Page 87 of The Cornish Princess
Gwendolyn could feel it, she thought… a shift and darkening of the future—storm clouds forming ahead, like the blood clouds that ushered in darkness for Ériu.
By the time they reached the vicinity of the promontory, the horses were well-winded, sides heaving, and Gwendolyn dismounted as soon as she dared, leading them quickly off the road, toward shelter—a refuge she knew so well she could find the way even in the dark.
Málik followed without a word. Perhaps knowing intuitively why she made the rest of the way on foot, he, too, dismounted, and swept forward to seize the lead from her hands, guiding both horses away. “I’ll tend to them,” he said. “You, go.”
Trusting him to do what he should, Gwendolyn obeyed, only first retrieving the blanket from her horse’s backside, and then, whilst Málik sought a secure place to hide the horses for the evening—somewhere off the road, where no one could see them—she ascended the cliff alone, anticipating a cold, discomforting night, even with the blanket in her hand, because they couldn’t risk a fire. At the moment, she would have given a hundred coppers to have that horse pelt she’d so admired on the missing guard’s horse. It would have been far warmer than this.
Her muscles aching, and her calf burning, she made the climb, and grimaced when it began to sprinkle—a cold, spring rain that seeped into everything it touched and settled deep in the bones. Grateful for her good, sturdy boots, Gwendolyn ascended with care, knowing firsthand how slippery these cliffs could be.
The promontory itself was deceiving. At first glance, it would appear there should be no easy way up, but there was a path on the ocean-side, where the trail wasn’t quite so steep. However, the shelter was merely a shelf against the cliff side, exposed landward more than seaward and visible for leagues—both good and bad, because they could spy on anyone who traveled by, but if they were spotted, they would be trapped here, with no way down, except one… those rocks below. But the fall would be deadly, and if the rocks didn’t kill them, a vengeful ocean surely would.
Weary to her bones, Gwendolyn defied the pain in her legs, and the need to stop to weep. Finally, reaching the promontory, she ferreted out a good place to make a pallet—far enough from the edge of the cliff, against a small nook that should protect them from the wind and rain.
To make the pallet, she pushed aside all debris, knowing it would be impossible to find enough bracken here to pad a good bed. Shivering already, she crawled beneath the thin woolen blanket and huddled as far as she could into the nook. Sadly, this was how she must sleep—with her back against the wall, as rain pattered her boots.
Thankfully, Málik wasn’t long, and neither did he question the need to share a pallet, though he doubtless needed his sleep and the blanket far less than Gwendolyn. Yet knowing they must rise together with the sun, neither did he hesitate to join her, especially once he heard the chattering of her teeth.
Gods.
Even her lost cloak would have been better than this, but that, too, was gone, likely burnt in the fire in the room she shared with her cousins—Málik’s as well, though his place of slumber was not in the house. Like everything else she possessed—or nearly—that cloak had been her mother’s. Thankfully, she still had her beautiful Prydein gown, soiled as it was from so much dirt, smoke, blood, and sweat. Pulling the blanket to her chin, Gwendolyn acknowledged the disparity between her true life… and this…
All her given days, if she’d thirsted or hungered, she could ring a bell for sustenance. If she was dirty, she rang for a bath. If she needed a blanket, she sent Demelza to procure one. If she needed clothing—well, she never needed clothing. Her mother saw to it she wanted for naught. Only now, as she shivered beneath a threadbare blanket, feeling the chill wind creep into her tattered, wet clothes, she understood what it felt like to need things she couldn’t have.
As for that continued lesson… Her belly grumbled loudly. There was nothing in their saddlebags, and neither did she get to eat her eggs. Quite likely, they were still sitting in that hearth pot, over a long-spent fire… as cold as she was.
Her mood sour as the smell of this blanket, she started as Málik pinched the coverlet between two fingers and tossed it off her legs. Without asking permission to do so, he lifted her hosen to inspect her wound. Finally, satisfied with what he found, he tugged the hosen back down and settled himself beneath her blanket, drawing Gwendolyn close, before producing a bit of salted meat from the purse at his waist.
“’Tis healing,” he said. “I was worried the shivering could be a sign of fever.”
“Where did you get the meat?” Gwendolyn asked, grateful but guilt-ridden that he had taken it upon himself to shield her from the rain.
“The cupboard at Ia’s, before those idiots arrived.”
Gwendolyn nodded, her lips trembling miserably, though if she dared give into her grief right now, she would find herself a puddle on the ground. And therefore, she refused to cry, even when Málik drew her close to keep her in the warmth of his arms. Not once did she recall such a warm embrace—not from her father, nor from her mother.
Never from Demelza.
Nor Ely.
Certainly not Bryn.
Only once, ever, did she remember Lady Ruan lifting her up into her arms—when Gwendolyn fell and skinned her knees. Lady Ruan then carried her straight to the healer, and dumped her on a cold table, and left to fetch her mother—who never came.
This…
Thiswas different.
Like the way he’d held her down in thefogous.
Some part of Gwendolyn longed to stay here and never leave.Forget the world at large. Forget her duties. Forget Prince Locrinus and her promise. Forget her vows and crown. Forget the treachery…and the dead.
Only to be held… like this.
Always.
Forever.
Two hearts, beating as one.
