Page 36 of The Forgotten Prince

As much as Gwendolyn loathed confessing to it, it all made sense.

Ruefully, though she herself had been quite sensitive to the state of the land, watching for the smallest of changes, she had, undoubtedly only done so after the onset of her father’s illness—and then, only so she could find hope for the king’s recovery. To Gwendolyn’s mind, she had believed her people flourishing. After all, how could they not be? Their city was the greatest in all the land and the most prominent of merchants passed through their port and gates. Trevena was a melting pot of cultures, a bastion for the arts and intellectual achievement, its architecture unparalleled. Even so, Gwendolyn had begun to note a certain restlessness that only worsened as her father’s illness progressed.

As Esme suggested, had it begun with the Loegrian alliance?

Did the people worry when her father offered their lands to outlanders?

Did they believe him when he said he’d formed the alliance for the good of the kingdom?

Did they fear the soldiers Brutus sent?

As part of the alliance, her father had agreed to accept a contract of defense in the form of trained soldiers, whom he further compensated with room and board.

In the end, it was he who allowed Brutus’ influence into their garrison, placing the enemy under Talwyn’s nose. And yet, Gwendolyn knew her father had believed this was the right thing to do, trusting Brutus would honor their pact.

For a time, the alliance with Loegria had proven to be mutually beneficial, providing their armies with the finest of weapons and armor made of Brutus’ new alloy. But it wasn’t simply the new alloy to be considered: Together, Cornwall and Loegria had made a formidable pair, strengthening their positions against the rest of the tribes. Allied with King Brutus, Cornwall would be difficult to defeat.

Did the people believe her father greedy for power?

Did they find his motives less than pure?

Was there yet another reason her father had to ally with Brutus? Something Gwendolyn did not know of?

A thousand questions assailed her—none of them pleasant to contemplate.

Esme gave her a simpering look, and Gwendolyn wondered if she had somehow gleaned her thoughts. But then, one quick glance over at Málik, and she discovered his gaze boring into her for the first time in days.

Or rather… he had been watching her, but surreptitiously pretending to keep his interest elsewhere. But she knew he was watching her every move.

He didn’t appear to like it she and Esme were conversing. But this was not to be helped. If he didn’t wish her to press Esme and Lir for answers, perhaps he should be more forthcoming. And yet, regardless of whether he approved of Gwendolyn’s inquiries, she didn’t care. Right now, the Rot was a grave concern. Gwendolyn had considered her father to be a man of the people, but perhaps this was how she saw him only because she’d loved him and because she’d wished to believe him noble—as she did all she valued, Bryn and Málik, included.

Given bitterly, or nay, Esme had at least given her much to think about.

Was there no inkling of greed for her father’s motivation?

No trace hubris in the construction of their palatial city?

What was it about her father’s policies that killed the spirit of her people?

Indeed, Porth Pool had been deteriorating since Gwendolyn could remember… undetectably at first. But then, after a time, the winters grew colder; the trees lost their foliage sooner, and the sun shone with less brilliance… It was only after her father grew ill enough that his limbs grew unsteady and his hands shook that Gwendolyn took a keener interest in the changes. And then, one day, his illness grew worrisome. His aldermen became more vocal about their displeasure, perhaps less secure with his decisions. Their arguments grew fiercer, and this was the reason Gwendolyn so oft dreaded going into his konsel meetings. However, looking back on the last one she’d attended whilst her father yet lived, there was a wealth of information to be gleaned. Mentally, she sifted through conversations, recognizing so much discord—most notably, complaints over her broken betrothal to Urien, her betrothal and marriage to Locrinus, her mother’s Prydein kinsmen, the allegiance with Loegria, the output of their wheals, so many household quarrels…

In that meeting in particular, her mother had smashed her palm upon the table and walked out after an altercation with several of the aldermen who’d dared to question her position as the king’s lawful consort. Most of the palace staff had feared her mother, but the aldermen did not. They didn’t even fear her father—why should they? The King could not remove a sworn alderman. Only if one broke faith, or died, they could replace one; this was why Gwendolyn had been so adamant she must put her own trusted men and women in those positions.

They could be most unreasonable to deal with—as they were too oft with Gwendolyn, dismissing her concerns, thinking her too young to have a valuable opinion. Every time she had brought them her concerns about Porth Pool, they’d sent her away, begging her not to speak of the Rot or the pool, lest the people turn against the King. Only recently had they acknowledged there was a problem. And despite this, Gwendolyn had consulted with them before leaving Trevena, with no true consensus over the cause of the Rot, nor about how to prevent it, much less to stop it. Old as they were, most of those graybeards considered themselves wizened old souls, and, like the old Mester, they argued it was a natural occurrence, denying that Trevena could have any part in the Rot’s conception or its spread.

However, after everything Gwendolyn had witnessed, and all she had endured, she knew enough to know not everything was born of this world. Science was not to be dismissed, but neither could they disregard the King’s role in the land’s decline. “The land is the king, the king is the land” was a maxim so integral to her people’s faith they had carved it into stone at the base of her father’s throne. Howbeit, Gwendolyn no longer believed it was simply a matter of angering the gods. Rather, it must be the culmination of a thousand injuries, perhaps beginning with the granting of Cornish lands to a foreigner. And nevertheless, if her father ran afoul of his duties, Gwendolyn felt in her deepest of hearts it must have been unwittingly. As ill as he’d been, she knew he would have abdicated his throne if it were the will of the people. He had been a reasonable man, who’d cared little for amassing riches—evidenced by his untold generosity with Brutus, even against the bitter opposition of his konsel. In her father’s mind and heart, Gwendolyn was certain he had bartered for a powerful ally, not merely to defend his crown, but to further his dream of a united Pretania. But what if that was not the way it was meant to be? What if these lands should not be one land? They might all share a bond, but they were nothing alike.

16

The rain returned, forcing Gwendolyn and her company into a small copse, where they settled within a thicket in time to watch the passing of a stranger—an elder man, journeying afoot. Now and again, with a backward glance, the stranger pulled his sopping cowl over his face, and kept on marching, too preoccupied with what came behind to worry about who might be watching.

It wasn’t long before they discovered why.

Soon behind the old bod came a motley crew of soldiers, seven drunkards—three on horseback, four marching—passing a flask betwixt them. Gwendolyn counted it her good fortune Caradoc was not there to hear them crowing over his misfortunes. He would have met their rude song with a hammer.

“Down she came, down she came by the sea pen,” they sang of the Catuvellauni fortress. “Off they went, off they went, marching to the fens!”

They laughed then, chortling nastily over the ignoble fate dealt to Caradoc’s proud tribe, and Gwendolyn longed to defend her friend’s honor by silencing these mouthy, drunken fools. If she’d wondered how she felt about Caradoc, she need wonder no more. He might be a vainglorious big-head jester, but he was her vainglorious big-head jester! Imbeciles!

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