As Zorahaida and Fatima strolled by, Zorahaida peered round their guards, looking for Usayd. She couldn’t see him, not that she was certain she would recognise him. Besides, a cursory glance was enough to tell her that today’s customers were a rough-looking, edgy group. To a man they were scowling. Their beards were unkempt, and they were wearing stained leather jerkins with a distinctly military look to them. Zorahaida had never knowingly seen a mercenary, but these men were surely soldiers for hire. There wasn’t a weapon in sight. None the less, instinct told her they were armed and dangerous.
Anxious to avoid drawing their gaze, Zorahaida tugged her veil closely about her and looked elsewhere. She would have felt happier with Jasim at the head of their escort, not that that would serve today. She wanted to buy those pigeons, just in case her husband wasn’t as amenable as she hoped.
* * *
The tour of the infirmary passed without incident and Zorahaida and Fatima retraced their steps past the inn, still amid their escort.
It was a relief to see that the rough-looking men had gone. Breathing more easily, Zorahaida turned to Fatima.
‘The pigeon loft?’ she asked.
‘This way.’ Fatima spoke to Captain Bashaar and they left the square and turned down a quiet side street.
Zorahaida could see that the street had once been lined with shops, but the shutters were up and there was little sign of life. A lone water carrier, a pot on his head, was calling for custom.
‘It is sad to see so many of the shops are closed,’ Zorahaida murmured.
‘Aye, this was the street of the carpet sellers. It used to be a hive of industry. Usayd dreams of reviving it.’ Fatima pointed down the street. ‘The pigeon loft is on the corner at the end.’
If the pigeon trainer was surprised to see two veiled ladies and an armed escort on his doorstep, his face didn’t betray it. With a flourish he indicated a rickety flight of stairs.
‘This way, if you please,’ he said, whistling slightly as he spoke thanks to the gaps in his teeth.
Zorahaida glanced at Captain Bashaar. ‘We shouldn’t be long. Please guard the door.’
The stairs creaked as they climbed and at one point Zorahaida even felt them shift. She turned to the pigeon seller. ‘These stairs are safe, aren’t they?’
‘Been here for years, Mistress. I reckon they’ll see me out.’
Fatima gasped as the door to the loft was opened and a pungent smell reached them. ‘Ugh, that smell.’
Behind her veil, Zorahaida smiled. ‘It’s one of the perils of bird-keeping, I’m afraid. It will be even stronger inside. If you can’t bear it, you could wait here on the landing.’
‘You’re too kind,’ Fatima said in a choked voice. ‘I believe I will.’
Zorahaida ducked her head and entered the loft as behind her, the stairs groaned. The walls of the pigeon loft were so thin, sound carried well. Fatima, she thought with a grin, was going back downstairs.
The aviary was filled with plump-looking, contented pigeons. Zorahaida decided to buy a basket at once, in case Jasim proved to be intransigent about her writing to Sama. She was reaching for her purse when she heard a bang and a muffled cry.
‘What on earth?’
Outside, a man screamed, and she heard the chilling clash of steel hitting steel. Their guards were under attack! The building shook in a succession of thunderous bangs and crashes. The pigeon seller whimpered.
‘Fatima?’ Wishing that Jasim was with her, Zorahaida dashed for the door. Her heart was banging like a drum and her mouth was dry. ‘Fatima! Are you all right?’
The door flew open and a bear-like shape charged straight at her. A huge fist lifted and struck the side of her head. The last thing Zorahaida heard was the shriek of the pigeon keeper as a black cloud swallowed her whole.
Chapter Thirteen
Jasim climbed the stairs to the women’s quarters. On reflection, he’d decided to agree to his wife’s request to communicate with Sama and he wanted to tell her immediately. He gave a wry smile. Zorahaida would probably write to her handmaid anyway and he would gain nothing but rancour in trying to prevent her. He risked pushing her away and he didn’t want that.
Almost by accident Jasim had found the woman of his heart. The odds against them meeting, let alone marrying, had been steep from the start. A chance in a million had led him to offering for her. And yet another chance in a million had forced Sultan Tariq into agreeing.
Jasim wasn’t sure he believed in destiny, but he was beginning to think that their marriage was written in the stars. He’d never imagined he would feel so passionately about any woman. It was most unexpected. And not entirely pleasant. What if he lost her?
It was a chilling thought. As was the realisation that he was largely responsible for her happiness. A happy wife would ensure a harmonious marriage.
All of which meant that he couldn’t afford to let her brood about writing to Sama. If fortune was with him, he would catch her before she left for the hospital with Fatima.
He pushed open the bedchamber door. ‘Zorahaida?’
The songbirds were singing but the chamber was empty. Fatima had obviously got there first.
Lying on a side table was a fabulous writing box. Wandering over, Jasim ran his fingers admiringly over the mother-of-pearl inlay. The workmanship was second to none. Seeing a small roll of parchment next to the box, he idly picked it up. She was writing to her sisters.
Not wishing to invade her privacy, he dropped the parchment back on to the table.
‘Jasim? Jasim! Where the devil are you?’
Recognising Usayd’s voice, Jasim strode from the bedchamber and on to the gallery overlooking the courtyard. He leaned over the railing.
‘Get down here, Jasim. This is important. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
At the foot of the stairs, Usayd gave him the briefest of arm-clasps. ‘Sorry to be abrupt, it is good to see you, Brother.’
‘And you. Usayd, I’ve been meaning to ask you—’
Usayd shook his head. ‘Later. I have pressing news concerning your wife. Come with me. Farid is saddling Blade as we speak.’
Jasim gripped his brother’s arm. ‘My wife is in the infirmary with Fatima. She is fine.’
Usayd shook his head. ‘For your sake, Jasim, I hope that’s true. For pity’s sake, listen. I fear we have little time. I was at the tavern earlier, and before you say anything, I was not drinking. I was listening. The past few days have been interesting, to say the least.’
By the time they reached the stables, Jasim understood the need for urgency. If what Usayd suspected was true, the Sultan had sent a band of mercenaries to Madinat Runda to wait for Zorahaida’s arrival. The mercenaries, not having a grand procession to slow them down, had been able to travel at speed. They’d overtaken Jasim and Zorahaida and had been using the tavern as a base for some days.
‘Those men are close as clams,’ Usayd said, whilst Jasim dragged on his riding boots. ‘I am not certain what they’re planning but they seem desperate enough to murder their mothers for a silver dirham. Be that as it may, I heard enough to raise my suspicions. Is it possible they are the Sultan’s men?’
Jasim thought about the slow and stately wedding procession through the Emirate, and grimaced. ‘It’s entirely possible,’ he murmured, pushing to his feet. ‘I’ll explain fully shortly, but in brief, the Sultan was reluctant for us to leave, and my wife decided we would be safer if we left the palace quietly. However, once free of Granada she made a grand show of our progress. It was like a circus—baggage carts, servants, outriders. We travelled at a snail’s pace. A band of mercenaries could easily have overtaken us.’
Usayd nodded. ‘So I thought.’
Cold sweat broke out on Jasim’s brow. He had wondered if they might be followed but it had never occurred to him that they might be overtaken. If his bea
utiful wife hadn’t drugged him out of his mind, it might have done.
‘You think they have orders to kidnap her?’
Usayd grimaced. ‘Possibly.’ His eyes said something else. His eyes said that kidnapping was merely one of the fates that the Sultan had in store for his daughter.
Blade was waiting by the stable door, Jasim snatched the reins from Farid, vaulted into the saddle and dug in his heels.
Usayd’s voice chased him into the street. ‘Where are you going?’
‘The hospital.’
‘I’ll follow with Farid. You might need help.’
* * *
A flock of pigeons had taken over the square outside the hospital, the air was full of feathers and whirring wings. Jasim urged Blade past the birds on the ground and rode directly to the infirmary door. He pounded on it until a porter slid back the grille.
‘Can I help, Master?’
‘I’m looking for my cousin, I believe she visited earlier with a friend.’
‘You missed them, Master,’ the porter said. ‘The ladies were here earlier, they left about an hour ago.’
Jasim frowned. ‘An hour ago?’
The infirmary wasn’t far from the palace, they should have returned long since.
‘Did you notice if they brought an escort?’
‘Indeed, Master. I noticed it most particularly as I’ve never seen your cousin with more than a couple of servants before.’
Ignoring the icy feeling in his guts, Jasim nodded his thanks and wheeled Blade about. Several pigeons rose from the ground, wings beating.
Usayd and Farid trotted into the square and as they joined him, more pigeons took to the air.
‘No luck?’ Usayd asked.
‘They left an hour ago.’
‘Where could they be?’
Jasim found himself watching the pigeons and something clicked into place. Zorahaida wouldn’t be trying to buy pigeons, would she? Not when he’d told her that he was still considering whether she might write to Sama.
‘She is a Nasrid princess,’ he muttered. ‘Of course she would.’
His brother looked at him. ‘Eh?’
‘Usayd, Farid, come with me.’
* * *
The street of the carpet sellers resembled the aftermath of a battlefield. Heart in his throat, Jasim’s gaze skimmed over a guard whose eyes were gazing sightlessly to heaven. He had known the fellow since boyhood. Regret sliced through him. Another of his uncle’s men was bent over a comrade, efficiently using the cloth from his turban as a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood. A couple of other bodies in filthy clothing he didn’t recognise lay nearby. Doubtless they were the mercenaries Usayd had warned him about.
There was no sign of Zorahaida or Fatima.
Jasim dived from the saddle. He was through the door of the pigeon-keeper’s house so quickly he almost tripped over Fatima, who was lying at the bottom of the stairs, groaning.
‘Fatima, what happened?’ He helped her into a sitting position and whipped off her veil. She looked utterly dazed. ‘Is Zorahaida in the loft?’
His cousin seemed to be having difficulty focusing, but she managed a slow headshake. ‘She’s gone.’
Jasim’s stomach fell away. ‘Gone?’
‘Strangers stormed in. Vicious men. They shoved me down the stairs and they must have hit Zorahaida, because when they dragged her out of here, she was insensible.’
Rage descended on him, like a red mist. ‘And then?’
Fatima gave him a blank look. ‘One of them struck me. I must have fainted. I’m sorry, Jasim, I saw nothing else.’
Leaving Fatima in the care of his brother, Jasim galloped to the southern gate next to the garrison. Fortunately, the sergeant recognised him.
‘Welcome home, Jasim ibn Ismail.’
‘My thanks, Sergeant. I’m afraid the niceties will have to wait. I need help.’
The sergeant straightened. ‘I am honoured to be of service.’
Unfortunately, the sergeant had grim news, for upon enquiry, he confirmed Jasim’s fears. A band of about eight men had left Madinat Runda an hour since. They looked, the sergeant told him, like traders down on their luck, for their cart held a single, moth-ravaged carpet. ‘It would take more than a miracle for someone to buy that carpet,’ the sergeant said. ‘It was filthy.’
Jasim ground his teeth. It sounded as though the Sultan’s men, for he was in no doubt as to who was behind this, had bundled an unconscious Zorahaida into a carpet. Still, all was not lost, Blade would have no trouble catching up with a cart.
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Jasim wheeled Blade round to face the road. ‘I need you to drum up a conroi of knights from the garrison.’
The sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘How many knights?’
‘As many as you can muster. Tell them to follow me, I shall be tailing that cart. Oh, my brother Usayd and my squire may well come after me. Be so good as to tell them what I’m doing.’
The sergeant saluted. ‘Yes, Master.’
* * *
Jasim found the cart abandoned a few miles down the road. A rumpled heap of carpet lay in the dust next to it. A vivid vision of Zorahaida lying lifeless beneath it catapulted him from the saddle.
Pulse banging in his ears, he flicked back the carpet. Nothing. Warily, he leaned in and sniffed, hoping to catch the scent of roses, anything that might indicate he was on the right track. Again, nothing. Just the musty smell of ancient carpet.
He was examining tracks left by the mercenaries when the thud of hoofs alerted him to the contingent of knights from the garrison. And not just the knights, his brother Usayd and Farid were with them.
Usayd looked enquiringly at him. ‘Your wife?’
‘Gone,’ Jasim said, clearing his throat.
‘She’s alive?’ Usayd asked, bluntly.
‘I can see no other reason why they would take her.’ Mastering his emotions with difficulty, for to believe otherwise would unman him, Jasim remounted and pointed in the direction the mercenaries had taken. ‘Judging by the hoofprints, one of their horses is bearing extra weight.’
‘She’s sharing a horse with a mercenary.’
‘Aye. It’s odd though, they appear to be headed south. It makes more sense for them to be taking the westerly road.’
Thoughtfully, Usayd stroked his beard. ‘I disagree. They’re heading for the coast.’
Jasim blinked. ‘They’re putting her on a ship?’
‘I believe so. Merchants use them all the time. Given a fair wind, a ship can travel a hundred miles a day. Maybe more.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘Even with several changes of horse, we’ll struggle to match that. If the mercenaries are taking your wife back to the Alhambra, my guess is they’ll board a ship bound for Salobreña.’
‘That makes sense,’ Jasim said. He remembered Zorahaida mentioning that she and her sisters had lived in the Salobreña fort when they’d been children. ‘Sultan Tariq has strong links with Salobreña. We’ll head for the coast. There’s a chance we’ll catch them before they board.’
Usayd was frowning at the bedraggled heap of carpet. ‘Those men will be hard pressed to pass as merchants with a woman as prisoner.’ His mouth twisted. ‘They might be slavers, I suppose.’
Jasim lifted an eyebrow. ‘Usayd, do you truly believe mercenaries in the pay of Sultan Tariq will care what people will think?’
Jasim gave Blade his head and the rest of their party thundered after him. Anxiety churned in his belly. He felt vulnerable and nauseous. He was afraid. Which was fine. Fear had its uses—in battle it kept you alive. Fear had to be controlled though, you couldn’t permit it to swamp you.
As one of the most celebrated knights in Al-Andalus, Jasim was renowned for his cool head. For his calm. Yet now he felt as though he was riding into battle without his armour.
He
needed to regain focus. His glanced at his squire. In practice sessions, Farid often needed reminding to concentrate on his goals and to put everything else out of his mind. Jasim must follow his own advice.
They would catch the mercenaries before they boarded ship. He would rescue Zorahaida.
Despite Jasim’s efforts, focus remained elusive. As they pounded towards the coast, he couldn’t stop worrying. Saving his wife was his goal, so that was fine. It was allowed. The problem was that his imagination didn’t stop there. It kept throwing up images of Zorahaida hurt. Of her being beaten into submission and tied up. Of her being taken back to her father and locked up in that isolated tower for all time.
Losing her like this made his earlier dream for a harmonious marriage appear laughable. A harmonious marriage? Worthless. He wanted her back on any terms.
She could tempt him every day, she could argue all she wished and lead him a merry dance. That was what he wanted. He lived to see her again.
If he could only get her back in one piece, all would be well.
Some days later
When Zorahaida woke, she could scarcely move. Her head felt as though it was four times its usual size, and her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow. When she tried to speak, nothing emerged but a horrible croak.
Disorientated, she had one thought. Water. She was desperate for a drink.
Hand to her head, she rolled on to her side. It was then that she saw raw marks on her wrist. It throbbed. Rope burns? Her other wrist was equally sore. Had she been tied up? She couldn’t remember.
Frowning, she thought back, vaguely wondering why it was so hard to think. If she weren’t so thirsty, she’d go back to sleep. This was surely a nightmare.
Images, fragments of memory, it was hard to say what they were, passed through her mind. She had been looking at pigeons. A bear of a man had hit her. He must have tied her up. She remembered lying, half out of her senses, across a horse’s withers. The horse had been badly groomed, and it stank. When she’d woken, she’d complained of thirst. Rough hands had forced something down her throat, and she’d slept again.
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