Page 49 of The Cornish Princess
Love where you must.And this she would do.
Duty first.
Always.
Only, now that she’d met Prince Loc, and she’d had a moment or two to consider all that transpired, she found his nature to be…odd.
More to the point, if she could be truthful, she didn’t particularly enjoy him. All his golden finery and his blinding white smiles couldn’t hide a vain demeanor.
And nay, as angry as she was over Bryn’s demotion, it wasn’t so much the thought of leaving Bryn that upset her; it was more this: She knew what her mother had become since leaving her Prydein home, and it settled poorly in her belly, like a gut full of soured oats.
Worries spun round her head—old and new.
Moreover, she adored this gown her mother gave her, and now, having examined all the finery in her dowry chest—the emblazonry on the cloth, the fine needlework—she had determined the Prydein were anything but wildlings. Insomuch as their artistry was equal to, if not finer than those of Cornwall’s artisans, it was now impossible to think of them as crude, woad-painted people, running about like savages in the northern woods.
Also, considering the way her mother had cared for those few treasures she’d brought along with her, it was clear to Gwendolyn how much she valued them. That she had taken such care to present them so finely and considering how long it took her to part with them, it was evident to Gwendolyn that no matter how fervently Queen Eseld had adopted her new life, she secretly cherished, and perhaps even longed for her own people and customs.
It was sad, really—the way her mother had felt compelled to shed her former life. And perhaps more than ever, Gwendolyn understood something vital about her mother’s heart.
She longed more than ever to go see Prydein for herself, but some part of her felt such uncertainty over her own betrothed, because there had been nothing in Prince Loc’s demeanor that had led her to believe he would appreciate her people, or any other, particularly her mother’s. “Barbarians,” he’d called the Ostmen. “Garbed in whatever pelts they can find—dogs, if needs must.” Was this how he viewed her mother’s people as well?
And then, he’d said of the people of Eastwalas, “If anyone should be called such a thing, it should be them because they are inconsequential.”
Gwendolyn didn’t want to feel embarrassed, or defensive about her land or her people, but considering Prince Loc’s own words, she didn’t believe he was predisposed to giving others their just due, which only left her feeling strangely bereft.
She was also quite torn—already fiercely protective on the one hand, and reluctantly embarrassed on the other, as her mother must have felt after coming from Prydein. Should Gwendolyn also forsake her people, only to be subsumed by Prince Loc’s Trojan ways?
Gods.
That would be horrific.
Gwendolyn found she didn’t wish to leave her friends, nor her oysters, nor her beloved glen, nor her mother, in truth—not now, when it seemed she finally had some opportunity to know her better.
As for Prince Loc…
Her mother might be content enough to conform to life with her husband, eschewing her own people and customs, but there was one crucial difference between them: Queen Eseld adored her husband and respected him no less. Love would make all sacrifices worthwhile, but Gwendolyn worried she could never love Prince Loc.
She feared that glimpse of him she’d spied in the cave.
Not because she would be hapless to surrender to his passions once they were wed—she was not. She’d been taught to defend herself, and wedded or not, Gwendolyn would demand all due respect as a princess of Pretania. But this too she feared, because she knew herself all too well: If her husband dared mistreat her, she would castrate him, and damned be their heirs—damned be Cornwall as well, because their discord would be its downfall.
How could she reconcile this?
Mayhap it would be possible to see him again—if only to determine whether she would feel the same way after spending another afternoon with him. People had bad and good days, and Gwendolyn had plenty of bad days herself. Perhaps yesterday was a bad day for Prince Loc. And certainly, the man she’d spent time with that day on the moors wasn’t the same man she’d spent time with during the welcome feast.
Or was it?
At any rate, merely because she didn’t crave Loc’s kiss—nor did she seem inclined to fantasize about kissing him—that didn’t mean she never dreamt about kissing anyone—just not him.
There was only ever one person Gwendolyn had ever fantasized about kissing, and this was not something she ever meant to confess—dear gods.
Unhappily, the object of her conflicting emotions was yet another burden she must endure and simply couldn’t bear. Thusly, she was still distracted when she arrived for her first session with Málik Danann.
“You are late,” he said.
“Am I?” Gwendolyn asked, feigning dispassion, although she felt anything but. And neither was it a question. She knew she was late and didn’t care.
What was he going to do? Give her a lashing? And if he did, good. Because then, in truth, her father would reinstate the custom of placing heads on pikes—namely his.
