His sigh said everything he didn’t—that no matter what they did, some of the children would die. Without enough food to go around, they’d die faster.
“We’ve brought some lavender oil and other salves to help. Brites…”
Her maid set the box down on the ground. “They’re separated by pouches. Can you hand them around the neighborhood, Davide? We brought enough for everyone.”
“I will—but lavender oil, Your Highness? Are you certain?”
She gave him a soft smile. “Why else would I bring it?”
Davide bowed his head. “Thank you. Truly. We used up all of ours in the previous bout of the plague, and nothing else works quite like it.”
“I only wish I could do more,” she lamented. Her dizzy head cast a spell on her, and she would’ve swayed again had she not been holding on to Vasco. Once it settled, she pushed past the slowness encumbering every muscle and bone in her body. “Do you want to tell me about what you brought to Brites’s attention? Your prelates didn’t take kindly to your appearance in the Carmo Church. What makes you believe they’ve been lying about the harvests?”
Thick eyebrows rose. “Because we worked all spring and summer from sunrise to sunset. Carts and carts of wheat, of carrots, peas, kale, turnips, grapes. Yet when the time came to pay us, it was as if we’d brought in close to nothing. We kept cleaning the fields, getting ready for the pomegranates and the quince, and when we asked for our rightful payment, the steward said the mice had gotten in the stores, and he had nothing to give us save for a handful of dinheiros. We had little choice but to hunt for wild animals, and the baron and bishop forbade that, too.” He raised his left arm to brandish the stub like a weapon. “This was my reward when Captain Mendes caught one of our polecats returning with a rabbit. Took my hand, and the animals, too.”
Yzabel’s hand rose to cover her gaping mouth. When Denis had told her to meet him in Terra da Moura instead of Trancoso—where their wedding was to happen—he’d mentioned suspicions of misappropriation from the gentry, and that she should head there instead. That way they could get to know each other before marrying while he investigated the issues himself.
Much as she was loath to admit it, the only reason she could come talk to Senhor Davide was because Denis allowed it. And because she was to report to him after. Would marriage be more of this, for the rest of her life? Her actions hinging upon the decisions of a man?
Useless thoughts, to be spent another time. For now, she had to know more. “What made you talk to Brites, and in turn, me?”
“Because when word came that you’d be visiting, Captain Mendes made the rounds to intimidate us into staying silent. Suddenly, they had dinheiros and food to give us—dinheiros many of them took.” Davide threw a spiteful look at the closest church, a more modest building than the Carmo where the nobility attended. “Just like the bishop suddenly had room in the hospital to harbor all the homeless so they wouldn’t offend you with their presence.”
The breath left her lungs in a rush and the blood drained from her face.
The Bishop had what?
“Another person, and I’d have believed you were like them,” Davide said to Yzabel. “But Brites was with you, and she doesn’t stick around people who aren’t worth it, royal as they may be.”
Brites shrugged, her lips tight to hide the blooming smile. “I’ll take the compliment. And I trust the princess will take your story very seriously. Look at her. Like she saw an alma penada.”
Some levity returned to Davide’s face. “It’s good to see you, even if I can’t hug you.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to still be around, to be honest. Pleasant surprise.” Brites winked. “What about Gill and Lionor? Your other kids?”
“Grown and married, the two of them. They live right over there. All of my oldest do.” He pointed to another house in their cluster, mercifully free of red drapes. “And you wouldn’t believe where some of their young ones are off to. Do you remember the Enchanted Moura?”
“With the time we spent trying to find her? Couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.” She nudged Yzabel with her elbow. “I’ve told you her story, remember?”
A series of blinks jostled her memory of an afternoon half a year ago, when they’d been preparing to leave Aragon to come here. As they’d been sorting through Yzabel’s delivery of ointments and salves, Brites had told her of an old friend she’d met in Sintra, how they’d traveled together to Estremoz and crossed Terra da Moura on the way; how, on their night at the hostel, one of the sisters had told them the legacy behind the village’s name.
Yzabel frowned. “I do. But didn’t you say she wasn’t around anymore?”
“I thought she wasn’t. When I left, everyone had all but given up on it.”
“And we had—until one of the boys swore he heard a voice around the dolmen ways off the river. Then other kids did, too.”
“Your children want attention. Enchanted Mouras don’t exist,” Vasco grumbled his way back into the conversation. “If it’s fanciful tales you want to waste your time on, then we should cut this short and get back. The king is waiting.”
“Don’t be rude,” Yzabel hissed. “These children have half their families dying of the red plague, and all of them are starving. Let them have their fantasies while they can.” Let them have the fantasies she wished for, but her curse had cut short.
Brites shook her head and sighed. “I swear, Vasco, all that height and not an inch of tact in you.” A click of her tongue. “You’re right about something, though. We should be getting back.”
The sun halfway peeked across the horizon, and the church’s bells chimed the fifth hour of the evening. After both assuring Senhor Davide she’d tell the king of what he said, and that they’d come back soon to check on the state of the plague, Yzabel thanked the old man and left.
The Moura story spun in her head, round and round like a wheel. Her gaze wandered along the scenery, at the red over the mud bricks and white mortar, a bleeding wound over those homes and families. At those five children now playing blind goat in the grass.
Her stomach tightened painfully, and Yzabel struggled to keep a smile as she waved goodbye to them. They’d been so happy with scraps of cheese and bread, as happy as she was in the rare event she managed a whole bite of her meals without incident. Had the five of them tried to find the Enchanted Moura, too?
Bright dots burst across her vision. Her belly rioted against the void she’d made of it. She paid them no heed, her head too busy concocting a scheme to somehow bring food into these people’s bellies and to spare them from the starvation her own flesh knew so well.