Page 21 of The Cornish Princess
Every now and again, when she could take it no longer, Gwendolyn adjusted the order of the small plates before Prince Locrinus’ empty chair, repositioning them so he could enjoy whatever delicacies he so desired.
After a while, she studied faces—this one was worried, that one was not. This one was salivating after the dancers and hadn’t a thought for anything but the creature in hisbraies.
That one was pinching heads from pilchards, and tossing them beneath the table—why, Gwendolyn couldn’t fathom, but tomorrow, Yestin’s dog would love him dearly.
She needn’t have recognized the faces of the men in her father’s guard to note the newcomers who sat so stiffly, and whose hands remained frozen at their middles, as though preparing to unsheathe invisible swords. Instead of livery, they wore finery, and instead of weapons, they wielded poniards—the only blade allowed.
As it was anywhere else, it was impolite to attend a feast girded for war, and that included a sovereign’s Shadows. At most, they could keep a dagger hidden in their boot, but visible weapons or armor were forbidden, even for ceremony.
For Cornwall’s sake, there were only two within this hall who required the highest level of protection. One was the King himself, the other his heir. But not even for them would exceptions be made. Not tonight. Come what may, they were subject to the Brothers’ Pact.
The very most the Elite Guard could hope for was to remain close to their charges, in case of treason—an offense for which the penalty would be death without trial.
According to the sixth law of the Brothers’ Pact, no man who supped with a brother or friend should ever do so with a false face. Wine could be spilled, not blood.
Defiance of this law would enrage the gods, and they in turn would curse the land, and the land was higher than any King; its death would be his downfall.
And therefore, since drunkards had no discretion, weapons were simply not allowed. Proximity was the only viable defense, and the highest tables were reserved for the Elite Guards and the Shadows of both royal houses.
Apparently, Málik mustn’t consider Gwendolyn’s welfare to be of any import because he’d eschewed his rightful place, taking a seat at one of the lower tables, and for this, she bristled—again—because it was easier to be angry with him than it was to worry about Prince Locrinus.
However, were this Bryn, he would have fought tooth and claw for his rightful seat, positioning himself as close to Gwendolyn as possible.
Alas, he was not Bryn. Only an arrogant pretender, and Gwendolyn was certain he had no more care for her than he did for Pretania.
Why, then, had he taken this charge? More significantly, why would her father assign him to shadow her? Was the illness already ravaging his mind?
Málik might be a worthy opponent for sparring, and he could be entirely capable of fulfilling this duty. Perhaps he was overqualified for the task, considering that he’d been employed to train the entire Elite Guard, but Gwendolyn had never once seen him do obeisance to her father, and neither did he have the bearing for that. She hadn’t any sense that he had loyalties to Cornwall, nor to anyone. Rather, his currency was his sword, and he lent it to the highest bidder. Her father’s was merely the fattest purse… at the moment.
But fortunately, this was not a Konsel for war, only a celebratory feast—not that her intended had deigned to arrive.
“He’ll be along soon,” offered King Brutus, seeming to read her mind, but even his voice betrayed concern. Gwendolyn reminded herself that it wasn’t merely brides who suffered attacks of nerves. She remembered when her uncle Hedrek’s elder son married that Iceni girl; he’d combed his hair for a full bell before the ceremony until his own father called him a girl.
Yet what if Prince Locrinus had already glimpsed her and was displeased? What if he’d defied his father and fled the city?
What if, even now, without his father’s knowledge, he was halfway returned to Loegria? Everything that could go wrong marched through Gwendolyn’s thoughts, demanding attention.
“Smile,” her mother said brittlely, then bent to whisper, “A woman must do what she must, Gwendolyn. Come what may, you will face the day with grace.”
But no one needed to remind Gwendolyn how momentous this occasion was, nor how much was at stake—at last!
Prince Locrinus arrived, his entrance more dramatic than his sire’s. He came, flanked by two red-cloaked guards who were armed to the ears. On sight, they drew gasps from the guests, then swiftly withdrew into the hall. And yet, if his guards’ appearance seemed daunting, the Prince’s was anything but. He drew another gasp from the guests, all on his own. The rumors had done him no justice, for he was all they’d claimed and more—tall, handsome, imposing… and… yes, indeed… very, very golden.
A golden idol for a golden bride.
Gwendolyn hadn’t realized her jaw dropped until her mother cleared her throat. When Gwendolyn looked at her, she tapped the back of a long, painted nail beneath her own chin—even now, unwilling to touch her own daughter.
Gobsmacked, Gwendolyn shut her mouth, then blinked, as though against a bright light. He was… well… he was… the most stunning creature she had ever beheld—mayhap not with Bryn’s masculine appeal, nor Málik’s strange, ethereal beauty, but with a splendor all his own that put a shadow on the sun itself.
“Well, don’t stand there,” her mother said. “See to your guest.”
Yes, of course.
That was the custom.
Since no one but the royal family could ascend unescorted to the dais, he was waiting to be led to his seat. But Gwendolyn suddenly couldn’t move. All eyes fell upon her—everyone eager to see how the Prince of Loegria and the Princess of Cornwall would comport. But this, at last, was the moment of truth, the instant when she might be judged, and her heart pounded like a forger’s hammer.
Swallowing with difficulty, Gwendolyn commanded her feet to move, but her legs felt squishy like pudding. And then, like a halfwit, she rose, bumping her knees on the table, and then sliding around the table, her skirt catching on a wooden splinter. She wrenched it free, then stumbled down the first few steps, all arms and legs, without the least bit of grace. Fortunately, if anyone noticed, no one said a word, nor did they laugh.
