Page 90 of The Cornish Princess
On the cliff side overhead, a grey and white peregrine falcon sat perched, discernible only for the stark white of its underbelly, because its wings were dark as the granite upon which it sat. It peered down at Gwendolyn with a curious tilt of its head, showing her the yellow of its beak and blinking down at her with piercing gold and black eyes.
If this had been a crow, she might have wept for fear of what was yet to come, for even as starlings were harbingers of spring, crows were harbingers of death. But crows and starlings aside, the falcon also had a message to bring, for this was the familiar of kings.
More than anything, Gwendolyn dreaded facing her father—not so much because she believed she had misbehaved, but because she would arrive today with grimmer news than any he had ever received since her paternal grandmother perished of yellow fever in a borough far away. With a party of ten, her father had gone to attend her funeral, and now, someone must return to see that her uncle and his family received a proper end, as well.
Someone would have to sift through those ashes and find their bones.
Someone would have to speak rites.
Someone would have to mourn them the way loved ones ought to be mourned—not left so their charred bones could be bleached by the sun, and dogs could fight over the remains.
Heart sore, Gwendolyn arose, seizing the grizzled blanket to follow Málik down. She exhaled a long breath when she spied him beside her mare, patting the soft, brown cheek.
For an instant, she watched, fascinated by the way he cajoled the beast, smoothing a hand across its brow, the gesture as tender and sweet as the one he’d offered her last night.
He peered up. Their gazes met and held. His normally pale eyes darkened to the shade of steel, and he averted his gaze. Thereafter, Málik was perfectly civil, but there was a new, underlying tension between them. Imagined or not, it held even polite words at bay.
The journey home was quick. Their arrival at the gates uncontested. The city was still and placid—all things as Gwendolyn left them. Only she was changed.
Evermore.
Saddle weary though she was, she sent Málik ahead to announce their arrival, needing a few minutes to gather her thoughts before facing her father, and meanwhile, she led both horses into the stable, blinking in surprise as she spied the horse with the multicolored pelt.
Had the guard escaped after the battle at Chysauster? Peering about to see if she could spy him, she wished now that Málik had remained so she could send him to check the barracks.
Particularly considering their trek through the tunnels, he certainly could have had plenty of time to arrive before them, but if he’d made it back, unharmed, with news of the attack on her uncle’s village, why then wasn’t her father mounting a search party to look for Gwendolyn?
The stable was still full of the army’s horses, the peace of the morning heavy in their morning routine. Neither had the sentries at the gates behaved any differently toward her than they would have if she’d returned from an afternoon jaunt. Their waves had been casual, even as her heart tripped madly. Curious, she thought, as she started away, but then, remembering the prunes in her satchel, she went back to retrieve them, fearing some groomsman might find them, and not wishing to see anyone else suffer on her account.
There were only a few remaining—not more than five. She stuffed them into the purse at her belt, and at once sought the King’s Hall, marching in wearing her tattered clothes only to discover her father in session with an audience—a farmer with his son, begging for the King to call upon the Llanrhos Druids. He claimed there were signs of locusts, and only the Druids could charm the birds into banishing their plague. Hearing this, Gwendolyn worried anew over the glen. Those locusts portended worse matters yet, and if the glen was plagued as well, it boded ill for her father… but even more for Cornwall.
Not wishing to interrupt, Gwendolyn skirted the perimeter of the tribunal, coming to one side of her father’s dais, not meaning to call his attention—not yet.
She wanted to speak to him privately, without an audience. At the moment, several aldermen were present, including Aldermans Aelwin and Eirwyn, and Mester Ciarán. Only there was something about the look in Alderman Aelwin’s eyes when he spied Gwendolyn—one of maybe surprise—that gave her a sudden epiphany. Suddenly, she changed her mind about speaking to her father alone and stepped into the tribunal.
“Gwendolyn!” exclaimed her father, no doubt shocked by the state of her dress. She was still dirty, bruised, her hair all in tangles, and her mother’s gown and hosen were rent.
“Forgive me, Father,” she blurted, turning to address the physician, removing a dried plum from her pocket. “Mester Ciarán,” she said, hitching her chin. “I must apologize for stealing your prunes.”
“Prunes?” he said, looking confused. He tilted his head like the peregrine. “What prunes, Highness?”
Gwendolyn handed the prune in her hand to Mester Ciarán, then took a few more out of her pocket, revealing them in her palm, smiling as she turned to offer one each to the aldermen present. Aelwin took one, if reluctantly so, and so did Alderman Eirwyn, again, disinclined.
“Ah! Well! You are most welcome to these,” said Ciarán, handing back the dried plum. “I must confess they give my belly a fright.”
Gwendolyn smiled, because she understood what he meant, but thankfully they didn’t affect her this way—not usually. Nor had she eaten enough after the initial ailment to repeat the offense she’d perpetrated upon Málik. Thankfully, her dosing was strong enough nowadays that the poison itself hadn’t affected her adversely—or at least not the way it had affected poor Owen. She was certain now that the bellyache she’d suffered after eating so many that first day was because of the poison.
Emboldened by the aldermen’s confusion, Gwendolyn placed one sweet fruit into her mouth, allowing her eyes to roll back in her head with absolute delight. All the while, she watched the physician’s expression for some sign that he understood what she was ingesting.
The man seemed oblivious, only perhaps confused about why the King’s daughter had interrupted their tribunal to rave about prunes—most especially looking as though she’d fought and lost a battle with soot-snorting dragons. “Delectable!” she said, swallowing.
“Gwendolyn?” her father said, sounding perturbed. “What goes here?”
However, Gwendolyn still needed proof. As yet, she didn’t have any. She understood what was intended and how, but the guilty party could be anyone, and until she determined who it was who’d poisoned these prunes, there was no chance to decipher the bigger mystery—why? Why, precisely was Bryok murdered. Certainly, Ia’s account had painted Aelwin in a very poor light. “Might you tell me where you procured these?” she asked Mester Ciarán, trying not to look at Aelwin, for the moment, daring to ignore her father.
The physician looked about the hall, perhaps a little uncomfortably, pulling at his beard, until his gaze settled on Alderman Aelwin. “Why, I believe I acquired them from Alderman Aelwin, though I did not have the heart to say I did not favor them, neither dried nor else wise. Alas, though I have prescribed them many times, because they are nature’s remedy, I am fortunate to have a strong constitution and I do not relish spending time in garderobes.”
“Oh, but they are so delicious!” Gwendolyn lamented. “I must have more,” she said, like a child seeking sweets. She turned to Alderman Aelwin. “Have you tried them, Alderman?”
