Page 32 of The Cornish Princess
“Loegria,” he said as he circled the stones. All the while, his destrier trod heavily over fallen maidens, snorting at a string of wild ponies nearby.
Gwendolyn’s frown only deepened.
Arms crossed, Málik remained at a distance.
So, too, did Prince Locrinus’ Shadows, although one of them retrieved his bow and an arrow and sat testing his sights on a pony. But those were sacred, too, and if Gwendolyn thought for an instant that he meant to set an arrow loose, she would fly at him with a vengeance. So long as he did not, she sat smiling—forced though it was.
“You know, I have never been to my father’s birth land,” the Prince confessed.
“Oh,” said Gwendolyn, curious to know why, considering that he’d traveled so extensively.Was it because his father was no longer welcome in Troy? Or merely because he had no desire to see his father’s homeland?The latter simply didn’t fit what she knew of him—the erudite soul she’d looked so forward to meeting.
If only to understand his point, she considered how she would feel if it were her own father who’d been exiled from his birth land, knowing there would be people left behind she would never know—oh, yes, she could see how that would upset him. Presumably, no matter how well their lives had fared since leaving Troy, the subject was bound to be a sore one for the Prince and his father. Therefore, she must forgive his insouciance.
Seated atop his armored stallion, in all its golden armor, the Prince was undeniably beautiful—his hair glistening beneath the midday sun, like a halo.
Considering him, Gwendolyn counted her good fortune that he seemed equally pleased with her—or at least that’s how it seemed.
Admittedly, she didn’t know how a “besotted” man should behave.
Abandoning the poor maids where they lay, disappointed in Prince Locrinus’ response but undaunted, Gwendolyn led the party away, but when she peered back to see if Málik was following—he’d been so quiet—she found that he’d dismounted, and was on his knees inside the stone circle, one hand splayed upon a fallen stone, his head down as though in prayer.
Without remarking upon it, Gwendolyn watched as he lifted the stone upright, and once it was standing, he brushed his hands on his hosen and returned to his mount.
Prince Locrinus said naught as he followed her gaze, and she was compelled to feign exasperation with her errant guard. She turned and made a sound of frustration, then spun her mare northeast toward the Trevillet. Really, she didn’t care what Málik was doing, nor why he’d felt so compelled to raise that stone, but right now, she hoped he’d be trampled by ponies before he could rejoin them—admittedly, this time, she was upset with him by no fault of his own. She didn’t like that he’d shown so much more reverence to those Dancing Stones than did her betrothed. But this was Gwendolyn’s problem, not anyone else’s.
By the time they found the Trevillet, her good mood had returned.
She led the party west along the river to the keeve, a place of natural beauty that gave her so much peace. There, they stopped to enjoy a small treat by the waterfall—sweet meat pies, with a bit of mead—until Málik, the laggard, finally deigned to arrive.
Despite knowing there was one pie left, Gwendolyn stood without a word, eying Málik with no small measure of annoyance as she retrieved her mare.
The meal had been arranged by her mother, packed in her saddlebags before the horses were ever delivered to the courtyard. Therefore, they were hers to share—or not.
Málik didn’t deserve one, as there was naught about his demeanor that gave Gwendolyn the first sign that he felt himself a part of her entourage.
In fact, he was as distant to her as Prince Locrinus’ men. Fortunately, if Prince Locrinus noted her mood, he said nothing, and the party returned to the road.
It was past noontide when they came full circle and arrived at a small rift that could only be traversed by foot. Eager to be away from prying eyes, they abandoned the guards atop the lay-by, and because it was only a short jaunt and Gwendolyn knew the way well, she led Prince Locrinus down the gully until they reached the etchings carved into the high stone.
“A blessing from the Ancients,” she explained, pointing. Stamped deep into the rock, for all to see, a promise of fertility for Cornwall and her people.
Her father was given precisely the same mark by the Llanrhos Druids when he ascended the throne, and her grandfather had one as well. Little doubt Gwendolyn, too, would be painted when the time came for her to ascend—a small tattoo at the base of her neck. Although she wondered how the Druids would endure it, since they seemed not to appreciate women.
“Fascinating,” said the Prince, and once again, Gwendolyn found herself piqued. It wasn’t anything she could put a finger on, not precisely.
Rather, it was a feeling she got, a lack of interest that she could only attribute to the Prince’s exhaustion—but of course. He’d traveled two long days to arrive here, and he was bound to have been up too late, then up early besides.
Gauging the hour by the position of the sun, she peered up to find Málik once again in her sights. Like a gadfly, he was always there, irritating to the end.
He was standing atop the lay-by, peering down at them from the cliff top, munching on something he must have taken from his own saddlebag. He held the treat aloft in greeting, with an indecipherable smile tugging at his lips.
Gods.
Whatever sense of irritation she now felt toward Prince Locrinus, she could easily attribute it to her own vexation over the prospect of having that man as her Shadow—morning, noon, and night. How could she bear it? Thathewas not in her antechamber this morning when she’d left was only because her mother and Demelza had sent him away upon their arrival so he could see to his morning victuals.
Alas, no matter what he did, Gwendolyn was bound to be annoyed with him for some time yet—or at least until she had the chance to tell him what she thought of his betrayal of Bryn.
And she would—just as soon as she found him alone, and there weren’t any other ears about to catch the blistering she intended to give his pointy ears.
