The Goldenchild Prophecy is a historical romance series by popular author of historical and modern fiction Tanya Anne Crosby. We return to the exciting Iron Age and the farming, hunting, mining communities of Cornwall, the southernmost part of England. Meet THE CORNISH PRINCESS.
Gwendolyn is the heir to Cornwall, but her father King Corineus is ailing, and the land is suffering as a result. Celtic fantasy is gently woven through the action, so a curse laid upon the baby Gwen rebounds through to the time of her wedding. Only those with a fair heart and true love will see the girl as fair of face. In the hands of her love, her golden hair will turn to hard gold. The Celts were known for red-golden hair, but most Cornish had dark hair. Gwen’s mother came from Caledonia, modern Scotland. The king decides to wed his daughter to Prince Locrinus, son of King Brutus who left far-off Troy and arrived with impressive armor and weaponry on the shores of Wales. He is king now of that land, Loegria. Uniting their two dragon banners will give Britain, or Pretania, a strong force against invaders.
In the face of all this political jeopardy, a seventeen-year-old lass who has led a relatively sheltered life, but is a capable horsewoman, is bound to make a few mistakes. Early on she socializes mainly with her guard Bryn and his sister Ely, her attendant. Due to Gwen’s willful and thoughtless actions, Bryn is reassigned, and she is handed over to the Fae elf Malik, who is not trusted by everyone. Prince Loch hasn’t arrived yet and the two young people will only have a day to meet each other before they are agreed to wed; the ceremony will be within days. But what if this isn’t what Gwen wants? She’s relatively educated, but marriage will mean losing most of her freedom.
The lovely historical content is light on druidic belief and solid on foods and clothes. I really appreciate the detail of a feast, chickens, oysters, fresh and preserved fishes, bread trenchers and smoked cheese. For some readers, the time leading up to the betrothal will feel stretched, but at that point, events occur which intrude on the self-centered royal family. A man is found dead outside the gates and Gwen takes an active role in trying to establish the cause of his death and motives for a killer. The motivations of her husband-to-be are similarly tested. THE CORNISH PRINCESS is the first part of a trilogy about Gwendolyn and focuses on her early life. Second part is called The Queen’s Huntsman, and I can’t wait to get started.
Long before there was a Winter King, there was a Summer Queen—Gwendolyn of Cornwall, a fierce warrior princess who raised an army to unite a nation.
If you love British lore, and you ever longed to dive headlong into its spirit… If you ever hoped to meet the “tribe of the gods” who ruled Ireland and indelibly left their mark upon the British Isles… If you’re ready to embark on a magical journey into the beginnings of Celtic Lore… If you can find it in yourself to trust me as your storyteller and leave all your expectations behind… join me for a rollercoaster ride through history.
Said to be a changeling child left to the King and Queen of Cornwall, Gwendolyn is “blessed” at her cradle by three Fae gifts: a prophecy for her future, a gift of “Reflection,” and a golden mane—quite literally, every lock of her hair will turn to gold, only provided it is cut by her one true love.
Yet no one understands more than Gwendolyn that her blessings are actually curses. Any man who gazes upon her will see his own heart reflected in her countenance, and depending upon his virtue, she is the loveliest woman in all the land… or the most hideous. It's a cruel jest of the capricious Fae, for unless a man's heart be true, Gwendolyn is destined to be coveted for her crown, but despised for her face.
To make matters worse, Gwendolyn's ailing father is desperate for an alliance with King Brutus of Loegria. “The Romans are coming!” and according to the Goldenchild Prophecy, only by uniting their dragon banners can they stem the Red Tide. Offered to Brutus’s ambitious son, Prince Locrinus, Gwendolyn’s heart is tempted by a mysterious, maddening half-blood Fae who she can never wed if she is to fulfill her crib side prophecy.
Excerpt
The Goldenchild Prophecy
It was Brutus of Troy, a king slayer, who first came upon these lands at the edge of the sea… One day, out hunting, young Brutus sent an arrow through his father’s heart, and for this, he was banished, cast away on an endless sea to seek his fortunes amidst more savage lands.
But little did they know Brutus was favored by gods.
He set sail upon his galley with the serpent prow and arrived at Land’s End with such splendor that he turned the heads of all who knew so little of his kind—those red-cloaked warriors with their golden helms, golden hair and eyes.
Indeed, he came, he saw, and he conquered, yet not so boldly as stories might later claim.
To be sure, there’s much to be told that transpired hereafter, but this will be fodder for another tale. Enough to say that by the time the sun set on Brutus’ first year on the Tin Isles, he was already High King, while my father, a true son of Dumnonia, was essentially his vassal, bending the knee to a foreigner, whose weapon of consequence was not cold, hard steel, but a sharp mind and tongue.
But also, because of a prophecy… the first of two fated to change our destiny evermore.
“As I have come, one day, my people will, too,” warned Brutus. “They shall rush upon your shores as a red tide to wash your sands with blood. Embrace me, I shall defend you.”
And who in all of Cornwall should have called him a liar?
After watching his sturdy ships conquer our storm-ridden bays, my father could do little but welcome a new High King. Thus, Brutus of Troy became Brutus of Pretania, and within one swift blink of an immortal’s eye, the Old Ways were swept away, like sand before a storm.
And still, this land remains an Old Land, steeped in Old Ways.
Our ancestors are no less children of gods.
I am Gwendolyn of Cornwall, princess of the Dumnonii, and this is my tale…
It begins on the seventh eve following my birth, in the room where my cradle lay… beneath the light of a pale moon. Here, in the wee hours, I was visited by two ancient creatures, and the only witnesses therein were my mother and her dutiful maid.
“She is beauteous,” said the younger of the two, whose eyes were as icebourne as a Winter sea. She clapped her delicate hands as she peered into my crib, nails long and curved like claws.
“She’ll turn heads,” said the elder with satisfaction, but then she cautioned, “Perhaps she’ll never know her true worth, lest she know the soul of each man who pursues her.”
“Oh! I know what to do,” exclaimed the younger, with a sparkle of cunning in her brilliant eyes. “I will bestow upon Gwendolyn of Cornwall the gift of reflection.”
Excitedly, she touched a finger to my brow, and whispered sweetly—or as sweet as a ravening voice may be. “Now, all who gaze upon her face will spy their own true selves in her countenance, and depending upon their virtue, she will be the loveliest maid in all the land… or the most hideous.” She laughed delightedly, tickled by her tricksy gift.
“Esme!” said the elder. “You did not consider this well enough. Unless a man’s heart be true, this poor child will be coveted for her worth, yet despised for her face.”
The younger fae’s shoulders fell. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, dear. Yes, I see.” Dismayed, she blinked at the moonlit crib, and the silence as she contemplated her folly grew deep.
From the doorway in the same room, neither my mother nor her maid dared reveal themselves, and now my mother worried her soft hands whilst the maid held her by the shoulders, desperate to keep her mestres from the room.
“Fret not,” said the elder fae as they watched. “I know how to fix it. I will bestow upon this child the gift of a golden mane, wherein every lock of her hair will turn to gold, provided ’tis cut by her one true love. This is how she will know.”
“Indeed, this is how she’ll know,” echoed the younger, whereupon the elder bent to touch a finger to a wisp of yellow hair, and for an instant, the golden locks blazed like the sun’s rays.
Only it was then, in that instant, the elder creature caught my mother’s mortal scent, and now she turned to address her timid audience.
“I see you, mestres of Dumnonia!” she said, standing tall—and this was not very at all, because, although she was really quite tall for a fae, she was actually quite small.
The beauty of her was astounding, her skin translucent with stardust, and eyes that radiated with the light of two suns.
“We come in peace, though with foreboding,” said the elder. “The doom of our kind was foretold but fell upon deaf ears. Still it came to pass, and now you, too, will face the Twilight, and your daughter is the hope of all kind. Heed my words, mestres! You must unite the draig banners to stem the Red Tide!”
“Romans!” hissed the younger, with a tremble in her lips, and this single word filled the room with a bone-deep chill that caused both mortal women to clasp their breasts with wary arms.
“Is that my child in the crib?” asked my mother, not comprehending a word of the faerie’s crosstalk, only fearing to the depths of her soul that they’d left her with a changeling.
Both creatures smiled then, revealing sharp, savage grins.
“Child of your womb,” crooned the elder.
“Child of the Aether,” said the younger, before both vanished like frost from moist lips.
So, there I lay… in my cradle, in a room silvered by moonlight, with a nursemaid and mother now uncertain of my humanity. And yet, no matter their disquiet, both crept to my bedside to peer inside the cradle…
One saw a child disfigured, the other, my face as it is.
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