Page 3 of The Cornish Princess
A challenge perhaps?
“And yet none of this was at issue until the emissary arrived,” interjected the King. “In fact, only this morn, Morgelyn, I heard you say you looked forward to meeting the Prince.”
“I, too, heard him say so,” said the Mester Alderman. “And, yes, agreed, Majesty. None of this was at issue before the messenger arrived this morn. Must we continue to imperil ourselves for this quarrel? And how preposterous when we’ve the enemy’s own daughter in the King’s bed!” Only belatedly, he flicked a glance toward the King and his Queen Consort, lifting an age-speckled hand. “Apologies, Majesties, no offense intended.”
The Queen’s expression darkened, though she said nothing—not at yet. But Gwendolyn could tell that, like a copper kettle over a flame, her mother’s temper was ready to boil.
Looking vexed, her father nodded, though he said nothing, and Gwendolyn understood he must choose his words wisely.
This Konsel was governed, not by the King, but by the statutes of the Brothers’ Pact, an ancient code of honor enacted by the sons of Míl—Gwendolyn’s ancestors, who’d inherited these lands after defeating the Tuatha Dé Danann.
According to the highest law, no King’s right to rule was absolute and despite that a king must bear the blood of the Conservators in his veins, his crown was subject to the will of the Konsel.
Not even a king could remove a duly elected alderman, and, only if one broke faith, or died, could one be replaced. Therefore, the Konsel spoke freely over matters of state, though a king was not without his ways, particularly one so beloved by his people.
Into that bargain, even after all this time, none of these aldermen understood her mother’s influence, nor did it appear they anticipated her Prydein temper.
That was a mistake.
“You are all bags of bones with less sense than a salt lick,” declared the Queen rather churlishly, but under the present circumstances, Gwendolyn couldn’t blame her. As closely guarded as the secret was, her father’s illness was no secret to any of these aldermen, and more and more, they tested him without regard.
Her mother continued. “Our Gwyddons have investigated Brutus’ steel. There is nothing of its kind, nor can we hope to defend against it. Yet you would advise your king to sever a perfectly biddable alliance? All for what? Because my kinsmen stole a few of your goats and you don’t like the woad on their faces?”
Discomforted by the Queen’s boldness, some elders shrugged. A few bobbed their heads. “More to the point,” she persisted, angrier now as she sought Alderman Morgelyn’s gaze. “Will any of you dare call me a liar?”
The word tore like a snarl from her lips, and even the torch flames shivered over her challenge, for the “lie” of which she spoke was the divination witnessed by herself and her maid—and of course, Gwendolyn, although Gwendolyn was only a babe.
No one needed clarification, because everyone knew about the Prophecy, even as everyone knew about the horde ofGwyddonsher mother called forth throughout the years to examine her only born child, only to ascertain whether, instead of a babe, thosefaerieshad left her with a changeling. For years and years, her mother draggeddewinefolkfrom their woodland shelters, promising impunity, should they come forward to verify her child’s humanity—Gwendolyn’s humanity.And this was the reason she and her mother did not comport: From the morning of Gwendolyn’s “visitation” until her seventh Name Day, she had been poked, prodded, and probed.
Seven long years, her mother’s servitors tortured her, until, at long last, her father put an end to it all, declaring that, if no proof of the exchange had been discovered as yet, no proof should ever come to light. Yet this was also the end of her association with her mother, and for all the years since, Gwendolyn was left to pine for the love of a mother, all the while the Queen Consort pined for atrueheir—a son of her loins, as though Gwendolyn were not her child.
And still, in her prayers, the Queen wondered aloud what terrible thing she’d done to anger the fickle gods.
Secretly, Gwendolyn wondered if it might simply be that she had all but cast away the only child she’d ever been allowed—and not that Gwendolyn entirely believed it, but that child, Gwendolyn, was said to be blessed by the gods.
Saidonly because, at this late hour, there was no proof of Gwendolyn’s “gifts.” Her hair was golden, truly, but it wasn’t “gold.” And if anyone should know, it would be her. By now, she’d had more curls snipped, hacked, cut, trimmed, plucked, and examined than anyone could rightly count.
To be sure, there wasnothingof the precious metal in Gwendolyn’s locks, although Demelza always made certain to remind everyone that her hair would not turn lest it be snicked by her one true love.
“Majesty,” entreated Alderman Aelwin, daring at his peril to ignore the Queen. “Might we not… at the least… delay this betrothal? We’ve only just received this news… If you assent, we’ll see our Princess wed in less than six sennights.”
Gods.
So soon?
Until now, Gwendolyn hadn’t dared count the days.
Alderman Crwys begged, “Please, Majesty…” He peered at Gwendolyn now. “Shouldn’t we prefer to take some time to prepare the poor girl’s dowry chest?”
Poor girl?
Sucking in a breath, Gwendolyn dared to look at her mother, and found the Queen’s color heightened to a color Gwendolyn had never once seen upon her mother’s tawny cheeks.
Blood and bones.Was this why they’d summoned her? To play one side against the other? To sway her father against her mother? To entreat Gwendolyn to defy the Queen?
Not bloody likely.
Gwendolyn knew better than to try.
