Page 31 of The Cornish Princess
In the meantime, she allowed Prince Locrinus to assist her in mounting—not that Gwendolyn needed his help, mind you, but the solicitation seemed to please him.
She was thrilled to discover that, just as Demelza had claimed, her Prydein tunic was already softening, molding itself to her curves. Her hosen, well-worn and supple, afforded ease of movement. She could grow accustomed to this manner of dress, and perhaps when she was queen, she would encourage it for all—but of course, this was only a fleeting whimsy, and she wasn’t in any hurry to assume the throne. But it was fun to imagine.
Still, there was something so freeing about the Prydein gown, and she wondered how her mother could resign herself to wearing such confining dresses after donning such a garb—only this made her wonder things she might never discover, such as, what did all the symbols mean?
There were strange half-moons, interwoven with other emblems, fish and serpents, and others besides. Sadly, she could never feel at ease asking such things of her mother, and she wasn’t certain Queen Eseld would even welcome her questions.
Certainly she never had before, and despite the short but amicable visit this morn, it was not their usual encounter.
As Gwendolyn waited for Prince Locrinus to find and mount his own horse, she flicked a glance at Málik to see if his leathers bore any such markings—they did not.
His were simple and black, like his horse… like a cold, dark night.
Like his mood.
So at odds with his countenance.
Lamentably, he caught her staring—yet again—and his lips tilted slightly at one corner. Inhaling a breath, irritated with herself for giving him more attention than he deserved, Gwendolyn offered him her back, hitching her chin.
At long last, Prince Locrinus was ready to ride, and he sidled his horse close to Gwendolyn’s, then made to reach for her reins. Gwendolyn stopped his hand before he could retrieve them. “No need, Highness. I am a well-practiced horsewoman.”
He froze momentarily, then assented with a nod, and quickly withdrew his hand. “Of course,” he said, “I should have guessed. There isthatabout you.”
Whatthatwas, Gwendolyn wondered—particularly as he peered sideways at Málik, and for an instant, she couldn’t help but compare the two—Locrinus with his golden beauty, and Málik…
Gods,solovely as she’d felt this morn, she suddenly felt like a toad in their presence.
Both men were unquestionably beautiful—Prince Locrinus more so than Málik, and it was he that Gwendolyn should endeavor to please.
As soon as they were away, Málik fell behind, and Gwendolyn found herself vexed by that, unwilling to examine the true reason she felt so peeved, regardless of what he did. If he had dared to ride beside her, she would have been vexed by that, as well.
But Málik could remain wheresoever he pleased—hurl himself down a gully if he chose.Hewasn’t her concern—not today.
Clenching then unclenching her fist, she willed away her mounting tension and determined, once and for all, to put Málik Danann out of her mind.
ChapterTen
Although her father’s secret wouldn’t be betrayed by the glen—at least not today—the last thing Gwendolyn wished to do was take Prince Locrinus there and have him ask about the pool’s significance. She would be honor-bound to tell him everything—about the King’s connection to the land, and the trees’ recent decline.
But it wasn’t just that. On the off chance he’d heard about yesterday’s ordeal with Bryn, she didn’t believe it would be prudent to take him there and give him a false impression of sweethearts stealing a tryst.
Therefore, even though it was her most favorite place, she decided Porth Pool was better left for another day—perhaps later, after she and Prince Locrinus were wed.
Meanwhile, though it wasn’t quite so beloved as her pool, she took Prince Locrinus to another of her cherished places. And considering their discussion last night, she couldn’t wait to share it with him.
It wasn’t so majestic as the Eastwalas Temple nor thelyn yeynquoit near Chysauster, where her cousins lived, but it had always impressed her with its perfect circumference. Twenty-six stones altogether, they were said to be effigies ofdewinemaids, whose moonlight dance somehow displeased the Mother Goddess, so she turned them all to stone. Some now lay sprawled upon the moorland in a swoon. Others stood tall, as though their heads and eyes were last turned to the stars. Whichever the case, Gwendolyn hoped they would ignite the Prince’s curiosity, and she was titillated by the prospect of discussingphilosophiawith him.
Would he consider their flawless design? Would he think it divine? Would he see any similarities to those places he’d visited in Ériu?She couldn’t wait to find out.
Seated betwixt two rocky tors—Bronn Ewhella and Rough Tor, whence many of Cornwall’s rivers arose—the circle’s utter perfection spoke to the wonder in Gwendolyn, for, no matter how one speculated, no one could truly glean its purpose, nor comprehend the true nature of its design. It was older than Trevena—older even than Gogmagog and his giants—and if these were truly maidens struck down during their midnight dance, it happened long before the Dumnonii were made conservators of this land.
In fact, Gwendolyn suspected they could befae, and some part of her wondered what Málik would think of them, but she certainly didn’t intend to ask.
Excited to reveal the stones, she led the small party into the moorlands, and then, once they’d arrived, she led them in a circle, careful not to allow her mare to trample the swooning maids. Her excitement was palpable; all the little hairs on her nape prickling—as they always did in this vicinity.
Prince Locrinus broke formation and moved into the circle. “We have a few of these,” he said, hardly impressed.
Gwendolyn furrowed her brow. She was forced to confess: His reaction was not her first disappointment. No matter; she feigned indifference, asking politely, “In Loegria? Or Troy?”
