Page 68 of The Cornish Princess
“More’s the pity. They’ll be the only fields of yours to ever be plowed again,” countered Jenefer.
“Nay,” argued Borlewen. “One child will merely recommend me. I know how to please a man well enough that I’ll have six more in line behind him.”
“Six!” squealed Briallen, and Jennifer added, “Gods, you’re a wanton.”
Borlewen shrieked with outrage and flew out of her bed with a pillow in hand to pummel Jenefer. For a moment, the sisters grappled in jest, with Jenefer screaming and Borlewen trying in vain to shove her pillow against her sister’s face.
“Stop! Stop!” screamed Jenefer, laughing. “Stop!” Until all three were shrieking with laughter, and Gwendolyn even, despite that she took a knee in the thigh over Borlewen’s feigned fury. Later, when they were settled again and the laughter subsided, Briallen dared to ask, “By the by, Gwen, I must ask… have you never seen Málik’s cock?”
Appalled by the rude question—and from the meekest of the sisters—Gwendolyn slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her horrified laughter, and the sisters all recommenced to giggling.
“I have not,” said Gwendolyn, though she was smiling—perhaps as much by the prospect as the question itself.
Gods.The last time she’d spent any time with her cousins, they weren’t nearly so man-crazed. But that was a long time ago, and now they were women grown—plainly far more experienced than Gwendolyn. Or at least the way they spoke made her think they were.
“Why not?” asked Jenefer, baldly.
Borlewen was the first to remind them. “Because she is promised, silly twat. And yet, one needn’t bed a man to see his bald-pated druid.”
“Borlewen!” exclaimed both Jenefer and Briallen together. And again, all three girls fell into fits of laughter, and Gwendolyn, too. But thereafter, even when the room quieted, she couldn’t stop thinking of Málik’s “bald-pated druid.”
Bawdy as they were, her cousins had merely spoken Gwendolyn’s thoughts aloud.
Oh, to be so free of thought.
It was a long, long while before anyone spoke again—so long that Gwendolyn thought mayhap her cousins had fallen asleep. Suddenly, Briallen turned, and said, “Really, why do we need men? You should raise an army, Gwen. Take Pretania for us!”
“And then what?” suggested Borlewen, snidely, yawning loudly. “Live like Druids, giving each other green gowns, and waggling the occasional man to get ourselves a babe?”
The Llanrhos Druids were said to love amidst their own kind, and women were not well received. If a woman ever arrived on their doorstep, no matter her grievance, she would be turned away, for theirs was an ancient order that did not welcome creatures with menses—not even for sacrifice. Only a man could seek their counsel.
“I would like that better,” said Briallen wistfully.
“Of course, you would,” said Borlewen sleepily. Then everyone fell silent, leaving Gwendolyn awake, and longing… not merely for the easy banter of these three sisters, but for something else… something she daren’t name.
Forcing herself to think of Prince Loc instead, she tried to imagine their coupling, and… failed. Her brain simply did not wish to entertain such thoughts.
And neither did she.
Thankfully, she’d had enough strong ale to drift to sleep, even as her cousins began to snore.
The following morning,Gwendolyn found Málik in the courtyard, stretching to prepare for their usual morning routine. With the blush of the early morning light painting his form, his silvery color was awash with a dusky rose, and for a long while, Gwendolyn stood back, as she had in those early days after he’d first arrived in Trevena, only daring to admire him—his graceful movements, his long, sinuous limbs… the outline of his well-muscled form… the confidence with which he negotiated each exercise.
However, at the moment, he seemed, for the first time ever, oblivious to her presence, and Gwendolyn found herself with a trickster on her shoulder.
Oh, how she’d love to best him—only once.
Having come prepared to practice, she was ready. Careful not to make a sound, she unsheathed her sword, then flew at him, falling upon him just the way he’d taught her to do, minding her feet, so she stepped out precisely at the right moment with the sword positioned, ready to strike. Without warning, Málik spun to face her, withdrawing his sword from its scabbard more swiftly than he should have been able, considering their proximity.
He struck Gwendolyn’s blade so forcefully it might have cut the weapon in twain were it not good Loegrian steel. The force and sound the impact made sent a tremor down her spine, and a pang through her hand.
“Well done!” he said. But then, without hesitation, Gwendolyn spun about and parried, hoping to catch him unawares.
Once again, he found her blade, striking harder than he did the first time. “Bedamned!” Gwendolyn cried, her fingers screaming over the abuse.
“Never spin.”
“You did!”
