Page 75 of The Cornish Princess
Aside from thefogousbelow the village, there were few protections here—no walls, only one mean tower whence archers could take aim.
And yet, for all the modesty of this place, her uncle’s men were well trained. Even as Gwendolyn watched, his men took positions on the rooftops—one on the garner, one on the blacksmith’s hut, another two on the barn.
A few guards rushed to his side. The rest all found places wherever they could—two behind the wall of ale casks that only last night had harbored want-to-be lovers.
Another horn wailed, calling liegemen from nearby farms.
Málik took Gwendolyn by her arm, dragging her roughly behind him. “Stay close,” he commanded.
Across the village came shouts, women ushering children into the nearby garner. A few scrambled down a well. And then, once the children were safe, the rest of the women rushed to arm themselves to join the fray. Gwendolyn felt a rush as she assumed the fighting position—only this time it wouldn’t be for practice.
This time, she knew blood would spill.
This time she would not use the flat of her blade.
This time she would strike to kill.
Only when the column of roiling dust neared enough so she could see who had raised it, did she exhale in relief and reach for the back of Málik’s tunic, trying to pull him back.
“Nay!” she said. “Rest easy. ’Tis our own men, fear not.”
His pale eyes darkening to steel, Málik turned to meet her gaze and said, “Nay, Gwendolyn. These are not your father’s men. On your toes, Princess! Prepare to fight.”
Even as he said it, the riders tossed down their dragon pennants and bore down on the village, trampling her father’s pennants, and leaving them ragged and tumbling in their dust.
Gods.
This was happening in truth, a battle waged. But nay! Cornwall was at peace, allied with Loegria—who would dare?
The first crack of metal rang, and the horrid sound made Gwendolyn’s teeth ache.
Even as they trampled the first line of defense, cutting down her uncle’s men, still Gwendolyn doubted her eyes.
Scarlet sprayed the air and splattered the ground.
In horror, Gwendolyn watched as the lead rider’s sword cut down a weaker iron blade that met his midair, and then the man who’d dared to wield it—a bare-chested man who’d never even had time to dress from his drunken slumber.
Bile rose at the back of Gwendolyn’s throat, but she readied herself to swing, even as riders dismounted and her uncle joined the fray with a roar.
“To me!” he shouted. “To me!”
Ahead of her, with a mighty bellow, Málik joined as well, and, with her heart in her throat, Gwendolyn swung for the first time in all her life to maim or to kill.
Metal sang against metal, a terrible anthem of death.
Crying out as she felt her blade slice into flesh, she saw more crimson spray. And despite that, she thought… this must be a dream… a terrible, terrible dream.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
In the courtyard, where last night’s casks of wine were opened and drunk, and Borlewen flirted with Kitto, the battle waged—so near to her uncle’s table, and the hearth where his wife only yesterday morning stood baking bread.
The flashing of swords against the bright morning sun stabbed her eyes, even as the crack of metal rang in her ears. Dust rose with the scrambling of feet.
No time for tears, no time to be afraid. A true leader would not run; neither would she. All her life she had prepared for this moment, and she would not fail her uncle and his family.
You can do it,she told herself.You can do it.
Don’t scream!Don’t run!
