…
As a princess, Yzabel never had the need to share a horse with anyone. When she rode, she did so alone, and proximity wasn’t a common aspect of her life, much less so when riding.
Now, she had Fatyan’s arms around her waist, the Moura’s body pressed against her back. Her breasts were soft, and her arms and hands would sometimes brush against Yzabel’s leg. Touches that were casual yet sent a shiver up her spine and cut her breath short. Not even the chafing of the cilice wrapped around her leg was enough to drown the fleeting sensations creeping along her skin.
It bothered Yzabel that she didn’t understand those reactions. She wondered if it was because of her magic and Fatyan’s pushing and pulling at each other, or if it was something else entirely.
Perhaps she’d know what it meant if she hadn’t lived her life in forced isolation. Other than Vasco and Brites, only Denis had hugged her. Her future ladies-in-waiting, with whom Yzabel spent her better afternoons listening to their gossip as they embroidered, had never been this close to her, and she hadn’t tried being close to them. Maybe if she had, she would’ve known what the fluttering in her stomach was, or why her heart thundered in her chest.
Why she couldn’t forget how Fatyan’s lips had felt against her own, or how her tongue slid across them as if attempting to catch that taste of cinnamon.
Our Lady of Agrela, no one like her in this era, please purge these thoughts from my head. Please purge them, please purge them—on and on she thought, hoping to distract herself from Fatyan’s closeness. In vain, it turned out. Fatyan laid her head against Yzabel’s back, and her heart jumped so high she almost flew from the saddle.
Her kiss was a business transaction. Like your engagement is. And, like Denis, she’s only chosen you because you’re the best choice in a sea of none.
They slowed their horses to a canter when the walls of Terra da Moura emerged ahead, the castle tower illuminated in torchlight from below, the details of its crenellations lost in the blur of Yzabel’s weak eyes. At the sight of it, Fatyan tightened her arms around Yzabel’s waist and turned to frigid stone.
“That tower is where I died. At least, where I tried to,” the Moura whispered, snuggling closer.
She found one of Fatyan’s cold hands and held it to her chest. “Are you all right?”
The hesitation that followed answered her question. As if realizing as much, Fatyan shook her head and gave Yzabel’s hand a squeeze. “I will be. But thank you for asking.”
Their hold didn’t break at the gates; it did not break as they guided the horses up the small hill and into the village’s center.
It was only when they reached the castle and Vasco led them around the back did Yzabel let go of Fatyan’s hand. While her guard went ahead to make sure the path was clear, Yzabel dismounted and helped Fatyan down.
The Moura swayed upon touching the ground, leaning against Yzabel when her legs threatened to give. “It’s…been a while,” she said apologetically, and hugged Vasco’s cloak tighter as she looked at the tower. “They call this Terra da Moura now?”
“Yes.” Yzabel looked about their surroundings, empty now that night had fallen. Light flickered behind some of the windows of the living quarters—a long, two-story building painted white, as buildings often were in Além-Tejo. “Named after the young Moura who jumped from the old tower when the city was taken.” Her gaze fell on Fatyan. “Named after you.”
A snort. “Did they really?”
“Yes. As the story goes, the Brothers Rodrigues were so moved by what you did they could never forget the sight, so they started calling this Terra da Moura to honor your memory. I think…” Yzabel narrowed her eyes in thought and wet her lips. “I think they blamed themselves for your death.”
“From the way they cut down my people, I can’t imagine how that’s possible.” A sardonic snarl disfigured Fatyan’s lips. “Either way, my fate wouldn’t have been much better had they not invaded.”
The air chilled inside Yzabel’s lungs. “What do you mean?”
“What does the legend say about me? About why I jumped?” Fatyan asked back, eyes hooded in bitterness.
She stroked the horses’ snouts absently. It had occurred to her that not everything in the story was true, for victors rarely left the history of the defeated intact. The story of a Moor princess who killed herself out of heartache told a lot better than the one about a Moor princess killed by her conquerors. “They didn’t…push you, or anything?”
Fatyan let out a low chuckle. “No.”
“Then—”
“What does my story say about it?”
Yzabel blinked before answering. “That when you saw the Portuguese wearing Bráfama’s clothes, you were so heartbroken by your groom’s death, you jumped. And that your spirit, restless without the love it’d been promised, haunted the castle, so they had to move you someplace else.”
Fatyan’s face was impassive for one tick of the clock; the next, she broke into a dry, short laugh. “Love. Of course they had to say it was love.” She shook her head and scoffed. “My spirit didn’t linger by choice, dear Yzabel. My father was the one who cursed me—and when given the choice to be captured or be trapped in a stone, I tried to go out on my terms instead. As you can see, it didn’t work out exactly as I’d planned.” A long sigh rumbled in her throat, and she spun so her back was to the tower with agony plain on her face. Whatever the full truth was, it sat locked behind her lips.
Yzabel couldn’t pretend to know what would drive a man to curse his own daughter, or the despair that had driven Fatyan to jump. Prying into it, however, was out of the question. Had Yzabel been in Fatyan’s place, she would certainly have been unwilling to talk to a girl she barely knew. Even if said girl had broken her curse.
A short while after the castle’s bell chimed with the eighth hour, Vasco appeared around the corner, motioning them to follow him inside, and guided them across doors and hallways, deserted in the early hours of the evening. Before they could begin climbing the last spiral stairwell between them and Brites’s rooms, Fatyan came to an abrupt halt, shivering under Vasco’s cloak.
“What’s wrong?” Yzabel asked, one foot on the first stair.
Fatyan took a hand to her belly, stepped back. “My sahar, it—”
“Dom Vasco!” exclaimed a voice from the top. “I wanted to talk to you about the night shift—might we do it over supper?”
Yzabel reached for Fatyan’s ice-cold hand and turned the closest knob. Linen closet, as it turned out. “He can’t see you without a habit. Quick.”
Vasco’s and Matias’s voices faded as they hid behind the closed door. The Moura’s trembling intensified along with her grimace, and she clutched at Yzabel’s arm as if it were a lifeline. “Who’s talking to your guard?”
“Matias,” Yzabel whispered. Heart pounding in her chest, she knelt to spy through the keyhole. Brites’s son, whom Vasco had taken under his wing and into the Princess’s Guarda. “He has the night shift guarding my door.”
“There’s…something about him. Like I’ve heard his voice somewhere.” Fatyan pursed her lips in the darkness and shook her head. “Never mind. It’s probably an overreaction from my sahar, since it senses danger, and there’s plenty of it all around us.”
The words sat uncomfortably in Yzabel’s ears as she waited for Matias’s silhouette to pass the closet. Had she not been told, she never would’ve guessed he was Brites’s son. Where her lady’s maid was warm and honest, Matias was cold and slippery. And although Brites swore her son knew nothing of either her magic or Yzabel’s curse, there were times when she’d catch him scrutinizing her in a way that made her skin crawl. As if he knew of her hidden affliction and was disgusted by it.
Footsteps faded in the servants’ corridor. The echo of a lock, of a door slammed shut.
When she was sure Matias wouldn’t see them, Yzabel tipt
oed out the closet with Fatyan at her side. Up the steep stairs, Vasco awaited with arms crossed and an annoyed curl to his face.
“What did he want?” asked Yzabel.
“Nothing of relevance.” He ushered them into Brites’s sparse quarters, furnished by a single bed and a lonely table, and then they came to Yzabel’s room, still unfamiliar to her in its unnecessary opulence. Flames crackled in the fireplace, candles cast their light from atop the drawer and nightstand, tapestries hung from the walls, and the four-poster bed was made with layers of white blankets and furs. On the small table by the settee, a jar of pansies cheered the room, and a jug of wine waited to be poured into the two glasses beside it.
“Brites is fetching food. She’ll be up here shortly,” Vasco said, leaning against the door he’d just closed.
Lucas immediately woke from his slumber, stretching his legs before pouncing on Yzabel in a blur of fur. His warm, wet tongue trailed a sticky path across her face, drawing a giggle from her lips. “Lucas… Lucas stop! Down!”
The dog calmed, settling to lean his head against Yzabel’s hand. She scratched him behind the ear and looked over her shoulder to find Fatyan plastered to the wall, eyes wide with terror—a reaction she’d seen before in some of her ladies-in-waiting.
“He won’t attack you,” she reassured.
No effect. “B-but he’s. So. Big. Do all princesses keep bears for pets?”
A knock diverted their attention to the door. Vasco opened it to let Brites in, who carried a large tray with two bowls of stew, a clay pitcher, half a loaf of dark bread, and honey broas. The scent of chickpea stew watered Yzabel’s mouth and brought Fatyan away from the wall.
Brites’s eyes widened when she spotted the Moura, the grin spreading her lips a stark contrast to Vasco’s apprehension. “I knew you could do it, little princess.”
“Brites, meet Fatyan. Fatyan, this is my lady’s maid, Dona Brites Sande.”
“A friend and I tried to find you some forty years ago,” said the older woman as she set the tray on the table. “When we couldn’t hear you, we thought someone had already freed you.”
“I was asleep and determined to be left alone. But you can only slumber for so long.” Fatyan’s mesmerized gaze wouldn’t leave the food, and it was with wonder that she picked up a slice of bread and bit into it. Poor woman must be starved after so long in that stone.
“And Denis?” asked Yzabel.
“He’s livid you were gone all day. Wanted to go find you and bring you back. I…” A tight breath left Brites’s nose. “I had to call Aldonza. They’ve been in his rooms since.”
Some of the weight lifted from Yzabel’s shoulders, and her eyes slid to Fatyan devouring one of the bowls of chickpea stew with voracious appetite while Vasco watched her like a hawk. The memory of the Moura’s naked fear at the mention of Denis noticing her, how the stone had heated as if ready to claim its prisoner, wilted the relief blossoming in her breast. All this time, she had been so blinded by her selfish reprieve from the attention of her future husband, she’d never wondered about Aldonza.
She should ask. If Aldonza were with Denis of her own free will, or if he had been coercing her for years—and she would, soon. Just not tonight.
“Fatyan has to stay with me for a little while, so we’re telling Denis she’s a novice from the Carmo Convent, sent at my request,” Yzabel said, changing the subject. “Can you get her a habit? She can help us make poultices for the families afflicted with the red plague.”
Brites regarded the Moura thoughtfully. “My old one should fit.”
Fatyan lowered the bowl from her lips, gaze flitting from the food and Yzabel, and she hurriedly put the bowl down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started to eat without you.”
Did Fatyan think she’d offended her by not waiting? “You don’t have to apologize. You’ve been in that stone for the last hundred and twenty-one years!” Yzabel gestured to the food. “Go on, eat.”
Brites straightened her back and placed her hands on her hips. “I’ll get that habit for Fatyan and bring it.”
Before Brites could leave, Yzabel swept her in a hug. “Thank you for everything you do for me.”
“It’s my pleasure, little princess.” Brites kissed Yzabel’s cheek before speaking to Fatyan. “Should you need anything, please tell me.” She turned to the dog. “Lucas! You’re staying with me tonight. Your master needs her focus and we both know you don’t help with that.”
The dog looked to Yzabel, trying to scrounge an ounce of pity. She knelt and kissed him on the nose. “Go with Brites, Lucas. We’ll be together again tomorrow.”
Lucas obeyed, but not without tugging at her heartstrings. He whined as he followed Brites with his head low, and he looked back with sad eyes for every one of the four steps he took to cross the room. Fatyan visibly relaxed once he was out.
Vasco made to leave in silence along with Brites, but the sourness on his face plucked Yzabel forward. She wrapped her arms around him, rested her forehead against his chest. “You as well, Vasco. I appreciate you greatly.”
Something she’d said so many times. Something she knew he needed to hear.
Vasco leaned away a bit, taken aback by her sudden display of affection. It seemed to soften something inside him, and he rested his hand atop her head, his thumb rubbing her scalp. “You are a rare treasure, Yzabel. If this helps you find the peace you need, I’ll object no further.”
It was all she asked.
Hand on the doorknob, Vasco added, “For what it’s worth, I still think you should try the springs. Brites has talked to the sisters in charge of running them, and they’ve agreed to vacate the springs at your request, so you can use them in privacy.”
“But I don’t want to keep others from—”
Vasco groaned his exasperation. “You have to learn how to be selfish once in a while. It’s one day where people can’t use the springs—it won’t ultimately matter.”
No, but it was the principle behind it—that for her to enjoy something meant others being deprived of it—which she refused to accept. “I’ll use them along with everyone else, then.”
“It’s beneath your station—”
“I decide what’s beneath my station.”
“It’s a security issue!” Vasco shouted.
She rolled her eyes. “What, you think someone will try to drown me in a room full of people?”
“Yzabel, listen to me—”
“No, you listen. I will not use the springs if it means closing them to everyone else.”
“So this is what Brites meant by you being petulant,” Fatyan said from her place at the table, a humorous lilt to her voice. The look she gave Vasco was one of begrudging respect. “Now I know why you’re so strict and wary. Someone has to save Yzabel from herself.”
“You, too?” She couldn’t believe they’d paired up against her. So many people in town were sick and in need of the springs’ treatment. It wasn’t petulance that she refused to deprive them of it.
Fatyan cleared her throat, her expression sobering. “Those springs are blessed, and they do help with a variety of ailments. I can help your sahar settle if we go there together, and Vasco is right that we must be alone. There’s no saying how your gift will act when in contact with blessed waters.”
Yzabel sighed, recognizing a battle she could not win. “Fine. But we’ll go at night, after they’re closed to the public.”
If they were right about the springs, it wouldn’t hurt to try. Still, a jittery nervousness lingered at the thought of bathing with Fatyan. Exactly three people had seen Yzabel without her clothes on: her mother, her former chambermaid, and Brites. She shouldn’t feel this uneasy at adding another woman to that number, especially when she would be acting as her lady’s maid.
It made no sense for fear to breed in her breast, but that’s what this was. Fear at th
e reaction her magic would have to the water, and fear at what Fatyan would think when she saw what Yzabel looked like under the layers of fabric.
Chapter Seven
Wasteful Necessity
By the time Yzabel finished washing her hands and pouring herself a glass of wine, Fatyan had already set aside her empty bowl, a contented smile curving her full lips. “That was good harira—and these!” She bit into a broa, moaning as the sweetness unspooled in her mouth. “Oh, I missed ghoribas!”
It was impossible not to smile at Fatyan’s sheer joy, or at how she used Algarvian terms for the cozido and broas. Yzabel’s chirpy laugh broke through the Moura’s ravenous appetite. After finishing the cake, she downed a sip of wine and asked, “Why aren’t you eating?”
Embarrassment heated Yzabel’s cheeks and she lowered her eyes. “I don’t want to waste food when you’re hungry.”
Footsteps padded on the carpet as Fatyan drifted to her side. A finger slid under Yzabel’s chin to gently lift her head, and shock jolted through her. “You’ll have to waste some of it regardless. I need to see your magic at work if I’m to help you master it.”
“I—I know.” A whisper said with eyes that refused to leave the floor. “I should tell you, the curse makes it, um…challenging to eat, to say the least. It’s not an elegant effort.”
“And my gurgling the harira was?” Fatyan tugged her along, gently pushed her to sit on the chair while she leaned on the side of the table.
Recognizing defeat, Yzabel placed a napkin on her lap, then pointed at Fatyan with the wooden spoon. Although her face was serious, her voice chimed with humor. “You’ve been warned.”
With fast, short motions, she stabbed at the stew with the spoon, breaking the carrots and chickpeas into smaller pieces so she could swallow them without chewing or choking. “The curse travels through the spoon if I linger too long,” she explained as she kept on murdering the legumes.
As if unable to sit by and watch, Fatyan held out a hand. “Let me do that for you?”
“Oh.” She dropped the spoon and nodded toward the bowl. “Thank you. That’d be very helpful.”
A Curse of Roses Page 6