Wicked Whispers. Tina Donahue
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Enrique’s gut cramped. “How often does she do things like this?”
Isabella averted her gaze. “How would I know?”
He growled.
She sniffed. “Quit hounding me.”
“Not until you tell me what Sancha is—”
“Tonight, she goes to the village at the edge of the estate to help the peasants.” She grabbed Enrique’s sleeve even though he hadn’t budged. “Follow her if you must, but do nothing to stop her. She will fight you. If you win, Sancha will hate you for all time.”
He wanted to bellow his frustration at her and Sancha but simply nodded. Any argument on his part would take time he didn’t have. “Where are your stables? I need my horse.”
Isabella called a servant over, instructing the young man to assist Enrique in gaining his steed and to give him directions to the village.
Fernando shook his head at Enrique. “Perhaps you should forget about Sancha.”
He frowned at the notion, the same as Isabella had, and followed the servant.
The boy who tended the horses saddled the Arabian as quickly as he could. Even with Enrique’s help, the task seemed to take them an interminable amount of time. Mounted, he wheeled his horse around and rode hard until the moon ducked behind a thick cloud cover.
He was some distance from the castle, unwilling to return for a torch, and cursed himself for not taking one. The same as Sancha and her companions had failed to secure any for themselves. If they hadn’t arrived at the village yet, they were travelling as blindly as him. A dangerous venture. Something could alarm her mule and make the sorry creature throw her. Thieves could lie in wait. A snake might strike.
Swearing, he waited for the moonlight to return before prodding his horse to a faster pace. If he were to have an accident during his heated pursuit, his injuries would keep him from protecting her. As Isabella had warned, he couldn’t stop Sancha, rail at her, or try to talk reason. If he dared do so, she’d hate him for eternity.
Clenching his jaw, he left the last fields and vineyards, entering an untended part of Fernando’s property. Overgrown olive trees and orange groves flanked both sides of the dirt road. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, he scanned the surrounding areas and searched for anything untoward.
For the moment, he was alone.
Recalling the directions, the servant had given him, he turned to the left at a point where the road branched in several directions. Something moved ahead. He stopped and squinted at the individual, on foot and alone.
Couldn’t be Sancha, unless something had happened to her mule and companions.
Sweat broke out on his face and neck. He rode as quickly as the road allowed and reined in his gelding at what he’d mistakenly believed was her. A cow ambled along the path, as if Enrique and his horse didn’t exist. He passed the creature and growled at Sancha’s foolishness.
How dare she put herself at risk, thinking of naught except helping the peasants. As though no one in the village was capable of doing anything for them save her.
He’d see about that, no matter Isabella’s admonitions. The community lay ahead.
Crudely constructed mud huts mingled with simply designed wooden structures. Given the late hour, there wasn’t much activity. Two men with uncombed hair and unshod feet stood at the village entrance, pitchforks in hand, keeping guard.
Enrique rode to them and identified himself. “Have two men and a boy arrived? The boy’s mule carried a bag laden with goods.”
The peasants exchanged a glance.
“I mean no one harm.” Enrique pulled a ducat from his pouch and held the gold coin for both men to see. “The boy forgot something he needed. Whichever of you tells me where he is, so I might deliver it to him, receives the coin.”
“What was forgotten?” the younger man asked.
Enrique warned himself not to frown or argue. He tried to recall what Sancha had used on Fernando when she’d treated him. The stench of illness had been horrific, though not as daunting as the scent of death.
“Wine.” He remembered having seen a bottle in Fernando’s room and something else. “Vinegar too.” He patted the leather alforjas behind him, indicating where he had the items, hoping neither man would ask to see them or tell him the village was already in possession of the things.
The older man pointed. “The last hut to the right.”
“Gracias.” After tossing the coin to the fellow, Enrique directed his horse through the village. Dust and mud seemed to cover everything, smoke permeating the air. No candles burned here. Light came from the moon and a few torches placed at such a distance from each other, he couldn’t determine what they were meant to illuminate.
Although the village was grim in comparison to a castle, the people had tended the property well, keeping their chickens and pigs in pens. Tattered clothes hung on a limp rope strung between two sorry looking cork trees.
He stopped at the last hut, its windows shuttered. Faint light spilled through separations in the wood. The mules Sancha and the men rode were off to the side, tethered properly.
Before Enrique could dismount, a man left the hut, slammed the door behind him, and strode into the darkness.
After debating whether to knock first, Enrique slipped inside quietly, prepared to deal with an argument from Sancha or the men she’d travelled with.
Shadows darkened most of the room. Torches shone on a rough wood table with a little girl lying on top. Eyes closed, and moaning, she couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. A rip in her homespun dress showed ribs as prominent as Fernando’s had been during his recovery, the child’s thin body nothing like those belonging to the nobility’s sons and daughters. Their skin was olive or pink, not gray like this child’s. Their arms and legs had never been as spindly as hers.
A pungent smoke smell was as strong in here as it had been outside, along with the odor of decay. Someone had hiked the child’s garment above her right thigh to reveal a large wound, angry red around the edges, yellowish pus oozing from the center. Given how swollen the injury was, Enrique sensed there was far more pus inside. He’d heard Fernando and their other brothers speak of injuries like these when relating scenes from their battles.
Men had died from similar wounds, as Fernando would have, if not for Sancha’s skilled help.
She, the two men who’d ridden with her, and a woman stood to the far left side of the table, their backs to Enrique. Several of Sancha’s tresses dangled from her sack hat.
The woman wore a frayed kirtle and worn shoes, her hair uncombed, shoulders drooping.
The taller of the men asked, “Will you listen to him?”
“How can I?” The woman spoke to Sancha. “No matter what my husband said, you must save my daughter’s life whether you can spare her leg or not. He worries if Maria loses a limb, no man would want her. I will. So will her uncles. We can see to her welfare.”
The men promised they would.
Sancha nodded. “What did the woman who usually takes care of these things do for Maria?”
“She died recently.” The mother pushed lank hair behind her ears. “Her daughter took her place. Under her care Maria has grown worse.”
Sancha placed her bag on the table and emptied it.
Enrique frowned at her scraped fingers.
“I need several containers of water.” She glanced at the pots hanging from hooks over the crude hearth. “Both the water and containers must be clean.” She placed a stack of snowy linen napkins on the table, followed by a bottle of vinegar. “Two of you will need to hold Maria