Page 44 of The Cornish Princess
Neither of them could properly wear the torcs until after their nuptials, but the instant Gwendolyn accepted it, she would be honor-bound to carry it about her neck, until they could return them and place them irrevocably about each other’s throats—like a noose, she thought morbidly, and then scolded herself for the impulse. Secured on long, heavy chains, they were worn in a fashion that was visible to all—a symbol that their virtues were heretofore spoken for, and no one should put them asunder.
Taking the torc was the right thing to do.
Her father depended upon her.
The people did as well.
And… Prince Loc?
What did he want?
Whatever nerves Gwendolyn suffered, there was none apparent in the worry-free countenance she faced across the dais, and this gave her the resolve to move.
Knees trembling, she paused beside theAwenyddto wait yet again, all eyes in the courtyard affixed upon her. Gwendolyn willed her feet to stay—now was not the time to repeat her afternoon flight, no matter that she felt an overwhelming desire to flee.
Silence fell as twilight settled, and no man dared disturb it.
The only sound to reach Gwendolyn’s ears was the sound of the Prince’s footfalls as he closed the distance between them, and the heavy golden chain shivered in her palm.
TheAwenyddprayed, and then,before all who were present, the Prince knelt before Gwendolyn, bowing his head to receive the chain with her torc.
Only for a terrible moment, Gwendolyn couldn’t move. She daren’t look at her father, nor at her mother—nor at theAwenydd, either, for they so oft could read what lay hidden in a heart.
Swallowing convulsively, Gwendolyn peered about, searching for Bryn and reassurance. She found him regarding her with a genuine smile, albeit sadly.
And regardless, he gave her a nod, and Gwendolyn peered down at the torc in her hand, and then to Prince Loc’s bowed head, compelling herself to bestow it, until finally she did.
Dutifully, she placed the chain about his head, and then said with a quivering voice, “As you are to me, I am to you, promised and faithful till my end of days.”
Prince Loc smiled up at her then, and stood, and Gwendolyn did not need to kneel in order for him to place the heavy chain about her neck. She did so anyway, as a show of respect, and he reached over to settle his burden atop her shoulders. “As you are to me,” he repeated, “I am to you, promised and faithful until my end of days.”
Gwendolyn swallowed again, her mouth gone dry, and then stood, blinking like a hapless creature, until Prince Loc’s smile deepened.
Behind him, grinning with unreserved approval, stood his sire—as her own parents must be as well. But of course, it was done.Come Calan Mai, they would declare themselves man and wife, and receive their blessings from the mester druid on behalf of the gods.
Why then did she feel so horrible?
Oblivious to her turmoil, the people all cheered.
Wine was drunk—a gesture of acceptance for the promises made. A single goblet was brought forth for Prince Loc and Gwendolyn to share, offered first to the bride-to-be.
Gwendolyn took her sip, then gave it up to Prince Loc, and immediately thereafter, she was veiled, and the Promise Ceremony was over—or at least, her part.
Accompanied only by theAwenydd,to guide her in prayer, and Málik, to shadow her, Gwendolyn was whisked away to the Sacred Yew to pray. On her knees. In the coolness of gathering shadows. To contemplate the gravity of the promises made.
Forever renewing themselves, and resurrecting, the yews formed massive trunks. This one was ancient, with an enormous hollow in its base.
Guardians of the Underworld, death and the afterlife, their drooping branches would root themselves and form new and twisting trunks wherever they touched the ground.
According to the Gwyddons, yews were immortal, and yet this distinction had so oft fascinated Gwendolyn, considering that nothing ever grew beneath its dense canopy because of the carpet of poisonous spines and the dark shadow it cast over the land.
Beneath the tree, she fell to her knees, placing a palm against the aged wood, the very palm that had held her chain, begging for strength… and forgiveness because her heart was a traitorous fool. “Goddess, please,” she began, and stopped, sensing the presence behind her.
Please, what?
Alas, though she knew the answer to this question, she daren’t speak it aloud.
The weight of her necklace seemed to tug on her heart—a dreadful heaviness accompanied by a shadow that settled into her bones with the lowering night.
