He reached out to squeeze the Queen’s hand. “The Prince arrives on the morrow. What would you have me do, Konselman? Turn him away?”
Gwendolyn blinked, surprised. “Tomorrow?”
She hadn’t realized, though of course, it made sense, considering there was so little time remaining before the planned event. She must have at least one opportunity to meet Prince Locrinus to see how they would comport. Still, she wasn’t ready.
“Tomorrow,” confirmed her father with a nod.
“Oh,” she said, and, truly, she might have said more, but there wasn’t a good reason to object, even despite that the alderman spoke true. Her dowry chest had not yet been delivered, much less completed—or even begun, so far as Gwendolyn knew. She had no lady’s maid. And worst of all—again, she swiped self-consciously at the blueberry stain on her tunic—she wasn’t prepared to face the Prince.
Her heart fluttered wildly as she dared seek her mother’s gaze—not to change her mind. Gwendolyn understood they were running out of time. She merely longed for some reassurance.
Sensing her attention, Queen Eseld turned to look at Gwendolyn for the briefest of instants, then quickly averted her gaze, leaving Gwendolyn feeling… that same horrid sense of melancholy she always felt over her mother’s rejections, subtle as this was.
Suddenly, the Queen slapped the table and rose from her seat. “Enough!” she said fiercely, and if her mother was passionate about nothing else, she was passionate about this. “Our dragon banners will be united! Now, I intend to go plan for our guests.”
She marched from the room without a backward glance, leaving the aldermen holding their tongues. As a daughter of the Northern Tribes, there was that about Queen Eseld that lost its civility whenever she was enraged—a certain gleam in her eye, more than a show of temper. Yet her father remained unperturbed. His face gaunt and pale, he turned to face his only child, giving her a lift of his chin. “You may go, as well,” he said. His voice was gentle, yet brooked no argument, and Gwendolyn’s brows collided—not so much because he was dismissing her but because she was worried about his health.
At least now she was free to go inspect the glen. “Yes, sire,” she said respectfully.
“And please, please, do as your mother says, Gwendolyn. Make ready.”
“Yes, sire,” she said again, and rose from the table.
With a hand to her heart, she inclined her head, first to her father and King, and thereafter, afforded the same courtesy to her father’s aldermen. Afterward, she left, closing the door behind her, denying herself the urge to linger and listen because come what may, she must resign herself to this fate. Everything her mother said was perfectly true—the dragon banners must be united.
It was her duty to wed Loegria’s heir—and this she had known since the day she was born.
Neither could she allow herself to worry over Prince Locrinus’ affinity toward her. If he wished to be king of Pretania, Gwendolyn was part of that plan. Loegria might, indeed, have more sons, but Cornwall had no more daughters.
ChapterTwo
An errand boy rushed by with a heap of towels. Spying Gwendolyn, he stumbled to a halt, attempting a hasty bow and nearly spilling his burden.
“Oh!” Gwendolyn exclaimed, rushing forward to help him keep his stack. “Keep your eyes ahead,” she admonished once the towels were saved. “No one will fault you for it, not even the King.” The boy nodded enthusiastically, then attempted another bow, and Gwendolyn shook her head, smiling with her rebuke. “Straight ahead!” she commanded, pointing down the hall, and away the boy dashed with a mountain of towels bigger than him, his bottom wagging like a pup’s tail. The towels were headed for the salt bath—a medicinalpiscinaher father had ordered constructed some years past using blueprints traded by a Phoenician merchant.
After hearing about their healing springs, the merchant asked to see one, and when her father lamented the vanishing pools, the merchant offered his blueprints.
It was really quite inspired, Gwendolyn thought. Constructed so it siphoned sea water into an inner-city pool from the bay below, waders came to ease their joints and for various other ailments. They worked similarly to the hot springs, with two major differences: the hot springs were naturally heated and provided by the grace of gods. The salt bath was made possible by the ingenuity of men, yet there was no way to heat the pool; and therefore, it was not so enjoyable to use during the Winter. But despite this, it was quite the attraction. Visiting merchants came oft to make use of it during warmer months, diverted from nearby ports.
Another servant rushed by with a cart, his sole duty to replace the old, spent torches with fresh ones, newly dipped in pitch. Another came with a broom, and another with a bucket and mop. The spirit of the moment was vastly changed from the sleepy languor Gwendolyn encountered on the way into her father’s Konsel. During this short time since her mother’s departure, the Queen had already put the entire palace to work.
From the ivy-tangled courtyards to the King’s polished-granite audience hall, servants rushed about, making ready for their distinguished guests. But this was when her mother’s talents shone best. Whatever “savage” influences Queen Eseld had before her arrival, there were none more sophisticated than she. She was the Mestres of Cornwall, the lady of Trevena, and no one worked harder at being Cornish than their Prydein Queen.
Thankfully, her mother was right about this, as well; there was much to be done—enough to keep her busy and away from Gwendolyn. It had been too long since they’d had guests of such import—not since her first meeting with Urien, five years past, when Gwendolyn was still too young to understand the significance of their union.
She had thought Urien fine, in the same manner one admired an elder brother, but she’d never once imagined herself on his arm, nor in his bed.
Now Gwendolyn was old enough to understand the import of what was happening here today, and if she didn’t like Prince Locrinus, she would be stuck with him, regardless.
