The Warrior's Princess Prize

by Carol Townend

  Thank God, Usayd was no more drunk than he was. What was he up to?

  Jasim remained by the wall, watching. Fatima was approaching Usayd, Zorahaida’s monkey on her shoulder.

  Years ago, the innkeeper and his family had made a fine living from the merchants who’d flocked to the city, these days it was far less prosperous.

  Jasim frowned. He would rather Fatima kept clear of this place, although he had a fair idea why she was here. Before Usayd’s marriage, Fatima and Jasim had been united in their concern over Usayd’s reliance on the bottle. If Fatima suspected Usayd had reverted to old habits, she’d brave this disreputable tavern, hoping to make him see sense.

  Even as Jasim watched, Fatima spoke to his brother. Unfortunately, Jasim was too far away to catch what she said. Usayd shook his head at her and make a chopping motion, plainly urging her to leave.

  Fatima did so reluctantly, trailing back across the square with the servants, pausing now and then to look over her shoulder at Usayd. She hadn’t noticed Jasim, she was entirely focused on Usayd. Who for some God-forsaken reason was hanging about this rundown tavern pretending to be drunk.

  But if Usayd wasn’t drinking himself into oblivion, what the devil was going on?

  Sending Jasim a final penetrating glance, Usayd gave an imperceptible headshake and went back into the tavern.

  Well, whatever Usayd was doing, it was apparent he would brook no interference. He was bound to return to the palace soon and when he did, he had some explaining to do.

  * * *

  Back at Mondragón Palace, Jasim washed away the town dust, put on his house shoes and followed a tantalising thread of melody that led him to Zorahaida’s quarters. He wanted to make amends for his earlier manner. When he had sent her home, concern for Usayd had made him far too brusque.

  Jasim was all too aware that his relationship with his wife was alarmingly fragile. He had no wish to test it to the point of destruction. A wilful, exceptional woman, Zorahaida had already become a vital part of his life—despite her use of poppy juice.

  He put his head round the door. ‘May I come in?’

  Zorahaida was sitting cross-legged on the bed and the flow of notes broke off. Her lute flickered silver as she set it aside.

  ‘Jasim.’ A smile trembled into being, a gentle, welcoming smile. ‘God be praised, you are no longer angry.’

  ‘Angry?’ Relieved to find her receptive, he strode across and took her hand before he recalled that he had resolved to give her space to get to know him. Still, what could be more innocent than holding hands? ‘I wasn’t angry with you, my love. My relationship with my brother is complicated.’

  She looked up at him. ‘You have resolved your differences?’

  ‘Not entirely, but Usayd is not drunk as I feared. I will speak to him later.’

  ‘I shall be pleased to meet him,’ Zorahaida murmured.

  ‘And so you shall, of course.’

  She patted the edge of the mattress invitingly. ‘Jasim, I have a confession to make and a favour to ask.’

  Sitting down, Jasim raised an eyebrow. He kept hold of her hand. ‘Do I need to worry?’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t think so. Do you recall the baskets of pigeons I brought from Granada?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘They are carrier pigeons, homed in Córdoba. I have been using them to communicate with my sisters.’

  Carrier pigeons? Jasim looked thoughtfully at her. He’d never used carrier pigeons himself, but he knew how useful they were. Birds which had been trained in Córdoba, would invariably fly home. You could release them in France or in far Cathay, and it would make no difference. They would always return to Córdoba.

  ‘So that was what you were doing in the square outside the infirmary at Granada, you were collecting homing pigeons.’

  ‘Aye. My sister Leonor sent them. Jasim, I have been using pigeons to carry letters to her for some while. When Leonor has read them, she forwards them to my other sister Alba. I had written so many letters, the pigeon loft in the Alhambra was almost empty.’

  Without conscious thought, Jasim entwined his fingers with hers. ‘It’s an ingenious idea. The Sultan, I take it, had no idea that you and your sisters were corresponding?’

  Her smile was crooked. ‘Mercifully, he never found out.’

  ‘Zorahaida, you never cease to surprise me. Is it true that homing pigeons can fly several hundred miles in a day?’

  ‘Yes, pigeons travel faster than a man on horseback. For example, one could fly from here to Granada in a single day.’ Her voice broke. ‘I miss my sisters, horribly.’

  Jasim nodded, he understood something of what she must be feeling. The rift that had formed between him and Usayd had never completely healed and it had often felt like a thorn in his side. How much worse must Zorahaida feel to be separated from her sisters, not by anger or jealousy, but by the whim of a cruel and overbearing father. Banishment, on pain of death no less, was the harshest of punishments. When her sisters had run away with their Spanish knights, Zorahaida must have felt completely abandoned.

  She had found ways to console herself. Writing to her sisters had clearly been a lifeline. He stared at her averted face, still learning its contours, and guiltily aware that in taking her to wife, in removing her from all she knew, he had turned her world upside down for a second time. She must feel completely adrift.

  ‘You want to write to your sisters.’

  Dark eyes held his. ‘Very much.’

  ‘Please, you must write as often as you wish.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When she lowered her eyelashes, Jasim knew she had more to say. He waited, content simply to look at her. She was so beautiful. With her bruises faded, she took his breath away. The dark, lustrous hair, the way her eyelashes curled, the eyes he never tired of looking at. Yet behind the beauty there were shadows. He ached to kiss her, to do something, anything, to chase away the shadows. She simply wasn’t ready; it was beyond frustrating.

  ‘Jasim, I would like to do more than write to Leonor and Alba, I would like to see them. It would be wonderful to invite them to Madinat Runda, but owing to their banishment, I wouldn’t dream of asking them.’

  While she talked, Jasim watched her mouth; he couldn’t stop looking at it. The impulse to kiss her was irresistible. Almost. He shifted away slightly. He must wait. Glorious though their joining had been, Zorahaida didn’t know him. He would hold back until they were no longer strangers.

  She was looking expectantly at him, and he realised she was waiting for his response. What had she been talking about? Ah, yes, her sisters.

  ‘We could visit your sisters in Castile,’ he said. ‘Then there will no difficulty with their banishment. I would enjoy meeting them.’

  Her face transfigured. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you!’

  When her eyelashes lowered a second time, Jasim eyed her cautiously. He had a feeling the conversation was about to take a tricky turn. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  He felt a light touch on his wrist.

  ‘Jasim, I need another set of pigeons, ones trained to see Madinat Runda as home. Do you think that would be possible?’

  He felt himself tense. ‘Why do you need them?’

  Her eyelashes lifted. ‘To stay in touch with Sama.’

  She lifted her shoulders in a nonchalant gesture, but Jasim wasn’t fooled. He could sense the steel in her. The determination. She was desperate for his agreement.

  He stared at her. He stared so long that if his mind hadn’t been busy calculating what harm might come from her writing to her handmaid, he would have had time to count all the pretty green flecks in her eyes.

  ‘Jasim? Do you know if there are homing pigeons in Madinat Runda? May I buy some?’ Her fingers tightened on his wrist. ‘Please?’

  Jasim tore his gaze from hers an
d stared at a flower on the carpet. The idea of Zorahaida contacting her maid, or anyone else in the Alhambra for that matter, was deeply unsettling. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  She bristled. ‘Sama is entirely trustworthy, I assure you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, my love, under normal circumstances.’

  Dark eyes flashed. ‘What might that mean?’

  ‘Zorahaida, have you thought how the Sultan would respond if he intercepted your message?’

  ‘He won’t do that. My people—’ She broke off, biting her lip.

  ‘Zorahaida, I am sure you have many loyal, trustworthy servants in the Alhambra.’ He softened his voice. ‘I don’t want to argue, but you yourself know that your father isn’t above using violence to achieve his ends.’

  ‘So, you forbid me to buy more pigeons?’

  ‘For your own good, and that of Sama’s, I believe I must.’

  She gazed stonily at him. ‘You said you weren’t angry, yet it seems you are.’

  He huffed out a breath. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  She tore her hand from his and pushed to her feet. ‘You don’t trust me.’ She began pacing up and down.

  ‘Of course I trust you.’

  She stopped mid-stride and shook her head. ‘No, you don’t. You feel threatened by the very idea of me writing to Sama.’ Her voice softened. ‘Jasim, there’s no need to feel threatened.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Rubbing his brow, wishing the conversation had taken a happier turn, Jasim stood. ‘I simply would rather you left the palace and all it represents behind you.’

  ‘I can’t do that; it is part of me, and it always will be.’ Biting her lip, she resumed her pacing. ‘This is about asserting your authority, isn’t it?’

  He stared at her, aghast. ‘What?’

  ‘You are my husband, and you think that means I should bow to your every wish.’

  He sighed. ‘That is unfair. As I mentioned in the carriage on our way here, where matters are contentious, I would prefer we had open discussions and found common ground. I meant it. Zorahaida, I’d like our marriage to be a partnership.’

  She glowered at him. ‘Whatever you say, you are resentful and angry. You can’t forget that I drugged you, even though it was in your best interest. You want blind obedience. I have to say, I don’t much like it.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Especially when all I want is to write to Sama.’ She turned away.

  Jasim stared bleakly at her rigid back. He had no desire to come across as domineering, but he didn’t want her to come to harm. His chest ached, he could feel her distress and it was tearing him in two. If he wasn’t careful, this marriage was going to be a disaster. Already, he felt as though he had failed her.

  Without doubt, a better man would know how to handle her. He had no idea. He was the son of an insignificant second wife who had died in childbirth, and she was a Nasrid princess.

  Had he overreached himself, asking for her hand? Did she think he was beneath her? Was that what this was truly about?

  He had sought her out with the best of intentions, and despite every effort they were arguing.

  Jasim didn’t understand women. He never had. Except...

  The face of his cousin, Fatima, jumped into his mind. Fatima liked him, she always had. As children they’d been inseparable. They would chase around the water gardens; they would creep into the kitchen to steal almond biscuits cooling on the table. To be sure, the bond between him and his cousin had weakened when he had begun his training as a knight, but he and Fatima remained close.

  ‘Fatima,’ he murmured. He understood Fatima.

  She swung round, glowering. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Ignoring her scowl, Jasim took her hand, pressed a kiss into her palm and folded her fingers over it, hoping she would understand what he was unable to put into words.

  Know that you are precious to me, precious above all things.

  ‘Zorahaida, I shall consider your request to write to Sama. In the meantime, I would ask you to wait. Now, if you would excuse me, my love, I need to speak to Fatima.’

  * * *

  Zorahaida stared frowningly at the door after her husband had gone. It took a few moments more for her to realise that the prickling behind her eyes meant that tears weren’t far away.

  Irritated that a brief exchange of words with Jasim was able to upset her so, and uncomfortably aware that in accusing him of wanting to assert his authority over her, she was doing him a disservice, she tutted under her breath and went to kneel before the travelling chest Maura had placed along one wall. Where was her writing box?

  As she tossed silks and satins aside in the search for the box, she wondered if Jasim would learn to forgive her for giving him that poppy juice. He must. She truly hated being at odds with him.

  She told herself she ought to know better. Over the years, she’d been at odds with her father the Sultan many times. She’d been angry with him. She’d disobeyed him. Lightly she touched her cheek, remembering how humiliated she’d felt when her father had struck her.

  She leaned back on her heels and wrapped her arms about her middle. Her stomach was churning. This was much, much worse.

  How was it that a relatively minor disagreement with Jasim made her feel utterly bereft? There’d been times when she’d hated her father. Loathed him. And not once had he made her feel as though the world was falling apart.

  A mere frown from Jasim, on the other hand...

  This is ridiculous, she thought, diving back into her travelling chest. Jasim was just a man. She’d made the mistake of assuming that their sensual compatibility meant their minds would align in other, more important, ways. It was entirely possible that she and Jasim would spend the rest of their lives arguing.

  No, she had to be wrong about that. Jasim would never hit her. He was honourable and chivalrous and very protective. He was the soul of generosity. He’d insisted on buying Spirit at the horse fair, and unlike her father, Zorahaida was confident he would never use the mare as a means of bending her to his will.

  She and Jasim hadn’t been together for long. They would learn to get on, eventually. They must.

  Where on earth was that writing box? Ah, there it was, hiding beneath an embroidered shawl.

  Reverently, she drew it out. The box was inlaid with mother of pearl in orderly, geometric patterns. Leonor had given it to her years ago, at a time when Zorahaida had no need to write letters. The precision and neatness of the design had always appealed. Zorahaida gave an ironic smile as she lifted it from the travelling chest and took it to a side table. Leonor could have had no idea how indispensable the writing box would become. These days, it was in constant use, and that seemed likely to continue.

  Drawing up a stool, Zorahaida lifted the lid. Parchment rustled as she took it out. She trimmed a quill, uncorked the ink, and hunched over the parchment only to discover that it wasn’t as easy to order her mind as it ought to be. Being at odds with Jasim was truly unsettling. She stared at a circle on the side of the writing box. Was she wrong about Jasim? Might he prove to be as intransigent as her father?

  With a groan, she pushed Jasim from her mind and forced herself to concentrate.

  Leonor must be told what had happened. She needed to know that Zorahaida had married and was living in Governor Ibrahim’s house in Madinat Runda. Zorahaida would also tell her that Jasim had agreed that he and Zorahaida could visit Leonor and Alba in Castile.

  At last the three of us can meet again!

  Thoughtfully, she chewed the end of her quill. All was not lost as far as Jasim was concerned, he had been extremely amenable regarding her sisters.

  Dipping her quill into the ink, she started to write.

  * * *

  The letter was half-written when the door opened and Hunter scampered in, swiftly followed by Fatima. Hunter clambered on to her lap, forcing Zorah
aida to put the quill down and cork the ink. Hunter had a bad record as far as ink was concerned and she had no wish for ink to spill on the beautiful carpet.

  ‘Excuse the interruption, Princess,’ Fatima said. ‘I was wondering if you would care to accompany me to the infirmary.’

  Zorahaida lifted an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been speaking to Jasim.’

  ‘Aye, he mentioned that you were in the habit of visiting the hospital in Granada. Our hospital will undoubtedly be smaller than the one you are familiar with, but Jasim knows I occasionally help there. He thought you would like to see it.’

  Zorahaida guided Hunter to her shoulder and rose. What else had Jasim told his cousin? Was Fatima meant to keep her occupied so that she would forget about wanting to write to Sama? Was this an attempt to divert her?

  ‘I would love to see your hospital,’ she said, smiling. ‘Do we ride or go on foot?’

  ‘It is only around the corner, so we will walk.’ Fatima grimaced. ‘Even so, Jasim insists we take an escort.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Fatima waited by the door whilst Zorahaida found her veil and cloak. Zorahaida was pretty certain that whatever Jasim had said to Fatima, he wouldn’t have mentioned her wish to buy another set of pigeons. The only way to find out was to ask.

  ‘Fatima, did Jasim say anything about homing pigeons?’

  ‘Homing pigeons? No, he didn’t.’ She paused. ‘You brought some with you, I know. Why do you need more?’

  Zorahaida made her voice light. Casual. ‘I need birds trained here so they will return to Madinat Runda. Then, if I can find a means of getting them to Granada, my friends there will be able to write to me. Is there a pigeon loft in town? I should like to visit it after we’ve been to the hospital.’

  ‘Very well.’ Fatima glanced toward the curl of parchment lying next to the writing box. ‘And your correspondence?’

  ‘That can wait.’

  * * *

  The infirmary proved to be close to the tavern favoured by Jasim’s brother and several men were grouped around the tables in the square.