Prologue
It was the grandest wedding ever beheld.
Not even the great King Tutwal’s was so well attended, although it mustn’t be so much a wonder as to why. This Tutwal was never well favored, but his granddaughter was.
The only child of King Corineus and his tempestuous queen, Gwendolyn of Cornwall was kind to all she met, and though some folks might not appreciate her given countenance, no one dared speak it aloud—not even in whispers. Indeed, she was beloved, evidenced by the number of people who attended her nuptials.
This day, the procession grew so long that even whilst the Prince and Princess stood speaking their vows, the last in line were only leaving the city gates and the crush of people surrounding the Elder Yew was inestimable—perhaps in part, because the number of guests included a number of warriors.
You see, though the king’s illness was betrayed by the land, it was a single wagging tongue that set the course for this even: a kitchen maid.
One word to her lover.
And if that lover were Loegrian by fealty, he would expend such effort to carry this tale to his general. And thereafter, were the Cornish King so arrogant that he believed himself indispensable, or his wife so greedy that she might bargain for an alliance without question.
If the allied King were so faithless he could put an arrow through his father’s heart… that king might also never question whether a son of his own would dare the same. But… he would.
On this night, with the city celebrating, not a single man or woman questioned the purpose of a Loegrian soldier, who, by all accounts, had lived within their midst for years—why would he steal into the gatehouse with liquor on his breath and lies on his tongue?
A drink passes here and there.
Laughter shared.
A jest as well… and a swallow from a fellow’s tankard… with assurances he’ll not reveal the evening’s indiscretion… But if the tankard were drogued… And if the drink were shared, so that every sentry in the city fell asleep at their bells…
And if the kitchen were employed with great deceit, and the King’s dosing made too strong…
If half the guests were not guests at all, but warriors in disguise, with more than poniards hidden beneath their robes…
This was the folly of the occasion, and despite the smiles between kings, beware the sons… three, with ambitions beyond the dreams allowed.
Prince Albanactus had designs for a kingdom formed in his name. He would call it Alba. Kamber, the second, founded Cymru. And Prince Locrinus would claim the remainder of Pretania—from Cornwall to Eastwalas to the island’s eastern shores. Everyone bend the knee!
The first dagger found itself in King Brutus’s back—put there by the woman who bore him sons. Someday, this celebration would come to be known as a Feast of Blades.
It was a brilliant plan, not without bloodshed, but certainly without contest, and by the time the wedded couple arrived at their destination, undisclosed even to the elder kings, there was a new high King and Queen—all hail King Locrinus. And behold a new queen—the woman whose blood will give his children the right to rule…
But this story, too, has its betrayal, and wiser men have claimed, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
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“In this world there is no force equal to the strength of a woman determined to rise.”
– W. E. B Du Bois
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