The Princess's Secret Longing

‘I’ve never met a shepherdess before,’ the Princess was saying. ‘She told me she usually takes the baby with her when she goes out. She has a shawl and carries him on her front.’

‘The infant is a boy?’

‘Aye. My lord?’ She craned her neck and met his eyes. ‘You said you are Count of Seville. Is that where you are going?’

‘Eventually. First, I shall take you to Córdoba to meet up with your sister and Count Rodrigo.’

And then he and Rodrigo would have to work out what the devil they were going to do with two Nasrid princesses. Only when Inigo was certain that Princess Alba was safe would he return home. To Margarita and marriage. He wasn’t immortal—his encounter with the Sultan’s troops had brought that home to him as never before. He needed heirs.

The farm the shepherdess had recommended wasn’t easy to find, though they followed her directions closely. When at last they saw it, Inigo’s spirits lifted. It was set in a small dip, some way from the beaten track. The secluded location was a strong point in its favour. If the shepherdess hadn’t told the Princess exactly where to go, they would have ridden straight past it.

It had been hours since Inigo had heard the hounds and he was confident they had lost them. However, he wouldn’t relax until they reached Córdoba. Princess Alba was in his care, he must keep her safe. He reined in at the top of the rise.

Humble in design, the farmhouse was little more than a labourer’s cottage. It looked half derelict, the door sagged and there were gaps in the planking. Smoke drifted through a ragged vent in the roof. The fence around a vegetable plot was down in places and hens were scratching in the dirt. It looked like the last place a Nasrid princess would choose as her refuge.

In short, it was perfect.

‘It looks peaceful enough,’ Inigo muttered, even as he was wondering how long they could risk stopping for. The Princess wouldn’t be used to riding for hours. Stalwart though she was, she must be exhausted. Guillen too. As for the horses...

He frowned. ‘My lady, are you certain the shepherdess mentioned horses? I don’t see any.’

‘She didn’t say that we’d find horses here, my lord, only that there would be someone to care for ours.’ She smothered another yawn and looked longingly towards the farm. ‘A brief halt would be most welcome.’

Inigo dismissed the last of his misgivings. ‘Very well. I doubt your father’s men will give this place a second glance. Mind, it won’t be what you are used to.’

‘As far as I am concerned it is paradise. My lord, for the first time in my life, I am free, that counts for much.’

Wondering how soon Princess Alba would regret those words, Inigo spurred Soldier down the slope. ‘In any event, we shan’t stay long. Just long enough to ensure the horses won’t be lamed when we continue.’

To say that the occupants of the farm—two young women and their ageing father—were startled when their unexpected visitors rode up would be an understatement.

Princess Alba did the talking. Again, it was irritating not to be able to understand what was being said, though the farmer and his daughters seemed friendly. Particularly after Inigo opened his pouch and drew out a palm full of silver dirhams.

The Princess dismounted and entered the farmhouse with his cloak wrapped tightly about her. The cool of the night was dissipating, and she was probably hoping to hide her harem finery. In this, she wasn’t entirely successful. Inigo caught the telltale flutter of silk. Her boots, he noticed, were dyed blue, they looked extremely costly.

Wreathed in smiles, the farmer took Inigo, Guillen and their horses to a shack behind the main building. It immediately became clear that the man did indeed have a rare talent with horses, for he spotted Raven’s weak leg at once. Confident the animals were in the best hands, Inigo left Guillen with the farmer and returned to the farmhouse.

Princess Alba was standing by the cooking fire, watching the younger sister lift flatbread from a griddle with a wooden paddle. The girl tossed the bread on to a platter and set it on the table while her sister poured what looked like ale into pottery cups.

When the elder sister spoke, Princess Alba smiled and went to the bench by the table. ‘Here, my lord,’ the Princess said. ‘This is for us. And your squire when he gets here, of course. There’s a bowl of water to wash in on that side table.’

While Inigo rinsed away the worst of the dust, a round of goat’s cheese and a bowl of olives joined the pottery cups on the table.

The Princess sat quietly. Her bright gaze roamed the cottage, taking in the onions hanging from the beams, the bunches of herbs, a small barrel of olives. Inigo wondered if the farmer’s daughters had noticed the shimmer of silk peeping out from beneath Princess Alba’s cloak. At the least, they must have noticed those blue boots. Women noticed such things.

Inigo remembered the food baskets the Princesses had sent down when he and his comrades had been working like slaves at the foot of their tower. Those baskets had been filled with grapes, chicken, wine, dates...

He eyed the cheese doubtfully and remembered the supplies he’d brought from The Black Sheep.

‘My lady? If cheese is not to your liking, I have chicken in my saddlebag.’

‘This is fine, thank you,’ the Princess said.

She picked up an ale cup and drank with every evidence of enjoyment.

Inigo dragged a three-legged stool to the table and sat down. The sisters, clearly deciding they’d done their duty, edged on to the bench either side of Princess Alba. Leaning their elbows on the table, they stared at him. It was rather disconcerting. They stared and stared.

It was even more disconcerting when they started to giggle and mutter to each other.

Inigo shifted and broke off a piece of bread. ‘What the devil are they saying?’

The Princess smiled. ‘They think you are very handsome. They are wondering what it would be like to...’ she hesitated, flushing ‘...marry such a man.’

‘Saints, have they nothing better to do? Please ask if there is a bedchamber where you may rest a while.’

She pointed towards a stepladder, leading up to a gallery. ‘I’ve already asked. The sleeping loft is ours for as long as we need it.’

‘You take the loft. My lady, that shepherdess did well directing us here. I don’t speak Arabic, but it’s plain this farmer has a gift with horses and my squire’s horse seems to have a sprain. I’ll not relax until I know how bad it is. In the meantime, I advise you to get as much rest as you can.’

The loft was gloomy and smelled of smoke and dust. Clothes hung, formless as djinns, from hooks driven into the beams. Two mattresses lay flat on the floorboards.

Assuming the larger of the mattresses belonged to the girls, Alba went over to it and knelt. A brief scrutiny showed it to be made with coarse sacking and filled with straw. It felt extraordinary, hard and lumpy. Feathers and down must be beyond the reach of simple farmers. Alba doubted she would sleep, though she told herself sternly that she must accustom herself to living more humbly.

It was noisy in the loft, she could hear much that went on in the main chamber below. The sisters hadn’t stopped giggling. They were teasing Lord Inigo and, when his squire joined him, presumably to report on his horse’s welfare, they included him in their teasing. Interestingly, the presence of their father didn’t curb them, the teasing was relentless.

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