The Princess's Secret Longing. Carol Townend
Lanterns was a bathhouse. Its popularity with merchants from outside the Emirate gave Count Inigo hope that the presence of a Spanish knight and his squire wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. He was finally on the point of returning home and the last thing he wanted was trouble.
Earlier that day Inigo had been freed from Sultan Tariq’s prison in the Vermillion Towers. As Count of Seville, and lord over sizeable holdings in the Spanish kingdom of Castile, a hefty ransom had been paid for Inigo’s release. He remained uneasy. Until he left the Sultan’s territory, he wasn’t going to let his guard down. His incarceration had given him a grave mistrust of Sultan Tariq, and while there was no question that Inigo was free, he wouldn’t truly relax until he was back in Castile. One more night and they’d be on their way.
‘You have our safe conduct, lad?’ Inigo asked.
Guillen patted his saddlebag. ‘In here, my lord.’
‘Good. And you were given assurances that we may explore Granada unmolested?’
They were still within a stone’s throw of the Sultan’s palace. If they encountered prejudice, Inigo needed to know he and Guillen had protection. Having won his release, Inigo had no wish to fall foul of city authorities.
‘Indeed, my lord. Provided we leave by noon tomorrow, Granada is ours to explore.’
Slivers of light were seeping out between cracks in the bathhouse shutters. Inside, Inigo could hear water being poured. There was a faint tang in the air. Almond oil. It was beyond tempting. After months in captivity, his skin itched. With a grimace, he tugged at what was left of his green tunic. Head to toe, he was filthy. ‘I stink to high heaven.’
Guillen grinned and said not a word.
Inigo lifted an eyebrow and prepared to dismount. ‘That bad, huh?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Wretch. Here, hand me that safe conduct, I’m not about to let it out of my sight.’
Guillen unbuckled his saddlebag, drew out a scroll and passed it to Inigo.
‘My thanks. See to the horses before you come to attend me.’
Inigo rapped on the door, which opened at his touch. A tiled entrance led to a small courtyard that was starred with lamps. The bathhouse was larger than it appeared from the street, arched doorways led off in all directions. The scent of almond oil mingled with other scents—bay, sage, rose...
Inigo heard the hum of conversation and then a soft footfall. A young boy was bowing at him.
‘My apologies, I don’t speak Arabic,’ Inigo said. Conscious that his unkempt appearance might lead the boy to peg him for a beggar or a thief rather than a customer, he opened his money pouch and took out a handful of silver. ‘I am Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville, and I am hoping you speak my tongue.’
‘I do indeed, great lord.’
‘That is a relief. I would like a bath and a barber. Your name, lad?’
‘I am Mo,’ the boy said, smiling. ‘Welcome to The Three Lanterns.’
Across the courtyard a door swung wide, and Sir Enrique de Murcia stepped into the lamplight. Inigo held down a groan. Sir Enrique had been a fellow captive in the Vermillion Towers. Unfortunately, he was the last man Inigo wanted to see.
Desperate though he was for a bath and clean clothes, Inigo found himself wrestling with the urge to turn on his heel and go elsewhere. It was an awkward situation. Sir Enrique was cousin to Inigo’s close friend, Count Rodrigo Álvarez. That should have stood in Enrique’s favour, but Enrique’s foolhardiness had sparked off the border skirmish that had cost Rodrigo’s younger brother his life. If Enrique hadn’t rushed into battle, young Diego would still be alive, and Inigo and Rodrigo would never have dived into the fray in an attempt to save him. Inigo’s capture and subsequent imprisonment lay firmly at Enrique’s door.
‘Enrique,’ Inigo said. ‘Didn’t think to find you here.’
Enrique stood under an arch, swaying slightly. He was holding a wineskin and he looked drunk, which was quick work, even for him. They’d not been free for long. He lifted the wineskin to his mouth, throat working as he swallowed.
‘This wine’s not bad,’ Enrique said, tossing the empty skin aside and scowling at Mo. ‘You, fetch me another.’
‘Yes, great lord.’ Mo clapped his hands and another boy appeared and was sent in search of more wine. Mo looked at Inigo. ‘You require a private bath, great lord?’
Inigo nodded. ‘If you please. My squire Guillen is stabling our horses. He will join me shortly.’
Inigo was shown into a lamplit chamber. After the rigours of his imprisonment, it was like walking into heaven. The floor was white marble and he found himself gazing longingly at a low marble washbowl. Further in, beyond a row of horseshoe arches with red marble columns, steps led into a deep pool fed by a water spout. The water gleamed blue in the lamplight. The wall tiles were earth-coloured, and the ceiling domed. A handful of six-pointed stars were spaced about the dome. Air vents. In the day they would, presumably, admit light. A wooden couch was set against a wall.
This was his bathing chamber? It was fit for a prince.
As Inigo peeled off his clothes, filthy rags he never wanted to see again, he prayed Enrique would have the sense to realise his company wasn’t wanted.
He splashed off the worst of the filth in the washbowl before lowering himself into the pool. The water was warm and scented with sage, it felt like heaven. He closed his eyes and was easing his injured leg when a shift in the air told him someone had joined him. Hoping it was Guillen, he opened his eyes.
Enrique stood at the edge of the pool. ‘Is Rodrigo joining us?’ he asked.
‘I couldn’t say,’ Inigo said, ‘I am not privy to your cousin’s plans.’
That was a bald lie. In truth, Rodrigo was due later. However, during their captivity, Rodrigo had been unable to escape Enrique’s company and Inigo was only too conscious of how difficult he must have found it. To have been compelled, day after day, to keep the company of a man whose recklessness had led directly to the death of his beloved brother must have tested Rodrigo’s patience to the limit.
In the interest of harmony, it would be best to get rid of Enrique before Rodrigo arrived.
Enrique grunted, weaved his way to the couch and sat down heavily. He was holding more wine—a bottle this time—and was toying with the cork.
Leaning against the side of the pool, Inigo probed his leg. In the battle to save Diego, one of the Sultan’s men had sliced it open. Thankfully, the wound had healed cleanly, though it still ached from time to time.
‘They have women here,’ Enrique said conversationally. ‘Girls seem to like you, I’m sure they will be delighted to accommodate you.’
Inigo cleared his throat. ‘Not interested. Enrique, you must be forgetting, I am to be married soon.’
Enrique’s lip curled. ‘You’ve been betrothed for years, that’s never stopped you before.’
Inigo shrugged. ‘Lady Margarita and I have an understanding.’
‘She knows about your...flirtations?’ Enrique asked.
‘Aye, but we will be married shortly and all that will change.’
‘You’ll be faithful after you’re wed?’ Enrique sounded incredulous.
‘Of course.’
‘Good God, man, why? You don’t give a fig for Margarita, you never have.’
Inigo was all too aware that his relationship with his betrothed was cool. Lady Margarita Marchena de Carmona was a cool woman, which was exactly why he was marrying her. He wanted a cool wife. An emotional woman wouldn’t suit him, such a woman would disrupt his household