The Princess's Secret Longing. Carol Townend
weaved his way to the door. ‘I’ll be off then. If you’re not joining me, doubtless I’ll see you back in Córdoba.’
Appalled though he was, Inigo kept his voice cool. ‘Enrique, don’t do this.’ Somehow, he must get Enrique to listen to reason.
‘I will have my revenge.’ Enrique’s voice was slurred and his eyes unfocused. ‘I admit I can’t take all three of them, but at least one Princess will be coming with me.’
‘You would despoil an innocent girl? You talk of honour—what of your chivalric vows? You make me ashamed to be a knight.’
Enrique’s laugh echoed around the chamber, harsh and ugly. ‘A Nasrid princess has no innocence. And she certainly won’t when I’ve finished with her.’
‘No woman should be forced, innocent or otherwise,’ Inigo said tightly. He felt like throttling the man. ‘Enrique, have you forgotten you are married?’
‘Your point being?’
‘How would Lady Berengaria feel?’
‘She’ll never find out.’
‘And that makes it right?’
Enrique gave an incoherent reply and fell clumsily against the door frame.
Inigo’s squire had listened to their exchange with wide, shocked eyes. Inigo exchanged looks with him, gestured for a drying cloth and climbed out of the pool.
When sober, Enrique was a foolhardy bully. Half soused, he wasn’t likely to be very effective. His plans would surely come to nothing. Notwithstanding, Inigo wasn’t prepared to take any risks. Peace between the Emirate of Granada and the Kingdom of Castile was shaky at best. If, by some miracle, Enrique managed to spirit away even one of the Nasrid Princesses, there’d be hell to pay.
Enrique straightened as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘Inigo, about my lady wife, there’s something in what you say, she mustn’t hear of this. Give me your word you’ll say nothing.’
Half an eye on Enrique, Inigo tossed the drying cloth at Guillen and dragged on fresh clothes. ‘It’s simple, forget the entire idea.’
‘Never. I will have vengeance.’
Realising outright confrontation with Enrique would achieve little, Inigo reached for his sword belt. Apart from the Princesses’ largesse, Inigo and his companions had been surviving on siege rations. If he could get decent food into Rodrigo’s cousin, perhaps he’d see sense. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. We could have supper before you set out.’
Enrique looked blearily at him. ‘You’re offering to pay?’
‘Certainly.’ The price of a meal in a tavern was as nothing compared to the havoc that would ensue if a Castilian knight abducted a Nasrid princess. ‘If you wait a moment, we can go together.’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘I am reliably informed that the best local tavern lies about a mile outside the town,’ Inigo said. ‘The Black Sheep.’
‘The Black Sheep.’ Enrique laughed and fumbled for the door latch. ‘How appropriate. Very well, I accept. See you later.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ Inigo frowned, he didn’t want to let Enrique out of his sight, he didn’t trust him an inch. ‘Allow me to settle up here, we can go together.’
He also needed a moment to leave a message for Rodrigo. Rodrigo would want to know about his cousin’s latest folly, he would object to this plan as much as Inigo. Sir Enrique de Murcia couldn’t be allowed anywhere near the three Princesses.
Enrique shook his head. ‘I’ve had my fill of this place, I’ll see you at the inn.’
‘Good grief, Enrique, you can surely wait until I’m dressed!’
He spoke to an empty doorway.
Tension balling in his gut, Inigo asked Mo to look out for Rodrigo and his squire, making sure Mo understood to give them clear directions to The Black Sheep.
‘Mo, his name is Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba. Please be sure he understands it’s the best inn hereabouts and that I shall meet him there.’
Mo smiled. ‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘My thanks.’ Inigo strode into the lamplit street praying that Enrique would wait for his supper. The sooner Inigo got to that inn, the better he would feel.
Guillen cleared his throat. ‘You wish to leave straight away, my lord?’ His eyes were shadowed and his voice anxious. ‘Didn’t you mention a barber?’
Inigo ran his hand ruefully through his hair and beard. ‘That will have to wait, we need to find that inn with all speed. I feel uneasy leaving Sir Enrique on his own.’
A line formed on his squire’s brow. ‘We—that is I—may have to delay. I’m sorry, my lord, one of Raven’s shoes was loose. I asked a groom to take him to a blacksmith to shoe him.’
‘A smith is working at this hour?’ Inigo asked, coming to an abrupt halt outside the stable. They ought to hurry. Left on his own, Enrique was a liability. However, Guillen looked so woebegone, Inigo didn’t have the heart to chastise him. ‘Hell burn it, Guillen, you’re not to blame, horses often cast shoes, but the timing couldn’t be worse. With Enrique set on revenge, anything might happen. I wanted to sober him up with food.’
‘I know, my lord, and I’m sorry.’ Guillen brightened. ‘If you go ahead, I can meet you later.’
Inigo shook his head, the idea of leaving his squire alone in Granada while he went tearing after Enrique didn’t sit well with him. ‘No, lad, we only have one letter of safe conduct. We’d best stick together.’
Inigo collected his horse, Soldier, and he and Guillen were soon at the smithy. Irritatingly, the blacksmith was deep in conversation with a neighbour and Guillen’s horse wasn’t ready. It was necessary for Inigo to impress upon the man that speed was of the essence. A gold dinar did the trick, and while they were waiting for Raven to be shod, they called for more lamps and Guillen was able to act as Inigo’s barber.
At length, Inigo and Guillen hauled themselves on to their horses and took to the road. The whole operation had taken far longer than Inigo had anticipated. He could only pray that Enrique had fallen into a stupor at the inn.
The lights of the town faded, and moonlight became their guide. The road was a silver thread winding through groves of orange and olive. The air hummed with cicadas.
Eventually, stronger lights gleamed, they had reached The Black Sheep. A small area of scrub had been roped off and was serving as a paddock for the tavern’s customers. A couple of old men—grooms presumably—sat beneath a tree, guarding a handful of horses. Enrique’s wasn’t among them.
Inigo held in a groan. ‘Guillen, this doesn’t look good.’
‘No, my lord.’
Leaving their mounts with the grooms, Inigo and Guillen went into the inn. It was crammed to the rafters with big-bellied, prosperous-looking men in fine brocades. Merchants. A couple of shepherds huddled in a corner. The noise was deafening.
No Enrique. And no sign of his squire, either. The innkeeper, a cloth about his waist, approached and greeted them in Arabic.
‘My apologies, I don’t understand,’ Inigo said, over the din. The smell of roasted chicken filled the air and his stomach growled. ‘Do you speak Spanish?’
The innkeeper shook his head and gestured towards the serving hatch where a boy was filling bowls from a blackened cauldron.
The boy joined them. ‘Sir?’
‘I