The Warrior's Princess Prize

by Carol Townend

  He’s competing for her hand

  And her freedom...

  Held captive by her tyrannical sultan father, Princess Zorahaida lives an isolated life. A tournament is held and Jasim ibn Ismail, a handsome knight in arms, claims his prize: Zorahaida’s hand in marriage! Political reasons must be driving his offer—he’s certainly not offering love. Should Zorahaida grasp the tantalizing taste of freedom marrying the impulsive knight would gift her?

  Princesses of the Alhambra

  Captive in the castle; rescued by love!

  Three sisters, Princesses Leonor, Alba and Constanza (also known as Zorahaida), fiercely loyal to each other, lead gilded but captive lives in a tower in the beautiful Alhambra Palace. Their father, the sultan, watches over them closely.

  When they catch sight of three handsome Spanish knights being held for ransom, the sisters dream of romance—and escape! Discover how they each find the happiness they yearn for in the arms of handsome knights in this exciting new miniseries by Carol Townend.

  Read Princess Leonor’s story in

  The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

  Read Princess Alba’s story in

  The Princess’s Secret Longing

  And read Princess Zorahaida’s story in

  The Warrior’s Princess Prize

  Available now!

  Author Note

  The book lying on a street stall in Granada, southern Spain, was called Tales of the Alhambra by Washington Irving. We’d been on a tour of the Alhambra Palace and the book—crammed with legends and folktales—was irresistible. I love folktales and began reading as soon as we reached a café. By the time I got to “Legend of the Three Beautiful Princesses,” shivers were running down my spine.

  Irving’s story is about three princesses who are locked up in a palace tower by their tyrannical, overcontrolling father, the sultan. The sultan has been warned by astrologers that his daughters (they are triplets) would need to be carefully watched when they reached marriageable age. Unfortunately for the sultan, the princesses catch sight of three handsome Spanish knights, whom their father is holding for ransom. From that moment, the princesses dream of romance and escape. Irving’s story ends when two of the princesses flee the palace with their knights. The third princess stays behind.

  The tale filled my mind with questions. How did the princesses cope once they’d left their father’s kingdom? It couldn’t have been easy. And what about the princess who stayed behind? Why couldn’t she have a happy ending, too?

  The Princesses of the Alhambra trilogy is my take on what might have happened. It is set in Spain toward the end of the fourteenth century. I’ve given some of the key characters alternative names to suit my stories.

  CAROL TOWNEND

  The Warrior’s Princess Prize

  Carol Townend was born in England and went to a convent school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Captivated by the medieval period, Carol read history at London University. She loves to travel, drawing inspiration for her novels from places as diverse as Winchester in England, Istanbul in Turkey and Troyes in France. A writer of both fiction and nonfiction, Carol lives in London with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at caroltownend.co.uk.

  Books by Carol Townend

  Harlequin Historical

  Princesses of the Alhambra

  The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

  The Princess’s Secret Longing

  The Warrior’s Princess Prize

  Knights of Champagne

  Lady Isobel’s Champion

  Unveiling Lady Clare

  Lord Gawain’s Forbidden Mistress

  Lady Rowena’s Ruin

  Mistaken for a Lady

  Palace Brides

  Bound to the Barbarian

  Chained to the Barbarian

  Betrothed to the Barbarian

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To John, with love. Always.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Excerpt from The Highlander and the Wallflower by Michelle Willingham

  Chapter One

  The Alhambra Palace

  in the Emirate of Granada—1399

  Climbing to her bedchamber at the top of the tower, Princess Zorahaida dropped her veil on a ledge next to her elaborately carved bed and wished she did not see her sisters around every corner. Her sisters were long gone but she ached to see them.

  She was feeding the songbirds in their gilded cage when light footsteps on the stair caught her attention. Closing the door of the cage, she turned, bracelets chinking.

  Sama, her most trusted maidservant, stood on the threshold with her veil flung back. Her eyes were troubled.

  Princess Zorahaida’s heart constricted. What now?

  The Princess’s irascible father Sultan Tariq was prone to the most bloodcurdling rages. Had he hurt someone? Zorahaida’s greatest fear was that the day might dawn when she wouldn’t be able to calm him. Thus far, she had managed reasonably well, though it was never easy. She felt as though for most of her life she’d been walking a tightrope.

  She kept her voice calm. ‘Something troubles you, Sama?’

  Sama was the most sensible of her handmaidens. Rarely ruffled, her cool nature had been the reason she had risen so high in the Princess’s favour. Zorahaida would trust her with her life. She trusted her other handmaid Maura too, of course. Maura had a heart of gold, though she was too nervous to be entirely reliable.

  Sama stepped into the chamber and carefully shut the door.

  ‘Princess, Imad has brought it to my attention that there are no more Spanish pigeons in the loft. Unless a delivery comes from Castile, the messages between you and your sisters will come to an end.’

  Thankful it was nothing more serious, Zorahaida allowed herself to relax. A few years ago, her sisters had run away to marry Spanish noblemen in the neighbouring Kingdom of Castile. Their father the Sultan had responded by banishing them from his Emirate on pain of death. She hadn’t seen them since.

  The three sisters were triplets, identical triplets. Perhaps that was why the bond between them was stronger than steel. Determined to stay in touch, they used carrier pigeons to communicate with each other.

  Pigeons were astonishing birds. Faster than a horse and capable of flying hundreds of miles in a day, a homing pigeon was inconspicuous and reliable, perfect for taking messages between Al-Andalus and Castile. Best of all, there was no need for a human messenger to endanger life and limb by crossing the troubled border between the Kingdom of Spain and the Emirate.

  There had been teething difficulties, but the system worked remarkably well. Zorahaida and her sisters, Leonor and Alba, regularly exchanged news. Mercifully, Sultan Tariq didn’t have the slightest notion that his youngest daughter was in secret contact with her sisters.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sama,’ Zorahaida said. ‘All is in hand. More homing pigeons are on their way, they should arrive soon.’

  Sama’s expression cleared. ‘That is a re
lief. I know it’s crucial that the three of you remain in touch.’

  Sama left the chamber and Zorahaida gave a pensive sigh.

  The links between her father’s Emirate and the Kingdom of Castile, though tenuous, went back a long way. The Princesses’ mother had been Spanish. Lady Juana of Baeza. Lady Juana had been captured by the Sultan’s troops and when she’d been brought before Sultan Tariq, he had fallen in love with her on sight. He’d forced her to stay and had made her his Queen. She’d never been permitted to return to Baeza.

  Sadly, the Queen had died so early in the Princesses’ childhood that Zorahaida had virtually no memories of her. Her sisters Leonor and Alba had been her world. That was why losing them had been so devastating.

  Zorahaida often wondered what life would have been like if she’d gone with her sisters. The Princesses’ Spanish duenna Inés had painted Castile in the rosiest colours, she’d tempted them all with the thought of the freedom that might be found outside the enclosed world of the palace. Like Leonor and Alba, Zorahaida had dreamed about seeing her mother’s homeland. Language wouldn’t have been a problem. Thanks to Inés, the three Princesses grew up speaking Spanish fluently. None the less, they’d known adapting to life in Castile would be tricky after the confined world of their father’s palace. They had known there would be obstacles.

  As her sisters had been drawn to the men who were now their husbands, Zorahaida had initially been drawn to a third Spanish knight—Sir Enrique de Murcia. She shrugged. In the end, putting Sir Enrique out of her mind had been easy, he wasn’t the hero she’d believed him to be. Parting with her sisters, on the other hand—to this day, Zorahaida felt as though she’d lost part of herself.

  On the night of her sisters’ escape with their Castilian noblemen, Zorahaida had been ignorant about Sir Enrique’s true character. The idea of marrying a Spanish knight had been enticing, for surely no man would be as domineering and unforgiving as their father. Notwithstanding, Zorahaida had been torn.

  What about their father? That rigid, complicated man who ruled his daughters with an iron hand, whilst at the same time showering them with gifts. She had actually felt sorry for him. Sultan Tariq had lost his beloved Queen and Zorahaida sensed he was terrified of losing his daughters too. The Sultan had no other children. How would he go on alone? He would have felt abandoned, and abandonment, she was sure, was what her father dreaded most.

  Zorahaida’s stomach clenched, as it usually did when she thought about the Sultan and she began to pace about the chamber. The various windows gave snatches of differing viewpoints. On one side lay the palace gardens with their fishponds, orderly orange groves and thyme-scented courtyards. On the other, she could see the wilderness beyond the palace walls and the deep crevasse, clear now of rocks. The scrubby trees on the other side of the dip climbed ever higher, drawing her gaze to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada.

  She stared at the snow-tipped mountain. She felt trapped in the palace. Suffocated. What would her life have been if she had run away with her sisters? These thoughts weren’t new and, as she had done many times, she thrust them aside.

  Regret was pointless. She had chosen to stay, and she had spent three years working to ensure that loyal servants and guards escaped the worst of her father’s wrath. It felt good to be useful even if the sense of being shut in was insufferable.

  Sama reappeared. ‘Excuse me, Princess, I forgot to ask. Will the homing pigeons be delivered to the market as usual?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Sama bowed her head. ‘With your permission then, I shall inform Imad.’

  ‘Thank you. Sama?’

  ‘Princess?’

  ‘Would you also inform Imad that I am of a mind to accompany him when he goes to collect my sisters’ birds.’

  ‘Princess, are you certain? If Sultan Tariq, long may he reign, discovers you have gone into the city...’ Sama’s voice trailed off.

  Zorahaida needed no reminder of the dangers. Every time she broke her father’s rules, she risked disturbing the harmony she worked so hard to create. She also knew that most of the palace servants, yes, and the guards too, were grateful for her help. They wouldn’t dream of questioning her, but that brought its own responsibilities. It meant that Zorahaida didn’t often venture out and when she did, she was careful to be discreet. She didn’t want anyone risking her father’s wrath for her sake, yet seeing the citizens of Granada, ordinary folk, getting on with their lives was what kept her sane.

  She drew herself up. ‘I shall be careful, Sama, but if I don’t get out for a short while, I swear I shall run mad.’

  ‘As you will, of course.’

  Sama opened the door and anxious voices floated up the stairs.

  There was a swift pattering of feet, a light chattering sound and a small monkey hurtled across the patterned floor tiles. It was Hunter. Hunter had once belonged the middle Princess, Alba. Since Alba had gone, Zorahaida had adopted him.

  Hunter skittered towards her and leaped on to her shoulder, quivering with tension. Zorahaida’s heart sank, something awful had happened, she just knew it.

  ‘Princess!’ Maura, her other maidservant, was calling.

  Pulled by the panic in Maura’s tone, Zorahaida went to the head of the stairs. Maura stood a few steps below, panting for breath. Her veil was dark with sweat.

  ‘Princess, come quickly! The lily pond. It’s Yamina...’ Maura’s voice broke on a sob.

  ‘She’s fallen in?’ Zorahaida went cold. Yamina was her cousin, the sweetest of children, she was not yet three. Mind filling with horror, Zorahaida snatched up her veil, tucked it into her belt and flew down the stairs. She passed Maura and raced along the flagged pathway that led to the pond.

  This wasn’t happening, Zorahaida told herself. Not Yamina...no, no, no.

  * * *

  At first glance, the pond looked undisturbed. Then Zorahaida saw a faint ripple. A small, starfish-shaped hand was flailing about near a water lily. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a dark shadow next to a pillared trellis. The shadow seemed out of place, but Zorahaida dismissed it. That tiny hand was all that mattered.

  It was a small pond and it wasn’t deep. She dropped to her knees. Yamina’s hand was tangling in the lilies, sinking out of sight. Heart racing, Zorahaida caught the hand and pulled.

  Yamina emerged. Her lips were blue, and her small body felt horribly heavy. Limp. She wasn’t breathing. Zorahaida heard herself moan. She sat back, hauled the child over her knees and gave her a gentle shake.

  ‘Yamina, sweetheart, wake up.’

  Nothing. She gave a more vigorous shake. Were the child’s lungs full of water? Was she too late?

  ‘Yamina, please.’

  ‘God be merciful,’ Maura muttered.

  Yamina jerked and coughed and water left her lungs in a choking, sputtering rush. When she gulped in air and coughed again, Zorahaida turned her on to her side and watched the colour creep back into her lips.

  Yamina opened her eyes. ‘Princess?’

  Zorahaida’s throat closed. ‘God is good.’

  Pushing to her feet with Yamina cradled in her arms, Zorahaida turned to Maura. ‘We must take my cousin to the harem. She needs her mother.’

  Yamina started to cry.

  Sama held out her arms. ‘Allow me, Princess. She’ll need dry things.’

  Handing her cousin over, Zorahaida suppressed a shudder at the thought of what might have happened if she hadn’t reached the pond in time. Her uncle, Prince Ghalib, doted on his little daughter. If she had drowned, he would have been out of his mind with grief.

  A chill came over her. It hadn’t been hard getting Yamina out of the pond. Maura could surely have dragged Yamina out herself, instead she had wasted time coming to fetch her...

  ‘Maura, why didn’t you get Yamina out yourself? Couldn’t you reach?’

&nbs
p; Maura’s face was concealed beneath her veil, but she gulped and pointed towards the pillared trellis. ‘I dare not, Princess. Didn’t you see him?’

  Vaguely recalling that dark shape by the trellis, Zorahaida swallowed down a feeling of nausea. All she could see was sunlight gilding the dancing leaves of a vine, the darkness had gone. ‘Someone was there? Is that what you are saying?’

  Another gulp. Maura’s veil was trembling, she was terrified.

  ‘Who was it? Did you see?’

  Maura’s head dipped. Her reply was inaudible.

  ‘Maura?’

  ‘He...he was standing in the shadows, Princess. It could have been anyone.’

  Anyone? Zorahaida doubted it. She cast her mind back to the moment she’d arrived at the pond, trying to conjure the dark shape she’d seen. Stocky build. Bull-necked. A sense of solid strength.

  ‘Abdul ibn Umar,’ she said. Abdul ibn Umar was commander of Sultan Tariq’s household knights, the head of his personal guard.

  Maura let out a little moan. ‘I didn’t say it was Abdul ibn Umar.’

  Zorahaida looked at her. ‘I would take my oath it was the Commander under that arch.’

  If her father’s commander had been watching, why hadn’t he intervened?

  A cold stone lodged in Zorahaida’s belly. Could he have pushed Yamina into the pond?

  The rivalry between her father and his heir, Prince Ghalib, had become bitter of late. Had her father’s hatred of his brother driven him to order the murder of an innocent child?

  Indignation burned in Zorahaida’s breast and she glowered in the direction of the Court of the Lions. At this time of day, her father would be meeting his counsellors in an adjacent chamber. To put it mildly, he would not take kindly to an interruption.

  An icy calm descended on her. She didn’t want to believe her father could order his niece’s death. Yet she knew the tales. The history of the Nasrid dynasty was long and filled with bloody feuds. Brother fought brother in the ceaseless bid for power. Betrayals were commonplace. More damning than that though, Zorahaida had seen for herself how the Sultan had kept his brother incarcerated for many years in Castle Salobreña. Yet feuding with his brother and heir was one thing.