Page 43 of The Cornish Princess
Queen Eseld had a steady hand, perfectly skilled for having practiced on the ladies of herdawnsio. But for an instant, the powder made Gwendolyn’s lashes stick together, and though some grains slipped into her eyes, her mother patted her hand when she made to rub it away.
“You’ll smear the kohl,” she rebuked, though not unkindly. “Give it a moment. The irritation will subside.”
Eager to please, Gwendolyn obeyed, thinking that by the time her mother was through with her, she would look like a gleaming gem. It was hardly her usual attire.
However, Queen Eseld could have dressed her in a meal sack, and Gwendolyn would have beamed with joy, merely to have her mother’s regard.
From what she’d been told, the Prydein wore paint, as well—mostly woad. Though it was not of this ilk, nor was it worn in the same way, to adorn. Rather, this was a style of paint her mother had adopted after meeting the wife of a Phoenician merchant—only the black paint about her eyes, perhaps reluctant to be seen as emulating the woad of her people.
The people of Trevena were hardworking, honorable folks, who scarcely had time for such adornment. However, as their princess, on the eve of her betrothal, Gwendolyn would be expected to outshine them all—and so she would… so she did.
When her mother’s work was complete, Gwendolyn scarcely recognized herself. She was iridescent and beautiful. Her face was flawlessly painted. Her dress was perfectly fitted, but loose about her hips, so no one could tell they were a little wider than her mother’s.
“Perfect!” said her mother, still brandishing the kohl brush in her hand.
“Oh, Gwen!” said Ely, clapping her hands with tears shining in her eyes. “You are like a magnificent jewel!”
“Precious!” said Demelza, and Queen Eseld agreed with an earnest nod and a soft smile that betrayed her pride.
ChapterFifteen
Despite that Gwendolyn was formerly betrothed to Prince Urien, she had not been required to exchange torcs with him. Being so young when they’d first met, she’d been spared the prefatory—mostly because free will was a gods-given gift she had been too young to comprehend. Now, because she was seventeen and no one could drag her screaming to the yew, the exchange of promissory torcs served, not merely as an affirmation of her willingness to marry, but as a pledge between Gwendolyn and Prince Loc to remain chaste till their nuptials were honored. Her people bore witness to assist them in keeping these vows.
To break them would be a sin against Cornwall.
As it must be with her nuptials, the Promise Ceremony was held during the Between Times, when the gods might traverse the Veil to bless their union. Their approach was felt like a vibrancy in the air, and even the lowering sun shivered with anticipation.
Something like excitement welled in Gwendolyn’s breast, although truth be told, the sensation wasn’t entirely pleasant.
A rumble of drums began the ceremony, and the harp joined as Gwendolyn ascended the dais where theAwenyddstood waiting beside Prince Loc—today a witness, no more, though on the day of her nuptials, theGwiddonand druid would arrive, as well.
Resplendent as always, Prince Loc’s smile encouraged her. And if he nurtured any animosity for her treatment of him this afternoon, it wasn’t apparent in his expression. With the torc in his hand, he stood proudly, watching Gwendolyn with that same look he’d given her in the Dragon’s Lair…
Yearning? Satisfaction?Possession?
It didn’t matter.
She was bound to this now, and if she said nay, it would break her father’s heart—her mother’s as well.
Acceptance with grace and faith.
Decide you will love him, and eventually you shall.
I will,she vowed. I will.
Even so, her legs felt like mushed meal as she made her way toward her betrothed.
The torc of her house was as ancient as theSidhehills. Symbolic was its passing from her father to her, although he handed it to Gwendolyn without ceremony as she walked by—father to daughter, king to heir. He held it aloft on a small crimson tuft—willingly given, willfully taken.
Her father and mother now wore replicants.
Made of old, braided bronze, the torc came together about the neck with two dragon heads that met snout to snout. And within each of the dragons’ eyes lay perfectly polished pearls, four altogether, two in each head. This she would give to Prince Loc, to be held in safekeeping until they met again beneath the yew to become man and wife.
This was her promissory note, and he would give one as well.
She was careful to be certain that the heavy chain came to her untangled, letting it pool into her palm, some part of her thrilled over the adventure to come, even though she was anxious. And yet, it wasn’t Gwendolyn’s way to face the unknown with any measure of subservience, so she hitched her chin and returned the Prince’s smile, holding his gaze until the music stopped. Only then her eyes were drawn to the torc in his hand.
The hue of its metal warmed with the golden hour—fresh from the forge and fashioned of the same alloy for which the recipe was so jealously guarded—and,gods, she thought she would swoon. The eyes of his serpents were bright blue sapphires, each of them glinting meanly at her, and she found herself reluctant to take the necklace. Gwendolyn swallowed, staring at the serpents, not daring to meet the Prince’s gaze—not yet.
