Gwynn meets the Blocky Boy
The moment Britamund’s slipper crossed the threshold, Cynewulf leapt up and blurted, “Britamund, Cat, Flann, Gwynn – no, wait! Cat, Condal, Flann, Gwynn, Hetty, Lasrua, and… no – Kraaia, Lasrua, Leila. Is that everybody? Margaret! Of course!” He laughed deliriously. “My own sister!”
“What was that?” Britamund gasped and giggled.
“Father wagered I wouldn’t be able to announce everyone in the order of the alphabet!”
“And you couldn’t!” Godefroy laughed.
Cynewulf wailed, “Aww!” as he realized he had, in fact, lost his wager.
“Ach, Alred,” Hetty cooed. “What an idea! How will anyone know who anyone else is if we are not announced the order we entered?”
Gwynn entered third, which would have made her Flann.
Her eyes fell first on a boy with dull auburn hair, who arrested her attention by virtue of his sheer blockiness. Except for his finely pointed chin he was all square: square in the head, square in the shoulders, square in the waist, and on down to his square-tipped boots.
It was his misfortune to be stationed between Gwynn’s father and brother, with their fine, slanted jaws, their broad shoulders and narrow hips – and even their handsomely-shaped calves, which part of the male anatomy Cat and Flann had recently taught Gwynn to admire.
Even between two small men he was runtish and insignificant. Even between her own father and her own annoying brother he was the least romantic-looking of the three.
“I’m Cat,” Cat announced as she strutted in, “as you can tell by the whiskers! And here’s Rua, as you can tell by the ears!”
“Hence the inutility of introductions!” Gwynn’s father laughed. He clapped his hands together and stepped closer to the table. “Ladies…?”
“Not so fast!” Dunstan scolded.
Annoying brother or not, Gwynn could have kissed him at that moment. She looked away from the Blocky Boy to smile at him–
–and then she saw him: verily the violet-eyed prince of her dreams.
His hair was as dark as a raven’s wing, and his brow smooth and white as snow – no! as marble – with the faint flush of a living, passionate being in his temples and his cheeks. His eyes were wicked but not irredeemable, and though the curve of his carmine lips was wry and taunting, the uneasy set of his shoulders made him seem a little shy.
In the matters of shoulders, waist, hips, and calves, Dunstan held nothing over him; and the man’s slight advantage in height over her stocky brother – slight enough indeed that he would not seem absurdly tall next to Gwynn – only stretched him out to a still more perfect proportion.
He was the very man she would have imagined for herself – trim and lithe, fair and fine – if her meager experience of the world had ever granted her such perfect parts to be assembled into such a perfect whole.
“Cynan will at least like to meet his cousins,” Dunstan added, blithely unaware of the thunderbolt that had just struck his sister. “Girls, this is Cynan, eldest son of our grandmother’s nephew Gruffydd of Gwynedd. Cynan, allow me to present you to my sisters, the Lady Gwynn and the Lady Margaret.”
Gwynn’s handsome prince turned to Dunstan and dumbly stared. Not until she sensed Margaret beside her, curtseying in the wrong direction, did she understand that the only prince of the company was in fact Blocky Boy himself.
Even while her heart melted in disappointment, Gwynn had good breeding enough that she could summon an angelic smile and bow herself gracefully down into a curtsey.
So often had she practiced greeting the foreign noblemen who lived behind her mirror that she was able to improvise a very pretty little Welsh welcome on the spot.
All around her she sensed the blooming of admiring smiles – until she looked up into her cousin’s face, which, though it had meanwhile flushed into a startling shade of mottled red, remained as grim and unappetizing as a slab of cold, square pudding.
“I am pleased to meet you,” he muttered in English.
Dunstan took another breath, either to introduce the other ladies or – as Gwynn desperately hoped – introduce his sisters to the other gentleman. However, Cat cut him short with a shriek of horror.
“What happened to the mistletoe?” she cried.
Everyone looked up – except for Cynan, who stubbornly stared at nothing straight ahead.
“Well…” Gwynn’s father grinned sheepishly. “It was wilting a bit, and the berries are so sticky on the floor…”
“What happened to the mistletoe?” Cynewulf repeated with a shrill laugh. “Fa – ther!” he scolded. “You’re jealous of anyone kissing Hetty!”
His laughter stopped abruptly, and he clapped his hands over his hotly flushed cheeks.
“Perhaps our guests do not understand the custom,” Hetty said soothingly. “It is a Norse custom,” she added for their benefit.
“Even so!” Gwynn’s father said. “Dear Catan, you cannot think me so inconsiderate a host as to inflict a surprise of that nature upon my guests?”
“So have you ever!” Cat gasped.
“O the surprises that have been inflicted in these halls!” Dunstan laughed.
“We’ve even had a surprise wedding or two out of it!” Britamund added.
Gwynn’s heart swelled up again with hopeful anticipation. Such romantic things could happen!
Her gladness bubbled up and spilled over in the form of giggles. “I think the surprise may be the funnest part!” she declared, and she turned to wink at Condal – but where was Condal?
“The most fun,” Cynan corrected sternly.
Gwynn gasped. Kraaia snorted in amusement.
“Pardon us?” Margaret asked.
“The most fun,” he repeated. “She said funnest. I did not correct her mistakes in Welsh, but she ought to know how to speak her own language.”
Gwynn’s lip was quivering, but she mumbled an, “I know how…”
Miserably she looked around for Condal.
Already the room was roiling with the bright colors and wide skirts and chirruping laughter of the ladies. Already Dunstan was warming his hands on Britamund, and the Old Man was startling Hetty and amusing everyone else with his reeling walk and slurred jokes, and Cat was teasing Godefroy about his hair. Kraaia was smirking at Gwynn from the shadows, and her eyes shone greenly like a cat’s. Condal was nowhere to be seen.
And then Gwynn saw her violet-eyed knight. He had heard! He was hurt and troubled for her sake! At any moment he would come to her rescue, as her violet-eyed knight had so often saved her from dreams of dragons, evil elves, and all manner of goblins – round and pointed and square…
At any moment!
But it was Margaret who came to her aid.
“You have made an unfortunate choice of family to impress with your English, my lord,” she said. “When one knows the rules well enough, one may begin to learn how to break out of them.”
“Is that how you’re explaining bad grammar?” he asked coldly.
“Only when it comes from too much good,” Margaret replied. “But sadly for you, I do not think the same can ever be said of bad manners.”
