The Warrior's Princess Prize

by Carol Townend

  No, that captain felt far more than respect. Princess Zorahaida was adored. Plainly, she had a heart of gold.

  ‘Master?’ The steward interrupted his flow of thought. The man was struggling to present him with a weighty-looking golden casket overflowing with coins. ‘You wish your squire to take charge of your prize?’

  Jasim spared the casket a brief glance. Princess Zorahaida was far more intriguing than the Sultan’s entire treasury. A woman like that could surely work miracles. An idea came to him. A bold idea he had no business thinking. And yet...

  He held up his hand. ‘One moment. There was talk of the champion choosing a gem from the Sultan’s collection.’

  The steward grimaced, trying again, to offer the casket. ‘This casket will be more valuable than any one gem, Sir Jasim.’

  The pearls gleamed on the Princess’s veil, she was watching him, he was sure. Was she as fascinated with him as he was with her? Would she forgive him for what he was about to do?

  His cautious half was screaming warnings whilst his more reckless half was urging him on. If he succeeded, his uncle, the Governor of Madinat Runda, would, once he had got over the shock, realise the wisdom of what Jasim was trying to achieve.

  And if he failed, well, his uncle would doubtless thank the stars that he no longer had to worry about what his scapegrace nephew might do next.

  God help me.

  Jasim cleared his throat. He was careful to hold the steward’s eyes, though he pitched his voice loud enough to carry to Sultan’s stand. ‘I seem to recall the finest gem in the palace was offered as part of the prize.’

  The steward nodded. ‘As you wish.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Though you must understand, this casket will not be as full.’

  Jasim dismissed the casket with a negligent wave. ‘Forget the casket. I simply require the prize that was offered, the most precious jewel in the Sultan’s possession.’

  The lists had fallen uncharacteristically quiet. On Jasim’s right, the tinkling of harnesses told him that other knights were nudging their mounts closer, straining to hear him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw men on the stands leaning forward to discover what was happening. Others crowded up to the wooden railings.

  The steward sent a bewildered glance towards the Sultan. The Sultan gave a curt nod and the steward relaxed.

  ‘Very well,’ the steward said. ‘It is agreed. You may have the gem your choice. Once you have disarmed, you will be escorted to the treasury.’

  ‘My thanks, but that will not be necessary. I have made my choice.’

  He looked directly at Princess Zorahaida. The other ladies, who until then had remained motionless as statues, suddenly seemed to understand what he was about. One took a firm hold of the Princess’s arm. Whether she was offering support or attempting to control her wasn’t clear. The other ladies moved to surround her.

  Apart from the whisper of Granada silk, there was silence.

  ‘I choose the Princess Zorahaida,’ Jasim said. ‘She is the finest gem in Al-Andalus. I wish to claim her for my bride.’

  Chapter Five

  Jasim ibn Ismail’s request was so preposterous, Zorahaida was sure she had misheard. He was claiming her as his prize? He actually thought he would be allowed to marry her?

  His arrogance robbed her of breath. Jasim ibn Ismail must see that it was impossible. She was the Sultan’s daughter. He wasn’t a prince; he’d merely won a tournament. How dared he?

  Her place was in the Alhambra, where she was needed. It was her home. If she were to marry this man, she would have to leave. Who would watch over the servants? And what about the hospital? The city beggars?

  Shifting her head to see past the encircling ladies, Zorahaida glared at him from behind her veil. She fought to think past her shock. This wasn’t about her, it couldn’t be. During their brief interaction in the orange grove, Jasim ibn Ismail had struck her as intelligent. To risk rousing the Sultan’s fury by claiming her instead of a chest crammed with gold and silver was the act of a madman. But this knight was far from mad.

  What was he up to?

  When hiding in the alcove outside the audience chamber, Zorahaida distinctly recalled the Sultan saying that Jasim ibn Ismail came from Madinat Runda. She might live quietly, but she took pains to find out what was going on inside the Sultan’s kingdom. Madinat Runda had been disadvantaged when her father had increased trade tariffs to punitive levels. The entire district desperately needed to amend their trade agreements with Granada. If not, it would slide deeper into poverty.

  Zorahaida also knew that Jasim ibn Ismail’s uncle was the Governor of Madinat Runda. From what she had overheard in the audience chamber, it appeared that Jasim ibn Ismail’s father had offended the Sultan. Had that been the reason for her father raising the tariffs? It must have been. One way or another, Jasim ibn Ismail’s father had crossed the Sultan.

  Her insides quivered as fear replaced shock. How would her father respond? This knight, whatever his father might have done, came from an influential and honourable family. At this moment though, his bloodlines were irrelevant. As champion of the tournament he was owed a glittering prize, but for him to ask for her hand in marriage—it was outrageous. She prayed the Sultan didn’t respond with violence.

  If Jasim ibn Ismail thought claiming her hand would bring his district a step closer to prosperity, he was about to be given a hard lesson. The Sultan would never agree. It was out of the question.

  The silence stretched out. None of the onlookers knew how to react, they watched in fascinated horror.

  Zorahaida wrenched her gaze from the champion of the day and glanced at the Sultan. Beneath his turban, her father’s face might have been carved from stone. The lines between his eyebrows and around his mouth were deeper than ever. Her heart thudded. Everyone who knew him would realise that Sultan Tariq was blindly, dangerously angry.

  His daughter was not an object to be given away as a prize in a tournament. Since Zorahaida’s sisters had flown, they had been disowned, in effect making her Sultan Tariq’s only child. She liked to think that he loved her, the last reminder of Lady Juana, the woman he had made his Queen.

  What a nightmare. This could only have one ending and it was likely to be bloody.

  The Sultan would, she prayed, control his anger sufficiently to set Jasim ibn Ismail right. Zorahaida might be astounded that Jasim ibn Ismail had the temerity to ask for her as his prize, but she didn’t want him dead. He had followed her to the orchard, intending to spare her a beating. He couldn’t be all bad.

  The Sultan rose. Benches scraped and clattered on the stands as everyone scrambled to their feet. To remain seated when the Sultan was standing would be a grave insult. When the noise had died down, the Sultan gave the Spanish contingent a smile—his false one—and turned to the steward.

  ‘Take my daughter back to her chambers.’

  * * *

  The summons to attend the Sultan came, as Zorahaida suspected it would, shortly after she had returned from the bathhouse. Her father would want to tell her how he had dealt with Jasim ibn Ismail. She felt alarmingly jumpy. Whatever had prompted Jasim ibn Ismail to make his preposterous proposal, she didn’t want him killed.

  The sun had set, and the gardens were grey in the twilight. Zorahaida would know her way through the grounds blindfolded, none the less she accepted the assistance of a torchbearer to lead her along the paths and through the courtyards. At the entrance to the audience chamber, the torchbearer bowed and melted quietly into the dark.

  Taking in a breath to calm her nerves, she passed through the door. Lamplight illuminated the flowing script on the wall tiles and the fragrance of frankincense drifted in the air. The Sultan was seated on his throne with the usual array of household knights.

  How strange, a small table and two chairs were positioned immediately before him. Confused, Zorahaida blinked at the chairs
. Other than the Sultan’s thrones, there were very few chairs in the palace. She couldn’t begin to think why these were in here. The table was spread with a beautifully embroidered silk cloth.

  The Sultan gestured her forward and, even more strange, as she was about to make her usual obeisance, he shook his head.

  ‘No need for that tonight, Daughter.’ He waved her towards a chair. ‘Be pleased to sit.’

  Feeling as though she was dreaming, Zorahaida took the nearest chair and watched in disbelief as the Sultan dismissed most of his guards.

  Her mouth went dry and a sinking feeling in her stomach warned her that something unheard of was about to happen. Something over which she would have no control.

  Bending her head modestly, she managed to look about her. Never had she seen her father with so small a guard. Only a few household knights remained. The Spanish delegation stood in a corner. And...

  ‘Jasim ibn Ismail, be pleased to step forward,’ the Sultan said. Though his words were courteous, he sounded as though he was speaking through clenched teeth.

  God have mercy. What was her father about to do?

  * * *

  Jasim bowed deeply at both the Sultan and Princess Zorahaida and took the other chair.

  His gamble had paid off. Amazingly, the Sultan had agreed that he could marry his daughter. Jasim was wryly aware that if the Spanish envoys hadn’t been present, his request would have been turned down in no uncertain manner.

  As matters stood, however, the Sultan couldn’t afford to show weakness before the Spaniards. He had made a public declaration and thanks to his twisted sense of honour, felt honour-bound to stick to it. Jasim’s assessment of the Sultan’s character—that he had too much pride to consider retreat—had been correct.

  Jasim’s proposal of marriage had stunned more than the court. Jasim had stunned himself. In truth, ever since he’d learned of his father’s failed attempt at diplomacy, he’d been living under a cloud. His plans, which had once included marriage, had been shoved aside. What decent woman would want to ally herself with a knight whose father’s actions had brought misery to Madinat Runda?

  In truth, until the prize-giving, the idea of marrying the Princess hadn’t even occurred to him. And then, flushed with success, he’d been unable to think of anything else. He’d imagined he’d come to terms with not marrying. Apparently not. He wanted to marry. And his desire to marry was driven by more than ambition. He wanted this particular woman. Princess Zorahaida.

  Oddly, rather than feel elated by the success of his gamble, Jasim remained tense. It was no use reminding himself that once he was married to the Sultan’s daughter, his uncle would no longer be able to ignore his counsel. He had yet to get home.

  He didn’t think much of what he had seen of the palace, the entire court seemed to be permanently on tenterhooks with everyone watching each other. The sooner he and his bride were on their way home, the sooner he could relax.

  He smiled at the Princess, aware of a new complication. Women of her status rarely had any choice in their marriage partners. They married every day according to their fathers’ wishes. Princess Zorahaida would have little choice but to accept the Sultan’s decision. Even so, she was bound to be shocked. And now the moment of truth had arrived, Jasim found he wanted a willing bride. His stomach churned. How would she respond?

  ‘Daughter, you doubtless heard this man’s request at the tournament,’ the Sultan said, briskly.

  The veiled head dipped. ‘Yes, Father.’

  Wishing he could read her expression, Jasim frowned at her veil.

  ‘You should know that I have agreed. You will marry this knight.’

  The Princess sprang to her feet. ‘No, Father. No!’

  Jasim went cold. Slowly, he rose. He had feared the Princess might object, but he was determined to win her over. He would marry this woman. Fresh trade agreements must be made between Granada and Madinat Runda. He would rid himself of the shame caused by his father’s disastrous political meddling. When he went home he would return a hero.

  He held out his hand to her. ‘Princess—’

  ‘No touching,’ the Sultan barked. ‘There is to be no touching. Daughter, be seated.’

  The Princess didn’t move. Her chest was rising and falling, and Jasim couldn’t help but note that her hands had fisted in her robes. ‘Father, I don’t want to marry this man! I won’t do it. You can’t make me.’

  Jasim grimaced. He’d known his proposal would shock her, but he hadn’t expected such vehemence.

  The Sultan snapped his fingers and two household knights moved to stand at either side of the Princess.

  Jasim stopped breathing. He’d asked for her hand on the spur of the moment. He should have thought it through. And now the Sultan was bullying her, it wasn’t pleasant to watch. He poised himself to defend her.

  ‘Daughter, I think you will find that I can.’

  The Princess held her ground.

  ‘Father, I don’t want to marry him.’

  Her veil shifted with every agitated breath and Jasim thought he heard her muttering. For a moment, the Sultan looked as though he might strike her. Finally, she took her seat and the household knights returned to their posts at the Sultan’s side.

  Jasim’s guts twisted. The Sultan’s display of force had confirmed all his fears. The man was a tyrant and a bully. Did the Princess want to live in the palace for the rest of her life? When he’d realised she was the same woman he’d seen taking a lute into the city infirmary, he’d imagined she would be glad to escape. Was he wrong?

  That was the trouble dealing with women outside the family. They usually wore veils, and it was impossible to read their faces. All you had to go on was actions. And the Princess, though her father might not know it, had been wandering about Granada. Jasim would bet his life that the Sultan had no idea what she was up to.

  ‘You too.’ The Sultan threw him a dark glance. ‘Be seated. You may address my daughter directly now.’

  Jasim sent the woman behind the veil a careful smile. ‘Princess, I have asked Sultan Tariq for your hand in marriage and he has agreed. I would be honoured beyond measure if you would accept me.’

  If she agreed, protocol declared that the Princess would lift her veil so he could see her face. Jasim was looking forward to that. At least it might grant him some insight into her thoughts. He hoped she was pretty, but that, he reminded himself, was irrelevant. Character counted for more than beauty. Besides, he wanted this marriage for political reasons.

  Princess Zorahaida didn’t reply at once. She paused long enough for the sweat to break out on Jasim’s brow. There was even time for him to notice a moth flying drunkenly towards one of the lamps. Well, if she did refuse him, at least he had done his best for Madinat Runda. He only hoped that his uncle understood what he’d been trying to do.

  ‘Very well, Father.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘If it is your wish, I will marry this man.’

  The Sultan jerked his head at his household knights and they and the Spanish envoys all filed out. For the next part of the betrothal ceremony, Jasim, the Sultan and his daughter would be alone so Princess Zorahaida could lift her veil. The other men must leave as traditionally they were not permitted to see her without it.

  When the door closed behind the last of the household knights, Princess Zorahaida threw back her veil.

  Her eyes were heavily lined with kohl, but no amount of kohl could hide the fact that her face was bruised and swollen on one side. Shocked rigid, Jasim could only stare.

  Someone had struck her hard enough to give her a black eye. Only one person would have the gall to hit the Princess, her father, may the devil take him. Fortunately, Jasim knew better than to accuse the Sultan of brutalising her. It took effort, but he kept his gaze on the Princess and spoke softly for her ears alone.

  ‘You’re hurt.’

  She
focused on the embroidered cloth. ‘It is nothing.’

  Seeing her face sent Jasim’s reservations about asking for her hand flying to the four winds. His misgivings, the uneasy realisation that marriage to him would mean he might be stealing her away from everything she knew and loved, could be dismissed.

  He must separate her from her father, and quickly. This could not go on.

  Princess Zorahaida will be safe with me.

  He would overcome her objections. It should be easy. Why would she choose to remain here, in the control of a father who mistreated her, when she could establish her household in Mondragón Palace, with a husband who would guard her with his life?

  ‘Nothing?’ he said, in an undertone he hoped only she could hear. ‘It is not nothing.’ It is monstrous, it is a travesty. The Sultan does not deserve to be a father.

  He studied her, making the most of the few moments she would be without her veil.

  Princess Zorahaida had hair as dark as midnight and eyes to match. The table Jasim was gazing across was small, and they were close enough for him to tell that the eye that wasn’t swollen had astonishing depths. Her mouth was trembling. It was prettily curved and, when she saw him taking inventory of her features, it edged up into a lop-sided smile. Her teeth were as white as pearls.

  She was, or she would be when her bruises faded, extremely comely. Jasim found himself staring at her mouth, wondering how she would respond to a kiss, and felt a rush of desire.

  Hastily, he lifted his gaze. ‘Princess, whilst I have breath in my body, I will protect you. You will want for nothing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The Sultan’s foot tapped. ‘That is enough. Daughter, cover your head.’

  The Princess drew her veil back, the Sultan clapped his hands and his knights tramped back into the chamber. A servant followed with a casket that was the twin of the one that Jasim had rejected at the tourney. The servant placed the casket in the centre of the table and effaced himself.