Page 5 of The Cornish Princess
Sadly, the chances were far greater that he would not like her, and come what may, tomorrow, she would be meeting her betrothed—her second, at that!
The very thought unsettled her belly so she wasn’t hungry—good thing, because by now, the hall would have been cleared of Alyss’ wonderful morning cakes.
And despite this, she continued in that direction, intent upon checking with Yestin, to see if he had need of her this morn. Even now, she suspected her mother’s maid was in her bower, waiting with a mountain of dresses, and no doubt this was the reason Demelza had been late this morning. But, if she could, once she was finished with the maid, she intended to steal away, and it was better to check with the steward now than to have him search for her later, and risk involving her mother. Doubtless, they were already planning the welcome feast, everything from the musicians to accompany the meal to the victuals themselves.
Queen Eseld would have her say, of course, but it was the King who must approve expenditures, and in his place, Gwendolyn. No matter that Queen Eseld so oft took his place while he convalesced, the approval of expenditures was a task assigned to the heir—which Gwendolyn was, no matter that her mother despaired of the fact.
Nor did Queen Eseld appreciate having to approve herdawnsioexpenditures through Gwendolyn, even though Gwendolyn would never dare thwart her.
Without question, her mother would lend herdawnsioto the event—at a cost no one would ever dispute, because the service they provided was invaluable.
Along with the Druids, thedawnsio,AwenyddsandGwyddonsall served important roles for the kingdom—as priests, historians, philosophers, and scientists. They continued an ancient tradition, teaching epochs of history through a choreographed dance, which was widely considered to be one of the most esteemed roles a woman could aspire to. To the unskilled eye, it would appear the dancers were posturing to entertain, but every gesture bespoke volumes.
Altogether, there were twenty-one dancers, plus twenty-one understudies—a pair from each of Pretania’s tribes, not including the isle of Mona, where the Druids lived—fourteen for Prydein, eight from Westwalas, six for each of Cornwall’s boroughs, and two each from the remaining tribes. Each dancer was carefully chosen by the Queen and herAwenydds, not merely for her beauty, but for her mental acuity as well. Unlovely people need not apply, and Gwendolyn was rarely even invited to watch. Purely out of necessity, because someday she would be queen, she had been taught to interpret the dance, but her mother clearly didn’t want daily reminders that her own daughter didn’t measure up to the perfection she’d cultivated in her dancers.
Not once in Gwendolyn’s life had her mother ever complimented her face, and this was well and good… if only she hadn’t heard a thousand buttery praises fly from the Queen’s lips, all for others—including Ely, who at fifteen was now the understudy for Durotriges, whence she and her family hailed. A twinge of envy resurfaced, though Gwendolyn suppressed it, hardly pleased with the sentiment. Her relationship with her mother wasn’t Ely’s fault any more than Ely could be faulted for her natural beauty. And neither was Gwendolyn’s countenance anyone else’s doing—blessing or curse, it was her own burden to bear.
Much to Gwendolyn’s surprise, she found Ely lurking outside the great hall, spying on her uncle. Surrounded by sweepers, her father’s steward sat hunched over one of the lower tables, scribbling at his ledgers. His loyal hound sat beneath the table, ears perked, eyes peeled, hoping the maids would uncover some disgusting treasure to sweep his way. If he could and his master would allow it, Gwendolyn knew that dog would be out from beneath that table, sniffing at piles of rushes, content enough to gobble greasy straw, but even the dog was afraid of his master’s bark. Rightly so; because aside from the King and Queen Consort, and of course, Gwendolyn, Yestin held the highest post in the realm—higher in some ways than the aldermen, because he controlled the Treasury and the men who guarded it. And regardless, he was still Elowyn’s uncle, and rather than face him, the silly girl would hide behind the door, chewing at her cheeks.
She was so deep in thought that she didn’t hear Gwendolyn approach, and when Gwendolyn laid a hand atop her shoulder, Ely yelped in surprise.
“Gwendolyn!” she exclaimed, then winced, turning to peer through a crack between the hinges to see if her squeal had attracted Yestin’s attention.
“Oh, Gwen!” she sobbed. “I am undone! I’ve been told my uncle means to pair me with the ambassador’s son for tomorrow’s feast.”
“Which ambassador?”
“Trinovantes,” she said. “The new one.”
Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you welcomed the opportunity to find yourself a good husband?”
“Oh, I do! But, really, Gwendolyn, have you met him? His face is flat as a morning cake! Indeed,” she said, when Gwendolyn’s frown deepened. “I’m told he was kicked by a mule.”
“Gods,” said Gwendolyn, her brows slanting with dismay—not the least bit feigned, but not for Elowyn’s sake. Despite that she understood Ely meant nothing by the insult, she was naturally sensitive to the poor man’s dilemma. She understood more than most what it felt like to be judged by one’s appearance.
“I just knowsheasked for the pairing to turn me off the thought of a husband.”
She, being Lady Ruan, although Gwendolyn suspected otherwise. Ely’s mother was far too kind. Although it struck her in that moment that perhaps all mothers and daughters were destined to have quarrels—or so it seemed. As kind as Lady Ruan was, Ely clearly took issue with her, more lately than ever. Though at least Ely’s mother didn’t think her a changeling, and never once employed torture to glean the truth of the matter. Gwendolyn couldn’t say the same.
“Perhaps ’tis because she knows you are the kindest of souls, Ely? Someone like the ambassador’s son will have need for a speck of compassion.”
“Harrumph!” said Ely, though her shoulders slumped. “Mayhap tis true, Gwen, yet this doesn’t lift my mood knowinghe’llcome soon to spirit you away.”
He, meaning Prince Locrinus whose presence was already felt, despite that he’d yet to arrive. And this must be the true cause of Elowyn’s distress, she realized. Sliding an arm about her friend’s shoulders, Gwendolyn tried to lift her mood. “Onlyif he likes me,” she jested.
“Oh, Iknowhe will!” Ely returned. “And nevertheless, if he does not, has he more choice than you?” She peered up at Gwendolyn, her sweet blue eyes swimming with tears, and Gwendolyn frowned. Leave it to Ely to speak plainly. As her own mother had already pointed out once today, the dragon banners must be united—dragons rampant, one to guard the sea, the other to guard the land. Choices such as these were not the prerogative of princes or princesses. Even if Prince Locrinus found her as displeasing as her mother clearly did, he, too, would have little choice. Come Calan Mai, she would be wedding Loegria’s eldest son beneath the Sacred Yew, and she would don the torc of his house in a ceremony that hearkened back to the Dawn of Days. This was the indisputable truth.
“What shall I do without you?” said Ely.
Gwendolyn’s voice softened. “Never fear, dear friend.” She pulled a wisp of hair from Ely’s beautiful face. “I’ll make another appeal to take you with me when I go.”
“My mother will say no,” argued Ely, and Gwendolyn knew it was true. Already, she’d asked twice, and Lady Ruan would not part with two children.
So far as Ely’s older brother was concerned, he was already bound to come with her. From the day he took his vow to serve as her personal guard, Bryn’s fate was sealed. As Gwendolyn’s Shadow, wherever she went, so, too, must he go. As was the custom, he even slept in her antechamber, and the only time he wasn’t duty-bound to be at her side was when Gwendolyn was safely ensconced within the palace. At the moment, he was probably in the Mester’s Pavilion, with his sire, receiving orders for his comportment during the Prince’s arrival and Gwendolyn blushed hotly over the realization, because her mother liked to complain that she and Bryn were overfamiliar.
“He’s your servant,” she would say, yet this was sometimes difficult to recall when the three of them—she, Bryn and Ely—had grown up nearly as siblings.
She gave Ely’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Loegria isn’t far,” she consoled, and then she turned Ely about and, with a glance into the hall at Yestin, decided he would be at his ledgers for many hours to come. At the moment, Ely needed a distraction, and Gwendolyn knew how to provide it. “Come,” she demanded. “Yestin can wait. I’m off to choose my wardrobe for thevisit, and you know how desperately I will need your opinion. Given my druthers, I’d wear a jerkin and keep a spear in my hand.”
