Page 10 of The Cornish Princess
Already, Gwendolyn’s nerves were frayed, and she still had one more evening to wait to see what Prince Locrinus would think of her. It was harrowing—truly—all this doing nothing. Only waiting to be judged. More than anything, it galled Gwendolyn that she should be reduced to caring about such things as her face. But alas, nobody, not once, ever, had said to her, “Practice your swordplay to impress your betrothed,” or, “Learn to ride better.” “Study harder.” But if she was meant to rule well, these were all things that were crucial to her role. Gwendolyn was an adequate swordsman, a very goodaconter, and an excellent horsewoman. But these were not things her mother cared about—only her face, and at that, a face her mother could not even look at for an instant longer than she must.
Bryn said nothing more, but Gwendolyn heard him grousing as he left to gather the saddles. When he returned with both in hand, she plucked hers off the top without a word, opting to saddle her own mare. She didn’t need to be pampered at every turn. In fact, she preferred not to be. Bryn had enough to do on his own. She enjoyed fending for herself.
Anyway, if she were a man, she would have spent her entire life training to lead an army instead of learning to please a man. Wasn’t defense still the primary duty of a sovereign? Regardless of what one wore, or how one used the garderobe? Perhaps if Gwendolyn had had a brother, it might not fall within her scope of duties, but she didn’t have a brother.Shewas Cornwall’s heir—along with the husband she married. And therefore, it was incumbent upon her to learn every aspectof a sovereign’s duties.
Mayhap this was why Málik irritated her so bloody much, because she hadn’t had a single occasion to practice with Bryn since the day he’d arrived—rotten, misbegotten cur.
Once their horses were ready, Gwendolyn hauled herself into the saddle and exited the stable without waiting, reluctant to subject Bryn to any more rebukes. Perforce, he would pursue her, but she would rather have it said he came unwillingly.
As it was inside the palace, the city conducted itself at the same frenetic pace—merchants peddling wares in the courtyard, suppliers marching in their purchases, people rushing about in anticipation of the Loegrian envoy. Although this was not a usual market day, the market, too, was congested. Gwendolyn had to pass through to reach the narrow bridge that connected Stone Island to the mainland. Most of the merchants were congregated there, just inside the inner gates, hawking wares to anyone who ventured by. “Early spears!” called one merchant.
“Nettle tops!” cried another. “Nettle tops!”
And still another rushed forward to show Gwendolyn a lovely ell of azure cloth that looked like muslin. “Mollequin!” he said with lifted brows. “From the East! Here, let me show you, Highness!”
His black, wiry brows lifted higher as he petted his fine cloth, unwinding a length of the fabric so Gwendolyn could better see it.
“Not today,” she said, considering the manner of his dress and the multitude of gold rings on his fingers. She was not too impressed with such things anyway, but if he hadn’t worn so many rings, she might have offered him a copper and bade him to sell his cloth again.
Passing the permanent booths reserved for the most sought-after goods, she waved—at the baker and cordwainer in particular—before spurring her mount through the gates, onto the bridge, where there was considerably less foot traffic.
Clearly, it didn’t take long for news to travel. By now, everyone within twenty leagues of the city must have heard Prince Locrinus was expected, and every farmer and artisan in the area had come rushing to peddle their wares.
She passed a few small carts, then several men with packs on their backs, and finally a petite woman, strolling with a little girl, talking to her pleasantly, hardly concerned that they might be the last to find a spot in the market. Gwendolyn stopped for a moment to speak with them. “Myttin da,” she said, and smiled when the child’s brown eyes widened. Her mother was so surprised by the encounter that she stood with mouth agape.
“We’ve come to sell morels,” said the girl brightly, pointing to her mother’s meager basket.
“Indeed? I love morels,” said Gwendolyn, reaching into the pouch at her belt and producing a silver coin.
“Me too!” The child’s curls bobbed with her excitement as she jumped with glee. “Morels are my favoritest!”
Laughing, Gwendolyn said, “I would buy them all from you and save them for myself, but alas, I am off to hunt.”
“All by yourself?” asked the child with awe, cocking her neck back like a chicken.
“Indeed, a woman can hunt the same as a man,” Gwendolyn said. “Though I do not go alone.” She peered back to spy Bryn emerging from the market onto the bridge, and then turned back to address the little girl, thinking that, as dirty as she was, she was more precious than gold.
She tossed the silver coin down for the child to catch, and when she missed it, and went scurrying after it, the mother finally spoke. “Bless you, Highness! Bless you!”
“Thank you,” said Gwendolyn, but when the woman went to hand Gwendolyn her basket, Gwendolyn lifted a hand, and said, “Keep it, friend. Sell it again. Else keep some for yourself and your lovely child. I wish you good luck at the market today!”
“And you!” said the woman.
As Gwendolyn rode away, she could hear the child saying excitedly, “I found it, I found it!” “Keep it safe,” said her mother. “That was our Princess! This coin will bring us good luck.” A tickle spread from Gwendolyn’s heart, like tender little vines in search of the sun. It always made her feel so blessed to speak with her people.
She continued on, enjoying the warmth of the sun, peering down one side of King’s Bridge.
Trevena lay perched on an island of precipitous cliffs overlooking an angry sea. Joined to the mainland by a narrow pass, the city was founded by the original conservatives of this land, long gone now, but theirmagikremained—most notably in the Dragon’s Lair below the palace. Often by night and by sea, one could spy the dragon’s breath inside the cave—a warning to ships to keep their distance, at least until morning, when the churning waters were easier to navigate. This, as she’d learned, was a parting gift from the Ancients—the beacon that lured traders to their bay, guiding them safely within. It was, in fact, this marvel that first brought King Brutus to their lands, with all three of his gargantuan ships, each bearing a thousand warriors at the oars, and Prince Urien at the helm of one.
Gwendolyn wasn’t born yet.
The cove directly to the north of the bridge was too narrow for any but smaller vessels to navigate. However, the bay to the south harbored a well-used port. Even now, as she crossed the bridge, she could spy the bustle below—tiny folks from this vantage, and the usual crush of vessels hurrying to unload their hulls, hoping to clear the bay by nightfall.
Of course, even by day, only the most skilled sailors ever dared enter—if not for the jutting rocks, and deceptively strong currents, to steer clear of the staggering number of vessels anchored there, and the remnants of those that sunk.
Ships were far safer anchoring beyond the cove, and gods forbid anyone should be caught in the maw of the Dragon’s Bay when the sea god Manannán came to rage.
It was for that reason Trevena had endured so long, protected on all sides by natural defenses. And to this day, because of the gift of their Dragon’s Lair, their city thrived as a port—a matter of pride for her father, and for Gwendolyn as well.
