Page 95 of The Cornish Princess
Alone.
With the burden of saving her father and the land, weighing upon her as heavy as stone.
Resolved now, Gwendolyn struck Málik from her thoughts, if not her heart, and stood, dropping the clump of stinking soil from her hand.
No more tears.
No more uncertainty.
She understood what she must do.
ChapterThirty-Seven
“Please, Gwendolyn. Smile,” her mother rebuked, as they stood observing the preparations in the courtyard below, awaiting their cue. In only a few moments Gwendolyn and her party would be expected to descend the ramparts, and together, she and Prince Locrinus would ride to the Sacred Yew together, trailed by all of Cornwall, so it seemed.
The Loegrian party had only just arrived. King Brutus had dispatched his messenger to advise Gwendolyn to be ready to depart the city immediately following the ceremony—in his words, “To give the couple privacy and time alone.”
But, perhaps more significantly, Prince Locrinus had heard of Gwendolyn’s ordeal in Chysauster, and, to avoid further treachery, he had arranged for the two of them to travel by some unexpected route… alone… with a small entourage to serve them, so they could travel more swiftly. She was grateful for this care, but whilst the entire kingdom remained in Trevena to make merry, and celebrate their nuptials, the Kings’ heirs would slip away, to consummate their vows in the privacy of a tent in the middle of nowhere, with only Gwendolyn’s lady’s maid to witness her blooded sheets.
This was not the way she had imagined her wedding night would be. But it was far too late for regrets—and even were it not, there was no other choice to be made. She was her father’sonlyheir, and as the Prophecy demanded, the dragon banners must be united.
The afternoon sun burned hot, making Gwendolyn sweat in all her layers of finery—something she evidently wasn’t supposed to do, and one glance at her mother made her feel even more unbecoming, as she imagined kohl melting about her eyes, beneath her veil.
According to custom, Gwendolyn could not yet see her betrothed, not till the instant she was unveiled—like a sculpture meant to be admired, or a gem to be worn.
It was a silly custom, she thought—mortifying, no matter that it was intended as flattery. As pretty as he was, Prince Locrinus wasn’t wearing a veil. And yet, Gwendolyn was grateful for hers, because it would hide her tears as she marched to her fate.
Gods.
There was nothing wrong with Prince Locrinus, she told herself. So what if he wasn’t interested in her Dancing Stones, or that she didn’t like the way he’d made her feel in the cave.
For an instant, Gwendolyn had liked him, and she could—andmust—endeavor to do so again. Simply because she had unreasonably allowed a cold-hearted fae into her life, into her heart, was not the Prince’s fault. As betrotheds were concerned, hers was quite certain to be envied, and if the scene below was any sign, he already was.
In anticipation of the Prince’s arrival, all the young ladies of her father’s court were attired in white or gold, else both, and all the men with robes to match. The setting sun shone on their metal accoutrements, blinding Gwendolyn where she stood on the ramparts.
It was clear to all who had eyes to see that Prince Locrinus had won himself the hearts and minds of her people, and no matter that he was not yet their rightful King, they were no doubt pleased he would someday be—and this he had managed with only a single visit, and a winsome smile on his too-comely face.
Indeed,hewas the golden child, the sort for whom life came so easily—not that Gwendolyn had cause to complain, considering her station.
Whatever anyone thought of her countenance, no one would dare mistreat her, although it vexed her to no end that he could so easily win everyone over, and she, as a woman, had to work so bloody hard to gain the same respect.
And regardless, she was ashamed of the resentment she felt in her heart for one so beauteous as he.
After all, who shouldn’t favor beauty?
Were Gwendolyn not already beguiled, she mightn’t have found anything to complain about—and yet… she was… and did.
By the eyes of Lugh, the only thing she had ever coveted—beauty—was the one thing she now reviled, for what was beauty alone without a heart and soul to match?
Look at him,she thought.Only look at him!
Even his golden robes were finer than hers. Why musthealways arrive with such pomp and ceremony?
Gwendolyn’s bridal gown was simple, but quality. Its design reminded her of an elder woman she once met from An Ghréig, with straight, flowing lines that hid her woman’s curves and a golden belt cinched high beneath her breasts to accentuate her bosom—Trojan, or so Demelza claimed.
Her crown this eve was the intricately carved forehead crown her mother gave her, the one embedded with the rainbow moonstones—Prydein.
Simple as it was, by her finery alone, she would represent three great tribes. And yet, even from this distance, Prince Locrinus was so blindingly golden and so beautiful that it put Gwendolyn to shame.
