What must it be like to run the gauntlet of mistrust and irascibility every day of your life? That guard in the orange grove had said he wasn’t going to chastise her, and Jasim had believed him. For a palace guard to place himself in jeopardy by contravening the direct command of the Sultan himself, she must serve someone important.
‘You’re happy with these, master?’ Farid asked, gesturing at a row of blue and white lances laid out for inspection.
‘As long as they are ash with weakened tips, as we discussed, they are fine,’ Jasim said, weighing one in his hand. ‘This is a competitive joust not a battle; it wouldn’t do to spear someone.’
‘I was assured the lances will break when you score a hit, master. And the points have been blunted.’
‘It was you who painted them with my colours?’
‘Yes, master.’
Nodding approval, Jasim tested a vambrace designed to stop his hand sliding up the lance on impact. It held firm. He moved on to his saddle, checking the padding, the girth, everything. Stirrup straps, bridle...
At length he looked at his squire. ‘Everything is in order, well done, Farid.’
Farid grinned.
‘Come, let’s head to the jousting field. I need to remind myself of the position of the sun. It’s best to work out where one might be blinded and where the shadows will fall.’
Chapter Four
Zorahaida entered the chamber at the top of the tower, thinking about Jasim ibn Ismail of Madinat Runda. Standing in the alcove by the audience chamber and prostrating herself before the Sultan, Zorahaida had not had a chance to see his face. Her first clear sight of him in the orange grove had snatched her breath away. What a strong-looking, handsome man. With those amber eyes and that red-gold beard, he put her in mind of a warrior angel. Even unarmed, he came across as fierce and determined.
She remained wary. There were many classes of angels, evil as well as good. Jasim ibn Ismail had followed her into the orchard, supposedly to ensure Yusuf didn’t beat her. None the less, he was bound to be dangerous. Why, even her father had been concerned about him entering the tournament.
His looks were certainly unusual. He had pleasing, regular features and she’d been close enough to notice that his beard was threaded with gold and russet.
At court, there was a fashion for men to adopt such colouring—her father’s vizier used henna to dye his beard and the effect was harsh and flat, startling rather than pleasing. Jasim ibn Ismail’s amber-coloured eyes seemed to suggest that God had made him that way. His beard looked entirely natural. She found herself speculating on whether, beneath his turban, his hair was the same red-gold as his beard.
Irritated by what was a most unseemly train of thought, Zorahaida shook her head. The man baffled her. Jasim ibn Ismail had come after her and she couldn’t understand it. Why would a knight from the west care whether a lowly maidservant took a beating? Could he really have been concerned for her or did he have ulterior motives?
Hunter scampered into the chamber, chattering. He was followed almost immediately by Maura.
‘There you are,’ Maura said, huffing out a breath. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. How is that bruise? Would you like me to apply more salve?’
‘No, thank you, Maura. I can manage.’
Maura looked her up and down, a pleat in her brow. ‘Princess, you are dressed as a servant again. What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing much, I was walking in one of the orange groves,’ Zorahaida said lightly.
A ball of guilt formed in her stomach. It was unpleasant being evasive with Maura, but what else could she do? If Maura worked out that she’d been eavesdropping on the Sultan and had almost been unmasked, she would be terrified. It would serve no purpose.
Happily, Maura took her at her word and went on to tell her, in great detail, about the new fish that were being homed in the palace ponds.
Zorahaida nodded and said something non-committal, even as she was wondering where she could find the best vantage point from which to watch the jousting. She had been fortunate that morning. Her father hadn’t recognised her. She would take more care tomorrow, there would be no creeping about the lists for her. Bearing in mind Maura’s nervous nature, she had best say no more about her interest in the tournament.
Not for the first time, Zorahaida found herself wishing she lived elsewhere. In Spain, where her sisters had gone, ladies often attended tourneys. They had ladies’ stands giving full view of the entire competition. The ladies would know many of the knights, and they would offer favours or tokens to their favourites, so the knights went into their mock battle with a lady’s scarf fluttering bravely from their sleeve or lance. Chivalry in the Kingdom of Spain appeared to be far more romantic than chivalry in Al-Andalus.
Admittedly, it sounded rather frivolous, but it also sounded, Zorahaida thought wistfully, as though it might be fun. With a jolt she realised that she couldn’t remember when she’d last had fun. Of late, life in the palace had become so very dark.
When her sisters had gone, they’d taken the Princesses’ Spanish duenna, Inés, with them. Before that though, Zorahaida had asked Inés to explain what went on in Spanish tourneys. That was how she knew that in the Christian kingdoms, one of the ladies would be chosen as Queen of the Tournament. It was the Queen of the Tournament who awarded the prizes and crowned the Champion.
Imagine—a woman handing out tourney prizes, instead of a man! That would never happen here. Much as the Sultan prided himself on being conversant with the rules of chivalry, much as he wanted the world to know how cultured he was, he would never countenance such a thing.
Chivalry in the Emirate was more intellectual than chivalry in Spain. Here, knights were strong and ruthless in battle, as were their Spanish counterparts. They were also well versed in poetry and the arts. But as to being cheered on by smiling ladies waving from their stand, as to the handing out of favours and flirting. No. It would never be permitted.
Did the Sultan know about these more relaxed traditions? It was possible, the word was that he had been more open-minded in his youth. Had he discussed the differences between chivalry in Spain and chivalry in Al-Andalus with his Spanish Queen?
It suddenly occurred to her that the Sultan might belatedly realise the identity of the clumsy handmaiden caught lurking near the audience chamber.
‘Maura, do you know if the Sultan wishes to see me?’
‘No, Princess. He is taken up with the competition tomorrow, I am sure.’
Zorahaida let out a slow breath and stared blindly at the fairy-tale fretwork on one of the shutters. She longed to watch the tournament, but never in a thousand years would her father give her permission. Even if she wore her veil, palace protocol wouldn’t allow her to set foot in a stand. Tomorrow, the audience would be made up entirely of men. Counsellors and courtiers, knights and guards and possibly a handful of foreign diplomats.
The tournament was for men. That being the case, she must find her own way of seeing it.
Captain Yusuf could take her up to one of the watchtowers above the lists, she would have a good view from there.
As Zorahaida planned how best to manage it without putting her small household in danger, she found herself wondering whether Jasim ibn Ismail, the knight with the amber eyes, would win any of the bouts.
* * *
Jasim steadied his lance and narrowed his eyes against the sun. Since his last pass from this end, the sun had moved. It was blinding and burningly hot; sweat was soaking into the padded tunic beneath his armour. No matter. His opponent would be suffering from the same challenges when they changed ends and, thus far, Jasim was ahead on points with several direct hits to his credit and a man unhorsed. He was enjoying himself.
As the herald moved into position, Jasim’s black destrier, Blade, jerked his head. Excited by the action, Blade was jumpy enough to race down the
list at the drop of a pin. Jasim held him firmly.
‘Steady boy.’ Highly bred, strong, fast and brimming with energy, Blade was the perfect horse for a tournament. If kept in check.
Squinting through his visor, Jasim kept his opponent in the centre of his vision and waited for the signal.
A horn blared. Jasim gave Blade his head, his gaze never wavering from his target.
Hoofs pounded. Sawdust and soil spewed out from beneath the horses’ hoofs. Men shouted in the stands.
Jasim braced himself for the jar of impact, swayed and sat firm. He had his opponent’s measure. Breathing thanks to God, he wheeled Blade about and took up his position at the shady end of the lists. The other knight had remained seated, but barely.
Jasim fixed his eyes on his target. He would win this bout.
* * *
At the top of the watchtower, Zorahaida was being discreet. Truth to tell, the jousting was something of a disappointment. Peering through a crenel with her veil on, she couldn’t see as much as she’d hoped. The knights were wearing helmets, and since she didn’t know their colours there was no telling one from the other. Not that she had met any of them, of course, save for Jasim ibn Ismail.
‘Captain, who is the knight in blue? He seems to be doing quite well.’
Yusuf stared down at the lists. ‘The knight on a black destrier with a silver shield?’
‘Aye, that’s the one, his shield has wavy blue lines on it.’
‘I couldn’t say, Princess. There are so many men competing, I am not conversant with all their devices.’
Light footsteps came hurrying up the stairs to the parapet and the door scraped open.
‘Princess,’ Sama said, voice tight. ‘When Maura told me she didn’t know where you were, I guessed you might be here.’
Sama’s hands were trembling and she sounded completely distraught. Zorahaida’s insides turned to water.
‘My father knows I am here?’
‘No, thank God. But please come with me. The Sultan has summoned you. You are to distribute the prizes.’
Zorahaida’s knees went weak, she had surely misheard. ‘What? That’s not possible.’
‘Princess, hurry. Please. He is waiting, they will all be waiting.’ Sama wrung her hands. ‘God have mercy, the Sultan will have my head on a platter if you go before those knights in that grey servant’s rag.’
Zorahaida glanced down at herself. ‘He would be humiliated.’ And there was nothing her father disliked more. She went to the head of the stairway. ‘Sama, why does he want me to do this?’
‘A delegation has arrived from the Spanish court. Diplomats, I believe.’
‘That explains it.’
A cold dread crept over her as she flew down the stairs, Sama at her heels.
The world of the palace was generally so small. Since her sisters’ departure, Zorahaida had worked tirelessly to spare its inhabitants the worst of her father’s excesses and during that time her sense of self-worth had grown by leaps and bounds. She wasn’t completely helpless. She had some influence within the palace walls, but she sensed that lately something had changed.
Her mind raced. The Sultan was using this competition to impress both his knights and the Castilian delegates. He owed the adjoining kingdom of Castile much money in tribute. Did he think to escape paying it by following their traditions? Was that why he suddenly wished her to act as Queen of the Tournament?
Zorahaida glanced back at Sama and, pushing her thoughts to one side, made her voice calm. Light. ‘I am going as fast as I can.’
‘Princess, you will need to wear silk,’ Sama said, breathlessly. ‘You’ll need gold bangles. Rings. And to preserve your modesty, I think a dark veil covered in seed pearls. Everything is laid out in your bedchamber. Hurry, I implore you.’
* * *
Trumpets blared. Zorahaida stepped on to a stand that lately had been filled with cheering men. A faint odour of male sweat lingered. Ignoring it, she joined a handful of other veiled women. Their jewellery gave away their identities.
‘Anya,’ she murmured, nodding at her father’s favourite concubine and her maid. ‘Najina.’
Veiled heads dipped in acknowledgment, but since none of the other women spoke, Zorahaida had no way of knowing what was going through their minds.
Sama followed her and made a great show of arranging her mistress’s veil.
The Nasrid red and gold standard hung at either side of the next stand, where Sultan Tariq was sitting. His gilded chair was shaded by a crimson and gold awning to match his colours and he was surrounded by his right-hand men. The Spanish dignitaries, marked out by tunics emblazoned with the Castilian coat of arms, had been given the privilege of watching from the Sultan’s stand. They’d even been offered a cushioned bench, set slightly to one side.
Zorahaida made a show of facing her father’s stand. She put her hands together and gave a deep obeisance. She knew what was expected of her, her father’s vizier had explained the protocols as she had hurried from her tower to the tiltyard.
At no time was she to remove her veil. On no account was she to touch the contestants. All she had to do was wait for the successful knights to ride up, then she would nod her permission and a steward would hand out the prizes. She was permitted to offer her congratulations. In a modest voice, naturally. The prize-giving would begin with the minor prizes, the overall champion would come last.
As Zorahaida had received her instructions, she had been glad of the veil that hid her smile. She was certain that the Spanish delegation was more likely to be amused than impressed by the prize-giving ceremony as devised by her father.
The sun beat down. Again, the trumpets sounded. The herald made an announcement and the first knight rode up, his horse lathered and snorting through wide nostrils. The knight had removed his helmet, which was slung over his saddlebow, and was wearing a simple headcloth. She didn’t recognise him, so he wasn’t one of her father’s knights. He had black eyes and a dark beard.
Zorahaida bowed her head and gestured towards the prize chest. She murmured her congratulations and the prize, a small purse, was handed over. The herald called another name and a new knight rode up. And so it went, with the prizes handed out by the steward gradually becoming grander and more ostentatious.
She felt ridiculous and very out of place. This prize-giving was a farce, she was no Queen of the Tournament. Knight after knight collected his prize, some she recognised, most she didn’t. Some were bruised and battered, others had cuts on their faces. Finally, after much fanfare the overall champion was called.
The champion had amber eyes and a red-gold beard. Her breath caught. As he rode up to the stand and came before her, a smile formed behind her veil. Jasim ibn Ismail had won the tournament.
A bruise was darkening on his cheekbone. With his black horse and silver shield, she recognised him as the knight who had caught her attention earlier. The wavy blue lines on his shield must represent the River Guadalevín which ran through Madinat Runda. His squire stood by his stirrup and the boy had obviously had time to rub his master’s horse down, for the black flanks, though glossy, were free of foam.
Her smile faded. How very frustrating. She had been torn away from the watchtower too soon, she would very much have liked to watch him win. And then, to her horror, she said exactly that.
‘Congratulations, Jasim ibn Ismail. I am sure you are a worthy champion. I only wish I could have seen you win.’
Jasim ibn Ismail blinked several times. He frowned. Briefly, he looked as though he had seen a ghost.
Hastily, Zorahaida gestured at the steward. ‘Give the champion his prize, if you please.’
* * *
‘Princess Zorahaida?’ Jasim murmured, unable to believe his ears. That voice belonged to the maidservant he had seen at the city infirmary and in the orchard yesterday. She was the Sultan’s d
aughter? It seemed impossible, yet this was surely the same woman. She had the same melodious voice. She was of the same height, and she had the same build—slender, yet womanly enough to make a man dream.
She bowed her head. ‘Congratulations, sir knight.’
Discreetly, she stepped back, leaving Jasim with an absurd desire to break every convention. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to find out whether Sultan Tariq was aware she went into the city. He was curious as to what she’d been doing outside that audience chamber near the Court of the Lions. Had she been spying on her father? Would she dare?
Of course, his questions could never be asked, never mind answered. He would be skewered on the spot if he engaged the Princess in conversation. Besides, whatever she’d been doing outside the audience chamber, she wouldn’t thank him for giving her away.
Fascinated, he stared at the pearls sewn on to her veil. If only he could see her.
Jasim had never wanted to see a woman’s face more. Would her face be as delicate as the womanly body he was sure was concealed beneath all that silk? He shook his head. His thoughts were wildly out of hand, yet they would not stop.
The palace was known to be a hotbed of intrigue. It was common knowledge that that Sultan Tariq and his brother Prince Ghalib had filled the Alhambra with spies. They didn’t trust each other. The Sultan was desperate to remain alive and so, too, was his heir the Prince.
Despite himself, a smile formed. Clearly, the Sultan and his brother were not the only ones with secrets. Impossible though it seemed, Princess Zorahaida had them too. He had first seen her taking her lute into the infirmary. And, later, in the orchard when he’d chased after her, she’d been talking quite comfortably with the Captain. Further, Jasim had received the distinct impression that the Captain hadn’t had the remotest intention of punishing her. That man had been prepared to run the gauntlet of the Sultan’s displeasure because he respected her.
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