Page 74 of The Cornish Princess
She smiled back at him. “Well, you are, aren’t you?”
“Nay,” he said. “I would not. What good would that ever do you in battle? A ‘favor’ now would be to do you no favors at all.”
Knowing Málik as she did, Gwendolyn knew better than to re-sheathe her blade just yet. He was a master at seizing opportunities to put her down. “So, you are saying I beat you justly?”
Málik shrugged. “Perhaps so,” he said. “You are quite good, Gwendolyn, and I will be certain to tell your sire that your good little poppet served you well.”
Rolling her eyes over his favored barb against Bryn, Gwendolyn inhaled deeply, imbued with pride—at least for the moment. More oft than not, Málik’s compliments came with advances that sent her to her knees, but today she dared to rejoice.
Indeed, she was filled with ferocity, and she’d kept her head during Málik’s endless advances—never so simple as that might seem.
“For the hundredth time,” she said, “Bryn isnotmy poppet!”
Málik shrugged. “So you claim.”
Gwendolyn lifted a brow. “And yet you never seem to hear it, my friend.”
“Friend?”
“Friend,” she said, and meant it ardently.
Gwendolyn was heartily pleased now that he would join her in Loegria—relieved, in fact. He was more worldly than Bryn, and unlike Bryn, he didn’t coddle her, nor did he treat her with so much deference, even despite that he should.
As an instructor, he was merciless, and she had already improved so much, more thanks to him than to Bryn, though he always gave Bryn the credit.
“I hear everything,” he said. “But ears will sometimes lie.”
And then he froze, tilting his head, listening, with a hand to his pointy ear.
Gwendolyn thought he must be teasing her again, listening for her lies. But then, she heard the sound, as well—a soft, but distant rumble that grew louder as it neared.
It was only another moment before she spied the cloud of dust billowing toward them over the moorlands.
Hooves.
Horses.
Many.
The sound of their approach grew from a rumble to a roar, and Gwendolyn felt a quiver rush down her spine. She swallowed convulsively, for despite that she’d trained for this, she’d never once expected to have to use her skills. So long they’d been at peace—never even once had she actually heard war horns. She heard them now, quite unmistakably—a shrill wail that pierced her ears and sent another quiver down her spine.
Fear?
For a moment, Gwendolyn stood, feet planted on the spot, her boots unwilling to move, realizing how ill-prepared she was for battle.
“Raiders!” shouted one of her uncle’s sentry men from a nearby tower.
“Attack!” bellowed another. “Attack!”
Men scurried about.
Gods.As placid as their visit had been, it was easy to forget that this hill fort was a stronghold for all the nearby wheals. So it seemed she would experience a raid firsthand.
Sword in hand, hair mussed from sleep, Duke Cunedda came bursting from the door of his home. He lifted the arm that only hours before had raised tankards with glee.
Her cousins all emerged behind him, all three bearing weapons of their own choosing. Borlewen, still wearing Gwendolyn’s torc, arrived wielding a massive hammer. Briallen came with an axe, wearing a leather jerkin over herchainse. Jenefer came wielding a two-handed long sword. All three girls surrounded their father, but he shoved them toward Gwendolyn instead.
Her uncle’s men were quick to enjoin, but this was unlike Trevena, where there were layers upon layers of defenses—two gates, and here there was none.
