Page 63 of The Cornish Princess
Her uncle grinned wide—a smile that split his face. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “So, tell me about your prince?”
Gods.It was only then Gwendolyn realized she’d forgotten to mention Prince Locrinus at all—odd for a woman newly promised. “Well… he’s… quite… princely,” she offered.
“And you don’t like him?” guessed Cunedda.
“I do,” Gwendolyn lied, and her uncle lifted a brow.
“You forget how well I know you,” he suggested, and Gwendolyn considered what to say in her defense, when suddenly, there was a thud behind them.
Startled, she spun about. One of her guards—the one wearing Hedrek’s livery—had toppled from his horse. He fell face-first on the ground, smashing his nose, so it bled.
But this was the least of his concerns. He was foaming at the mouth, his body convulsing violently, and he was making terrible choking sounds.
At the tips of his fingers lay several of the prunes Gwendolyn had given him.
His reaction swift, Málik dismounted, flying to the man’s side and thrusting his fingers down the man’s throat, coming away with nothing.
The other guard sat stupidly on his mount, mouth agape, while Cunedda’s men did the same. After a moment, her uncle dismounted, moving to the guard’s side, and while Málik tried to help him, her uncle pried open the man’s fist to reveal…
A half-eaten prune.
Stunned though she was, Gwendolyn dismounted, too, hurrying to Málik’s side to discover the guard’s tunic soaked from so much dribble. His pupils were large and round, his skin turning blue… and she knew… even before she had finished processing the scene before her… she knew.
She shared a knowing look with Málik, eyes wide.
Poison.
“Lift him!” demanded her uncle, and Málik obeyed at once, scooping the twitching man into his arms, even knowing it was too late.
“We’ll take him to the healer,” apprised Cunedda.
Alas, Gwendolyn placed a hand on Málik’s arm to stay him where he knelt. She met hisicebournegaze. “There’s no cure,” she whispered, wanting him to understand.
There was no remedy for this poison, and even if there were, he would asphyxiate before they brought him before a healer. At this point, the poison would work swiftly, and his final moments would be unimaginable. Gwendolyn shook her head, hot tears brimming in her eyes.
Trusting her, Málik nodded. He unsheathed his dagger, then plunged it straight into the man’s heart.
The bodyof Hedrek’s vassal lay atop Cunedda’s supping table. Deprived of life, his skin was already turning grey. “Poison,” said the healer, confirming Gwendolyn’s fears. But really, she’d known. The convulsions, the increased salivation noted by the soaking of his tunic, and the inky-blue stains beneath his fingernails, so soon after his demise—these were signs. She once watched a taster end this way, and it was the worst thing Gwendolyn had ever witnessed. If Málik had not put his blade into the man’s breast, they would have watched him suffocate before their eyes, his eyes round and bulging, blood-rimmed, mouth open and gasping for air.
His death was all her fault. She blamed herself. She was the one who’d put the prunes into his saddlebag. And, if she had not done so, he’d not be lying here stone cold.
Gods.She had never even bothered to ask his name—Owen, so she learned only today. Her head had been so full of Málik and court intrigue that she had never ever considered.
“I don’t understand,” said her aunt. “If you ate some, why are you not affected?”
Her husband heaved a sigh, his big shoulders deflating. “You mustn’t ask, Lowenna.”
Sharing this knowledge could make her father vulnerable. Her uncle knew this, as well. That his wife was not aware of it made Gwendolyn believe he did not share the practice of dosing, or if he did, he did not share it with his wife or his children.
Arms crossed, Málik stood on the other side of the table, studying the now lifeless form of the guard. He flicked a glance at Gwendolyn when she spoke.
“I…” She shook her head, uncertain what to say. “Mustn’t…”
“You mustn’t have eaten much,” suggested Málik, and she nodded.
“How do you know the poison was in the prunes?” asked Lowenna.
“I… I… don’t know.”
