It had been surprisingly stimulating. He was unlikely to see her again, although if he did, he would enjoy testing her with a more measured kiss. Since talking to her in that cell, he’d spent many nights with her scent twisting through his dreams. Orange blossom and woman. It had been tantalising and very frustrating.
Could the stories of three identical Nasrid Princesses be true? Might his mystery lady be one of them? Her questions had all concerned Sultan Tariq’s dead Queen, Lady Juana, so it was possible.
Guilt preyed on his mind. Rodrigo had told the truth when he’d said that he didn’t know any Lady Juana. He’d never met her, though he had heard of her. All of Christendom knew of Lady Juana’s scandalous abduction, and Rodrigo more than most had reason to regret it. Should he have told that girl what he knew?
He grimaced. Her questions had caught him off guard. They had opened old wounds, wounds which, despite the passing of many years, still smarted. By the time Rodrigo had himself in hand again, the girl had swept out of the cell.
I frightened her off.
Should he have told her?
Lord, no. He’d never see the girl again and what was the point of delving into the past? The best thing he could do would be to put the entire incident out of his mind.
On the other hand, her bangle had bought Inigo more treatment. She had certainly saved Inigo’s leg, and possibly his life too. Which left Rodrigo with an inconvenient sense of obligation towards her. Scowling at the road ahead, Rodrigo told himself to forget the entire incident.
Doubtless, his mysterious visitor had many bangles.
Still, he felt bad that the girl had gone away with none of her questions answered. He could at least have told her that when Lady Juana disappeared she had been betrothed to Count Jaime of Almodóvar.
His nostrils flared. Doubtless, Count Jaime would be able to answer the girl’s questions in more detail. Not that she was ever likely to meet him if she was indeed a Nasrid princess.
Rodrigo and Count Jaime weren’t exactly on speaking terms. It wasn’t that he and the lord of Almodóvar were enemies, but they certainly weren’t friends. Perhaps, when Rodrigo was finally free of Al-Andalus, he’d let Lord Jaime know that someone in Salobreña Castle had been asking about Lady Juana. Perhaps.
Scowling at a stone in the road, he toed it into the ditch and marched on. What the devil was he doing thinking about Count Jaime? He’d far rather be wondering about his mystery lady. Had she been among those women in the castle tower on the day their ship had docked? Why had she singled him out for questioning? There were plenty other prisoners in Salobreña to choose from. She must have been watching him.
He felt a smile form. The thought that his mystery lady might be the dark beauty who’d leaned out of that window had a certain appeal. If she was a princess, she was his enemy’s daughter.
Faith, what was he doing? It was pointless thinking about her. He’d only allowed himself to do so because back in the prison it had been either that or dwell on the horror of Diego’s death. He wasn’t ready to grieve, though grief would doubtless be a dull ache he’d be carrying for years.
God willing, he’d soon be home.
Freedom. Heart aching, Rodrigo squinted up the road. Today it seemed a million lifetimes away. He hated not having command over his life; he hated not knowing how many more miles lay ahead.
Rodrigo gave Inigo an assessing glance and was relieved to see him walking as well as a man could when hobbled with chains. Thank the Lord, that wound hadn’t festered. He wasn’t sure how patient the guards would be if they fell behind.
A guard cantered past, bellowing orders. Choking on grit, Rodrigo found himself wishing for the man’s horse. No matter that the animal had a back like a bow and an uneven gait, at least on horseback there was a chance of escaping the worst of the dust.
The guard shouted again, in Arabic. The words meant nothing to Rodrigo, but a nearby prisoner must have understood them, for he muttered under his breath and scowled back along the road. He was probably bemoaning the lack of water. Rodrigo didn’t blame him, rations—even of water—were in short supply on this trudge to hell. The riverbed at the side of the road was completely dry, a scrubby patch of weeds grew in the middle where water must once have flowed. The river, like Rodrigo’s throat, was bone dry.
Another shout from the direction of Salobreña caught his attention, the voice was tight and angry. The ground shook and Rodrigo turned.
A troop of horsemen was thundering towards them.
Lord, what a troop! Even in battle, Rodrigo had never faced fiercer-looking foes. The horses—black stallions—and their knights were surely giants, sprung out of some ancient Arabic fable. Silver breastplates gleamed on the knights’ wide chests. Beneath their armour, the knights’ tunics were black. Black turbans, black tunics, black boots, black shields. The knights’ faces were hidden.
The stallions were big-boned and well muscled and their coats gleamed like jet. Envy stirred in Rodrigo’s breast. A man might sell his soul for one of those horses. Dust swirled into his eyes, he blinked it away. This was an elite troop and he knew of only one man in Al-Andalus who could field knights as formidable as these. This troop answered to Sultan Tariq.
A harsh voice cracked out an order, a whip snaked out and the black horses wheeled as one, stepping purposefully forward to herd the straggling line of prisoners into the dried-up riverbed. A scimitar flashed.
Rodrigo stumbled along with the rest of them. When the prisoners were strung out among the withered weeds at the edge of the highway, there came another shout. To Rodrigo’s astonishment, every man fell face down on the ground.
Almost every man. Inigo and Enrique had no clue what was happening either, the three comrades were the only ones still on their feet. Rodrigo’s bemusement grew when their guards flung themselves off their horses and prostrated themselves along with the prisoners.
The nearest black horseman was screaming at Rodrigo, eyes bulging with anger. From his frantic gestures, Rodrigo understood he was expected to fall on his face like everyone else. Rodrigo didn’t move. He’d be damned if he was going to put his face in the thistles for no good reason.
Hoofbeats heralded the arrival of a second, smaller, party—about a dozen knights on brown horses. The knights were armed to the teeth.
The nearest horseman continued to scream at him. Rodrigo ignored him, because something most intriguing had caught his ears.
The light tinkle of bells. Bells?
Dust puffed out from beneath the horses’ hoofs, coating the shrubs and weeds. A standard fluttered. It was red and gold, the colours of the Nasrid dynasty. Those magnificent black knights did indeed answer to Sultan Tariq. If Rodrigo was not mistaken, he was about to set eyes on the King himself.
A scimitar flashed.
Unless that brute in black killed him first.
Chapter Four
Princess Leonor sat on her grey mare, Snowstorm. Behind her veil, she was smiling, she loved riding and it was a rare privilege to be out during the day. Best of all, she and her sisters were finally leaving Salobreña Castle. They were on their way to the Alhambra Palace to live with their father.
Naturally, there were drawbacks. Owing to the length of the journey, they were riding through the heat of the day. It was hot and sticky and Leonor’s veil clung to her skin. However, it wasn’t often that the Princesses could see the roads and highways of their father’s kingdom. Leonor was determined to make the most of it.
Excitement bubbled inside her. Change was in the air. Sultan Tariq, may blessings shower upon him, had deigned to acknowledge his daughters’ existence.
The Sultan had arrived at Salobreña Castle a few days ago, and he’d practically turned it upside down when he’d announced that the Princesses were to travel with him to Granada. Apparently, a tower had been built especially for them in the Alhambra Palace. Sultan Tariq’
s eyes had softened when he told his daughters that the tower overlooked the surrounding countryside. There was a fine view of the mountains from one side, and from the other they could look down upon the palace gardens.
The Sultan had been smiling and charming. Uncertain as to what Inés might have told him, Leonor had been dreading seeing him again, but he had greeted his three daughters with equal warmth.
‘Let me look at you. Such beauties you have become.’
Their father had seemed genuinely pleased to see them. Inés could not have told him about her unorthodox visit to the prison.
That visit haunted Leonor. She found herself chasing away the mental image of Lord Rodrigo in that narrow cell far too often. Doubtless, she couldn’t stop thinking about him because conditions in the prison were so appalling. It was a place of evil, fit only for the devil. She was ashamed her father sanctioned it.
And there was that other matter. Lord Rodrigo kissed my hand. The first foreigner she’d ever spoken to. If her father found that out, he’d have Count Rodrigo torn apart.
The Sultan had taken pains to describe the alabaster fountain in the central court of the Princesses’ new tower. He told his daughters that he’d ordered poems to be inscribed in tiles on the tower walls and that delicate arabesques adorned the arches and door frames. As Leonor watched her father’s smiling face, as she listened to him describing what he’d planned for them, her anger for the years of neglect began to fade.
And her fears for her future? Hope was starting to flower. They weren’t to languish in Salobreña until the end of time. Finally, she and her sisters were going to become part of their father’s court. Life could change. She even dared to hope that her father might learn to be less intransigent in his dealings with his enemies.
So, here they were, riding towards the Alhambra Palace with a full escort of household knights ahead and behind them. Nothing as exciting had happened in years. True, there wasn’t much to see on this stretch of road. The landscape was bleached by the sun. Scorched weeds lined the route and there were few signs of habitation. Still, Leonor wasn’t going to allow that to lower her mood.
Leaning forward, she patted Snowstorm’s neck. As her name implied, Snowstorm was the palest of greys. Almost white, she was an exact match to her sisters’ horses. Silver bells were attached to the braids in the mares’ manes, and a gentle tinkling accompanied their every step. As their party covered the miles, the dry air was filled with faint, otherworldly music.
There were restrictions on this ride to her new life. A palace eunuch was riding at Leonor’s side. Ostensibly, he was there to hold a sunshade over her head. The sunshade didn’t do much. She knew the eunuch was really there to keep her in line. For once, she didn’t care.
It was stifling beneath her veil and she didn’t care about that either. Not today, when she was out and about in her father’s realm. Naturally, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t resent having to look at everything through a haze of fine silk. However, today, none of that mattered. Her father had come for them. He had realised that she and her sisters had grown up and they were about to start afresh in Granada.
The previous night the royal party had taken shelter in one of her father’s hunting lodges. That had been exciting too, it was the first time that the Princesses remembered sleeping anywhere except in their apartments in Salobreña Castle.
The horses slowed. There was a disturbance up ahead, which was odd. Leonor hadn’t expected delays on this, the final leg of their journey. The King had sent heralds out in advance of their departure and his subjects had been ordered—on pain of death, apparently—to remain indoors as the royal party rode past. No one should be abroad to slow them down.
Privately, Leonor suspected that the real reason her father’s subjects had been told to stay indoors was because Sultan Tariq didn’t want anyone to see his daughters. Which was ridiculous. We are wearing veils, and one veiled woman looks very much like another. No one would see as much as an eyelash.
None the less, Leonor prayed that her father’s people had obeyed their orders. Whilst she hadn’t come up against the Sultan’s temper personally, there were tales that froze the marrow in her bones. Imprisonment—well, she’d seen that for herself—but she’d also heard that whippings and starvation were commonplace. She’d even heard whispers about summary executions.
Her saddle creaked as she peered ahead. Her father’s personal knights were bunched up in a knot. There was a lot of shouting. She clutched her reins and prayed that nothing dreadful was about to happen. Her father had made it clear that delays wouldn’t be tolerated. Whilst he had been kind to her and her sisters, Leonor couldn’t dismiss the rumours about his bloodcurdling rages.
What would happen if they stumbled across a stray peasant who hadn’t heard the orders to stay indoors? Leonor’s brow knotted. Her optimistic mood faded, like a flower that had stood too long in the searing sun. She held Snowstorm at a standstill under the sunshade so helpfully held over her and told herself firmly that they would be on their way soon.
An arm’s length away, Alba and Constanza sat on their grey mares amid a froth of full skirts and rippling veils. Like Leonor, they were wearing circlets starred with gemstones; like her, their wrists were adorned with heavy gold bracelets.
Snowstorm tossed her head and the light chime of bells shimmered about them.
Alba guided her horse closer. ‘I didn’t think this journey would take so long,’ she murmured. ‘Are you as stiff as I am?’
‘I’m a little sore, but I don’t care. Father has come for us and we shall live in a tower and look out across the mountains. We shall have our own household.’ Leonor tried to sound bright, even though she had a terrible feeling that something awful was about to happen. Could Alba hear the worry in her voice?
‘Leonor.’ Alba switched quietly to Spanish, in the way the sisters did when they wanted to converse privately. Of all the royal servants, only Inés spoke Spanish. ‘Life in the Alhambra might not be quite as you expect.’
Behind her veil, Leonor’s eyes went wide. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You also doubt Father?’
‘I suspect he only came for us because Inés wrote to him after you visited the prison.’
Leonor stiffened her spine. She’d told her sisters what she had done and they had been so shocked, she regretted mentioning it. It seemed all she had achieved was to worry them. ‘Alba, I won’t apologise. I wanted to know about Mamá.’
Alba leaned in. ‘I don’t blame you. I am as curious about her as you.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘Inés, on the other hand, was frantic.’
Leonor didn’t need reminding. ‘I know, and for that I am deeply sorry.’
‘I’m pretty certain she told Father we’d been watching the Spanish captives when their ship arrived at the quayside.’
Leonor’s heart sank. ‘You don’t think she mentioned my visit to the prison?’
‘I doubt it, Father has shown no signs of anger.’
‘I pray you are right.’
‘Be careful, Leonor. It’s my belief Father came to fetch us so that he could keep an even closer eye on us. Life in the palace might not be the paradise you are hoping for.’
Leonor gripped her reins, it wasn’t pleasant having Alba echo her fears. Yes, the Sultan had come to escort his daughters to the palace. The question was, what would happen after that?
The horses walked on a few paces. Craning her neck, Leonor saw what was holding them up. The Sultan’s personal guard clustered around him. Nearby, a line of prisoners was lying face down in a dried-up gully by the side of the road.
Oh, no! What about Father’s orders that his subjects remain indoors? The guards in charge of these men could not have been told.
Goosebumps ran down her neck. Her father’s black horsemen lined the route. Even they didn’t dare look at the Princesses’ escort. All save one had turned to f
ace resolutely away from the road. The lone horseman who had not turned was screaming at a prisoner. A prisoner who was on his feet. Worse, he was staring directly at the royal entourage.
Leonor’s mouth dried. Didn’t he understand? Her father would kill him! Leonor willed him to lie down with the other prisoners.
The prisoner stood straight and tall by the side of the road, apparently oblivious of any danger. His crimson tunic hung in rags from his broad shoulders and, even at this distance, his casual arrogance was unmistakable. It was the commander of the garrison at Córdoba, Count Rodrigo Álvarez.
Ice filled her veins. She ran her gaze along the prisoners prostrated along the highway. Apart from Lord Rodrigo, two other prisoners were also standing, a man in blue and another in green. Despite the irritation of having to see through her filmy veil, Leonor knew them for the Count’s comrades. One was the knight with the injured leg, the other had helped Lord Rodrigo keep him upright on the quayside.
‘The three knights,’ Leonor murmured. God have mercy.
Her father, the Sultan, may he live for ever, was glaring at Count Rodrigo. With a sense of dread, she watched her father snatch out his scimitar. He was preparing to charge!
Leonor spurred forward amid a tinkling of silver bells. Dust fogged the air, blurring the expression on the Sultan’s face. It was impossible to judge the level of his anger. Given his order that his subjects should remain indoors whilst the royal party rode past, he was likely in a fury and had only stayed his hand because Lord Rodrigo’s effrontery had temporarily stunned him.
‘Father, stop!’
The Sultan turned to her, dark eyes incredulous. ‘Daughter?’
His scimitar glittered. Leonor’s insides quivered. No one, no one, questioned Sultan Tariq, never mind gave him a direct order. She swallowed hard, desperate to avoid bloodshed. ‘The prisoner doesn’t understand.’
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