Page 20 of The Cornish Princess
Poor Ely.
And yet, for all that anyone could tell, Elowyn seemed to be properly engaged with her greasy companion, neither giddy nor sullen. The message had been received: Come tomorrow, Ely would arrive on time for practice, with slippers in hand.Mission accomplished, Mother.
Certainly, there were none in this realm more practiced at subtle machinations. But, of course, Gwendolyn understood why it was so. Were Queen Eseld the sort to gainsay her husband or to wield a sharp whip, the aldermen would complain.
Queen Eseld was too wise to trample toes. Rather, she ruled within the confines of her husband’s laws, and there were none here so willing to challenge her—not even Gwendolyn.
Truth be told, her father’s conformity did not begin with his illness. It came from a place of trust. Even when he was stronger, he’d never had much issue with allowing his queen to direct his household. And although Gwendolyn found fault with her mother’s methods, she knew, as her father knew, all she did, she did for kith and kin—and not the kin she was born to. Gwendolyn wondered idly if her mother ever thought of her parents, or whether she ever longed for her childhood home. So far as Gwendolyn was concerned, she couldn’t wait to leave this place, even if she would miss her father dearly. She only prayed to the Goddess that she would find it in her heart to love the man she was promised to wed.
Alas, she could only command her own heart.
What if someone had already warned him she was a hag?
What if he saw the changeling, not the woman?
What if he came to despise her?
What if he simply couldn’t love her?
For certain, her mother was not the only one whose ambivalence toward her was notable. Take Málik, for example…
Even now, she seethed over his betrayal of Bryn, and refused to look his way, but she knew precisely where he sat, and she knew this because his spirit burned like a peat-fed torch, calling her gaze like a beacon from across the room.
And this was hardly an exaggeration. She felt his inner light like a firestorm, his flame burning hot and bright, the sound like a roar in Gwendolyn’s ears.
He met her gaze, lifted his glass in toast to her, and a lazy smile tugged at his lips, revealing the gleaming tip of one of his fangs. Gwendolyn shivered.
Gods.
With those teeth, he could eat her alive—devour her hope, and Pretania’s as well.
Gwendolyn averted her gaze, but as the tapers on the tables burned lower and lower… and lower still, with no sign of Prince Locrinus, she felt more and more uneasy.
In truth, she felt like weeping—in part because poor Bryn wasn’t even in attendance—likely banished from the festivities for his part in Gwendolyn’s scheme.
Alone.Furious with Gwendolyn.Hungry as well.
And yes, she supposed her father was right. Mayhap she needed someone who was stronger—someone who wouldn’t cow to her when she spoke, or who cared so much to please her he would be diverted from his duties.
But she mustn’t focus on that right now.
She had a duty to perform, and she must do it with a full heart, considering how crucial it was to win the Prince’s favor. But one day she would make everything right—one day, when she was queen, when she had more to say about her own fate and the fate of others.
Before she could change anyone else’s fortunes, she must first secure her own. So with that in mind, Gwendolyn carefully arranged the table before her, mentally preparing herself for the meeting to come.
ChapterSeven
The tension in the hall grew palpable. Even King Brutus tapped his thick fingers on the lord’s table—the rap, tap, tapping heightening Gwendolyn’s fears.
One, two, three….
One, two.
One, two, three.
One, two…
She counted dozens—nay, hundreds—all the while trying to deflect all the worried glances. In her heart, she agonized, but she was prudent to be certain none of her suffering was writ on her face. Her expression remained placid, her smile enduring.
