Page 8 of The Cornish Princess
“What if I am taller than he is?” Gwendolyn worried, all the more sullen now, considering everything that could go wrong. “Won’t that displease him?”
“You shan’t be,” announced Ely, peering up from a handful of jewels she was inspecting. “I’m told he’s quite tall, andquitegolden—a golden idol for a golden bride! Don’t you think this necklace would look divine with that gown?”
Gwendolyn turned to appraise the jewels draped from Ely’s fingers—a silvered curtain of sapphires meant to be worn with a matching tiara. But the tiara was not among the pile of borrowed jewels. Evidently, her mother had not seen fit to lend it this time, but the necklace alone was worth more than all the pottage in the city.
“Your mother would be pleased,” added Ely, and some part of Gwendolyn longed to run, screaming in frustration, because it wasalwayssome gem or gown Queen Eseld saw fit to compliment, never Gwendolyn herself. And, really, she lent them so oft, as though her jewels could somehow make up for some defect of Gwendolyn’s person. As a consequence, Gwendolyn was learning to despise the accoutrements. “Lovely,” she said.
“There,” announced Demelza. “We’re through.”
“At last!” said Gwendolyn, and when Demelza peered up to meet her gaze, Gwendolyn shrugged. “I’d like to go hunting.”
Only she didn’t actually intend to go hunting. She still meant to inspect that glen. However, though Demelza might know of the King’s plight, Ely did not. For obvious reasons, it was vital to the realm that the King maintain an appearance of good health.
“Please, Gwendolyn,” begged Demelza. “Go ask your mother. Considering the circumstances, she may not approve.”
“Why?” Gwendolyn smiled, lifting both brows. “Because I might harm my lovely face?”
Ely snickered, and Demelza cast both girls a withering glance.
Self-deprecation was the one thing that always upset her mother’s maid. “There is naught about your face that is unlovely,” she scolded as she retrieved her sewing basket. And then, muttering beneath her breath, she departed.
“So, now you’ll go hunting?” said Ely.
“I will, indeed.”
“And will you ask your mother?” Ely flicked a glance at the handsome gown Gwendolyn had discarded on the floor, then another at the neatly folded pile of worn leathers on the chair beneath the window. But she knew the answer already.
“Nay,” said Gwendolyn.
Ely sighed heavily. “Well, if you mean to defy her, I should not go. She’ll tell my mother, and my mother will make me spend the entirety ofyourPrince’s visit entertaining Lord Flat Face!”
Gwendolyn laughed despite herself. “I’m sorry,” she offered, even as she fetched her hunting attire from the chair. “Where is Bryn?” she asked.
“Oh… I don’t know,” answered Ely, but it was clear by the way she peered up through her thick lashes, that she knew, and was protecting him—as she always did, whenever she thought Gwendolyn might incur her mother’s wrath.
If only she and Ely could trade places, Gwendolyn lamented, for Gwendolyn was not made for gems or silk. Instead, she was more at home in the woods, with a blade in her boot and a bow in her hand. “Never mind,” said Gwendolyn as she dressed.
When she was ready, she found her quiver and made for the door. “I’ll find him myself,” she told Ely. “You stay and play with my mother’s jewels.”
ChapterThree
There were only a handful of places Bryn could be: in the stables, pampering his beloved mare; in the Mester’s Pavilion with his sire; else in the courtyard, practicing at swordplay. These were the first places Gwendolyn would look. If he wasn’t at any of these places, then he would be in the cook’s house, charming kitchen maids into parting with a morning cake, or two.
Without question, Ely’s brother was a simple soul, unfettered by personal desires—all except for those regarding his belly. He was devoted to his family, unwavering in his sense of duty, and he was also quite good at his occupation—a natural consequence of the long hours spent in training. And, he was so good that he held several distinctions, including a few for hand-to-hand combat, archery, swordplay, and not the least of his skills: equestrian handling. Over the years, he’d taught Gwendolyn everything she knew.
And yet, all this said, it was difficult for Gwendolyn to take him too seriously when they’d shared the same wet nurse.
The one thing Bryn wasnot, however, was forthcoming. His deep, soulful eyes held secrets he was neither willing nor capable of revealing, and more and more, she felt the truth of this as a barrier between them. Like Demelza, Bryn was imperturbable, and no matter what Gwendolyn said or did, he faced her with that same self-assured half-smile that never failed to catch a favor from the kitchen maids. This was only natural because he shared the same countenance with his sister. But unlike Ely, Bryn was far more certain of himself—and this, too, was only natural, because Bryn was older. Three years senior to his sister, one year to Gwendolyn. By the time Ely came about, Gwendolyn and Bryn were already close as ticks, and Ely had toddled about behind them like a sweet little pup. It was only later, after Bryn was sworn to Gwendolyn, that his demeanor changed, and she grew closer to Ely.
She found him in the first place she looked—in the courtyard, sparring with his new partner, a pointy-earedSidheGwendolyn neither liked nor trusted. No matter that hemust be scarcely older than Bryn, and not much more than Gwendolyn, he behaved as though he thought himself better than everyone, despite her station—not that Gwendolyn considered herself superior merely because of a crown. Simply because one’sráswas the elderrás, did not presume one’s dominion. Rather, one must earn one’s place in this world—everyone, including kings.
And regardless, Málik was quite the swordsman, dancing about on the nimblest feet Gwendolyn had ever seen.
More than anything, she loathed she was so compelled to watch him, and she loathed it all the more that she admired his style. Indeed, sometimes, in the privacy of her bower, she practiced maneuvers like his. And, here and now, determined as she’d been to ignore him, she watched them cross swords from the corner of one eye, holding her breath as he twirled like a dancer, then landed gracefully on his feet, like a cat. Unfortunately for Bryn, seeing Gwendolyn distracted him. To his detriment, he relaxed his sword arm, and that damnableSidheturned the flat of his blade against the side of Bryn’s arm, whacking him hard, his ice-blue eyes glittering fiercely.
Irksome elf!
Even thinking such blasphemy made Gwendolyn feel ashamed, yet no one in her life had ever infuriated her more than Málik Danann—not even her mother.
