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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