Page 66 of The Cornish Princess
Nay, he wouldn’t dare, she decided.
At any rate, she was quite certain she’d taken all the remaining prunes—much to Owen’s lament, and hers as well. And this wasn’t the only reason she wished to stay in Chysauster, with Málik, even despite that she wasn’t willing to confess it aloud.
Instead, she endeavored to convince herself it was because this would be the last opportunity she would ever have to enjoy the company of her cousins as a girl unwed.
Aside from Bryn and Ely, her cousins were the closest to siblings Gwendolyn had ever had, and now that she was here, she intended to make the most of it.
Mornings she spent with Málik, sparring in her uncle’s courtyard. Afternoons she spent with her cousins, reminiscing over times past.
Butgods, whosoever believed men were bawdier than women had never met her cousins, and Gwendolyn wondered if perhaps they’d spent too much time with their father in the hinterlands. Scarcely older than Cunedda’s daughters, poor Lowenna listened raptly to her stepdaughters’ tales, perhaps hoping to learn more about the young women she must raise.
More than once, she lifted a brow. And Gwendolyn wondered where Cunedda had met the sweet woman—certainly not around these parts, considering her accent.
“Whence do you hail?” Gwendolyn inquired.
Smiling, Lowenna bowed her head before speaking—far more deferential than her cousins were ever inclined to be. “Thank you, Highness,” she said politely. “Dobunni, born and raised.”
The borderlands.
Gwendolyn hitched her chin. Depending on which part of that dominion one hailed from, loyalties could be suspect—at least regarding Cornwall. And yet, wasn’t it the Dobunni tribe that had granted those lands for the Temple of the Dead? They imagined themselves to be peacekeepers, and ironically, it was also through Dobunni lands Prince Locrinus must secure passage for his army to take Plowonida.
“Have you seen the new temple?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Nay, mestres,” said Lowenna. “The first stone was raised after my departure. I’ve not returned since. Now both my father and mother have… gone. Perhaps someday I will go.”
“I as well,” said Gwendolyn. Although she’d never been called mestres before, she wasn’t about to remind the lady of her correct title. As it was, the look on the poor lady’s face was so uncertain that Gwendolyn had the sudden yen to embrace her. All at once, she recalled the word Prince Loc used to describe her people—Æmete.
Really, she couldn’t imagine Lowenna ever using such a name for anyone, and she considered perhaps she was told wrong. No doubt, it was a dangerous misunderstanding, and wars were fought for lesser insults.
When Gwendolyn was queen, she vowed to make certain there were ambassadors foralltribes—not merely the most respected or feared—that their voices had the chance to be heard. No doubt her father had gone to great lengths to bring them closer together, but there was still much work to be done.
“Have you any brothers and sisters?” Gwendolyn asked.
“One—an elder brother,” said Lowenna. “I was the only girl. My village suffered a pox when I was young. My youngest brother died, with my mother and father, and Mawgan—my elder brother—found himself chieftain too young. He was the one who offered me to Cunedda, and for that I shall be eternally grateful.”
Her eyes softened when she spoke her husband’s name.
“I see,” said Gwendolyn, understanding more than she wished to. Likely it was the pox that had kept her from conceiving. Sadly, Gwendolyn knew it could ravage the womb.
How sad.
Lowenna was sweet, scarcely deserving of a life without children. Like Elowyn, she deserved to hold a babe of her own, and Gwendolyn hoped the gods might see fit to favor them someday. But clearly, the lady was quite contented, if perhaps ill-versed in the social graces.
Perhaps wishing to make everyone feel welcomed, she unknowingly paired Gwendolyn with Málik at the lord’s table. From the first night, they shared a trencher and cup, and if anyone wondered why Gwendolyn would dare enjoy such intimacies with a man not her betrothed, no one spoke the question aloud.
If nothing more, Gwendolyn found she enjoyed the freedom afforded her as a woman grown, without her mother about to rebuke her choices, or Demelza to advise her.
Also, so much as she loathed to confess it, it was also a relief not to have Ely about, scrutinizing her association with Málik… nor to catch her giving him such warm glances.
Indeed, with the hostilities behind them, she found she enjoyed his company, and despite that it was unheard of—one’s Shadow supping with his charge—Gwendolyn also discovered she didn’t care.
Upon her return to Trevena, she would be expected to comport herself as a Promised One, but here and now, in the hinterlands, so far from her father’s court, and so far from the eyes of all who’d witnessed the exchange of torcs, she was content enough to live as her cousins lived, free from convention and demands—free from all who might judge a simple friendship.
And neither did her uncle seem to care, though she knew that, unlike his naïve young wife, Cunedda knew better. No doubt he had turned a blind eye, perhaps considering that Gwendolyn would someday be his queen.
Every now and again, he gave her a knowing glance, either winking or smiling, and making her blush—most notably whenever she laughed at something Málik said.
And this she loved most about her uncle’s house: There was laughter aplenty. A far cry from her father’s hall, his was modest and warm. The lord’s table was long, offering seats to all, including the neighbors, whenever they came to call.
