‘Leonor? You have a Spanish name?’
‘My mother was Spanish, my lord.’
‘Of course, the Lady Juana you mentioned at Salobreña.’
‘Aye.’
He heard the dogs again, closer this time.
‘I am honoured to meet you, Princess Leonor. Hold fast.’
He dug in his heels and Eagle sprang into the night.
* * *
As Lord Rodrigo’s horse carried them down the slope, Leonor prayed he didn’t notice how jumpy she was. Anger against her father was a dark flame in her heart. And then there was fear—she was walking into the unknown and it was terrifying.
Leonor was fluent in Arabic and Spanish, she could sing and play the lute, in short, she was a highly educated woman, but she understood her limitations. She had never stepped outside the small world of a Nasrid princess. Her entire life she’d been surrounded by slaves, servants and eunuchs. Inés had always been within calling distance. And as for her sisters, well, the three of them were inseparable.
And here she was, sharing a saddle with a Spanish nobleman. She was practically in the man’s lap, and all she knew about him was his name and that he was the commander of the Spanish King’s garrison in Córdoba.
Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba.
She gripped the pommel of the saddle and told herself that she didn’t need to know more about him. As far as she was concerned, he was little more than a means of escape. Could she persuade him to accompany her and her sisters beyond the borders of Al-Andalus? She hoped so.
With luck, he’d set them on the road to finding their Spanish relatives. Among the Count of Córdoba’s noble connections, there must be someone with information about her mother. If she and her sisters found their mother’s family, they would have somewhere to settle, somewhere they could live, free of their father’s influence. They could lead their own lives.
The Count’s hand tightened on her waist and doubts began to circle, like crows over a corpse. This was a foreign knight with whom she and her sisters had conducted a forbidden flirtation from the top of their tower. His body was presently pressed against her in the most shameful of ways. She could feel his strength. She, who had never been allowed in the company of a real man, was leaning against a total stranger. One who was, undoubtedly, all man. Could she trust him? Was he honourable?
This warrior, her father’s enemy, felt so strong. With a sense of surprise, Leonor realised she didn’t fear him. He was—the word ‘dependable’ leaped into her head—Lord Rodrigo was dependable.
Where on earth had that come from? She snorted. Dependable? What was she thinking? Lord Rodrigo was just another man. Like her father, he probably had feet of clay.
Thunder rolled across the darkened skies and Leonor told herself to be realistic. The best she could hope for would be that Lord Rodrigo wouldn’t hold her father’s sins against her. Now she thought about it, there were several incongruities concerning his capture in battle. He had the build of a powerful warrior, so how on earth had he been defeated?
Raindrops pattered on to her veil. And there, muffled by thunder and drumming hoofbeats, she caught once more the baying of her father’s hounds.
She tightened her hold on Lord Rodrigo’s saddle and prayed that she and her sisters—and their Spanish knights—would survive the night.
She tried to look back and Lord Rodrigo’s grip tightened.
‘Hold still,’ he said, and urged his horse on.
Leonor’s pulse raced, she had never ridden so fast in her life. Through dark, through rain. She prayed the horse wouldn’t stumble and that her father’s hunting dogs wouldn’t catch them. Most of all she prayed she’d never have to face her father’s fury.
We must outrun Father’s anger. He’ll surely kill us if he catches us.
The rain poured steadily down. Trees shot past in a blur. Undergrowth rustled and hoofs pounded. Through the chaos, another sound reached her, a light rushing sound, higher pitched than thunder or hoofbeats. Leonor recognised it instantly.
Water. Every muscle went rigid, Inés had told her about this.
May God preserve us!
She stared at the ground rushing past them, and a faint glimmer in the bed of the normally dried-up river confirmed her fear. Water. Her duenna’s words came back to her. The reason the three knights and the other prisoners had been put to work in the gully had been because it was prone to flooding after storms.
The rain. The months of searing heat. The parched earth. That sudden, heavy downpour up in the mountains. The riverbed was filling, fast. Lightning flickered and there was an immense crash of thunder. The storm was directly overhead.
Heart thumping every bit as loudly as the horse’s hoofs, Leonor put her hand on Lord Rodrigo’s. ‘My lord, the river!’
He sleeved rain from his face. ‘My lady?’
‘Water is pouring off the mountains. Much water.’
The pace slackened. There was no hesitation, which she found surprising, the Count simply took her at her word. She felt him turn to examine the empty riverbed. He looked towards the mountains and then back at her. Lightning rippled above them.
‘The terrain here is similar to the gully where we cleared rocks?’ he asked, not sounding the least bit perturbed.
‘Yes, Lord Rodrigo, it is exactly like that.’
White teeth flashed in the dark. ‘Thank you, Princess Leonor, that is most interesting.’
He reined in and his friend, the nobleman who had taken Alba, drew up. Two other young men trailed behind them, presumably the knights’ squires.
Leonor peered past the squires, searching in vain for a third pair of riders. Nothing. She frowned. Where was Constanza? Had she got lost?
Before she could ask about her youngest sister, Lord Rodrigo turned to the nobleman riding with Alba. ‘The riverbed is prone to flash floods.’ He gestured at the water swirling around the horses’ hoofs. ‘We’ll use that in our favour. Get the river between us and the palace. With luck, it’ll confuse the dogs.’
‘Good idea,’ the other knight said, settling Alba more comfortably before him.
Leonor touched her sister’s elbow. ‘Alba, is Constanza behind us?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen her.’
Leonor glanced at the squires. ‘And you, sirs, have you seen my other sister?’
‘No, my lady.’
Leonor gripped the pommel and stared back the way they had come. There was still no sign of the third knight and Constanza. She looked at Count Rodrigo. ‘My lord?’
He held up his hand. ‘A moment, if you please. Inigo, our chances of escape will be better if we separate. I’ll head south-west. They won’t be expecting that.’
Lord Rodrigo’s friend nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘God willing, I’ll be in Córdoba in a week.’
‘Very well. I’ll meet you there.’
Lord Rodrigo beckoned at a squire. ‘Miguel, you’re with me.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Leonor’s eyes fixed on Lord Inigo as he urged his horse up the riverbank with Alba clinging to his saddle like a burr. Then he and his squire galloped into a curtain of rain and were lost from sight.
The downpour had plastered Leonor’s veil to her face. Her stomach twisted. Where was Constanza? They couldn’t leave without her.
‘My lord, about Constanza—?’
She was interrupted by a dull roaring sound. Behind her, Lord Rodrigo tensed. His horse jibbed.
‘My lord, the river!’
Lord Rodrigo clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and they tore up the riverbank as though the devil himself was at their heels.
* * *
They rode for hours, long after the sounds of pursuit had faded. Rodrigo drove Eagle to the point where he risked laming or exhausting him. The storm moved
on and the stars reappeared, guiding Rodrigo south-west. They passed villages and farms and crossed miles of scrubland.
Princess Leonor gripped Eagle’s mane and occasionally shifted in the saddle. She made no complaint. The Princess, it would seem, was stronger than she appeared.
As they rode, the scent of orange blossom teased his nostrils. By this time, Rodrigo had had plenty of time to think, plenty of time to realise that, in giving in to the impulse to help her, he had made a seriously grave error in judgement. This little escapade could cause a major diplomatic incident and relations between the Kingdom of Castile and the Emirate of Al-Andalus were already strained to breaking point. The consequences could be disastrous.
What the devil was he to do? She was a Nasrid princess, for pity’s sake. Sultan Tariq would surely move heaven and earth to get her back.
It was tempting to pay Sultan Tariq back in his own coin by asking for a ransom for his daughter’s safe return—no, the idea left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Yes, Rodrigo had wanted revenge. And with the Sultan’s daughter landing—quite literally—in his lap, he had the perfect tool by which to get it.
Except he couldn’t use her in that way. First, there was that bangle she’d given him in prison to help Inigo. Then there was the way she’d flown to his defence on the road to Granada. A Nasrid princess had saved his life. She’d saved them all. There was no way he could use her to avenge himself on her father. She must be sent back home.
The Sultan’s daughter. Lord help him, what a dilemma. Princess Leonor had asked for help to get away. Yet she would clearly be safest back in the palace.
She would be furious. Well, so be it. There was too much at stake, and he couldn’t answer for the consequences if she stayed in Spain. Princess Leonor had to be sent back to where she belonged. A girl like her—dangerously naive, cossetted and impossibly beautiful—wouldn’t last a week outside her father’s palace.
As soon as he was certain they’d shaken off the pursuit, he would send Miguel back to arrange for her safe return.
Rodrigo frowned over Leonor’s head and tried to ignore the scent of orange blossom. He shifted in the saddle. Why did the idea of sending her back to her father make him so uncomfortable? What else could he do with her? He certainly couldn’t keep her. Sending her home made political sense. It was the honourable thing to do.
* * *
Light was strengthening in the east when Rodrigo judged they had put enough distance between them and the Sultan’s hounds. He slowed the horse and bent to murmur in the Princess’s ear. ‘There is an inn a mile or two ahead, we’ll stop to rest and refresh ourselves.’
She nodded.
Allowing the question of what he was going to do with her to settle in his mind—he would return her to her father as soon as he could—Rodrigo spent the rest of the ride justifying his decision.
Likely a fit of pique had driven Princess Leonor to flee the safety of the Alhambra Palace. Perhaps there had been a family argument. No matter, the reason for her escape was irrelevant. Life was dangerous outside the palace. To avoid a major diplomatic wrangle, as well as for her own safety, Princess Leonor must be returned.
Chapter Nine
They reached the inn in the grey light of dawn. After Leonor dismounted, she stood by a water trough and eased her aching legs. Her veil itched, it was slightly damp. Grimacing, she tugged at the fabric, managing to draw it away from her skin without removing it.
Count Rodrigo was taller than she remembered. Merciful heavens, he was incredibly well built. Even without his armour, he would dwarf her father’s guards.
The Count handed his horse to his exhausted-looking squire. ‘Rub him down well, Miguel. We rode hard and he’ll be thirsty, but don’t let him have too much at once.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
Lord Rodrigo looked her over top to toe, and Leonor received the distinct impression that something about her amused him. Then he shrugged and crooked his arm at her. ‘My lady?’
His hair was dark, dishevelled from their ride, and his eyes were even darker. A quiver ran through her as she placed her hand on his arm. Close to, this man was more than a little alarming. Mercifully, he had shown no sign of violence or ill will towards her.
After the restrictions of the palace, Leonor was uneasy touching a man in so familiar a fashion. It was extremely disturbing. Unsettling. However, there was nothing in the Count’s face to suggest that the offer of his arm was anything but commonplace. She would simply have to get used to it, the last thing she wanted was to cause offence.
She needed a man who was brash and bold and strong, someone who could protect her from her father’s wrath. The commander of the garrison at Córdoba was just such a man and Leonor would use any means to persuade him to help her. Any means. She had won her freedom and she intended to keep it, even though it meant never seeing her father again.
‘My lord, I was thankful to see you at the sally-port,’ she said, putting a smile in her voice, despite her fatigue. ‘When your friend arranged to meet us, I wasn’t sure you would join him.’
His lip twitched. ‘You were happy to see me.’
‘Yes, of course.’ And that was the truth, she realised, with a jolt. This was more than mere flattery to win him over, she truly had been glad to see him.
‘I nearly didn’t come.’
Leonor felt her face fall. ‘Oh?’
‘Inigo and I didn’t discover what Enrique was up to until the last moment.’
‘Well, I’m thankful you came. Your friend seemed to be a little—how shall I put it?—excitable.’
‘Enrique’s a liability.’
‘He’d had much wine, I think.’
‘He was totally drunk.’
‘Is he capable of riding in such a state?’ Leonor asked. It would be too dreadful if Constanza hadn’t got away because the knight named Enrique had had too much wine.
The Count gave a short laugh. ‘Riding when drunk is a skill my cousin mastered years ago.’
Beneath her veil, her eyebrows lifted. ‘That knight is your cousin?’
‘Aye.’ The Count’s dark eyes were slightly narrowed as he looked down at her. Doubtless, he was trying to read her expression through her veil. This man had seen her face more than once—when he’d arrived at Salobreña, on the road to Granada and again at the tower. Did he find her attractive?
Leonor hoped so, because if Lord Rodrigo liked the look of her, he might be more inclined to help. Unfortunately, her only experience of the way a man’s mind worked was based on her dealings with her father. Her father responded well to flattery, and he liked his daughters to agree with him. Her father’s word was law. Count Rodrigo was an unknown, she couldn’t be certain how he would react.
What did he think of her? What must she do to keep this man on her side? If she was going to make a life for herself outside her father’s kingdom, she would need all the support he could give, particularly at the outset.
The Count had arranged to meet Lord Inigo in Córdoba, and if she and Alba were to be reunited quickly, it was essential that he help her that far. He was also likely to know where his cousin was likely to take Constanza.
They were proceeding towards the inn when it struck her that she had no idea whether they had even left her father’s kingdom.
‘Are we still in Al-Andalus, my lord?’
‘Aye, why?’
She dug in her heels and took her hand from his arm. ‘My lord, we can’t stop yet, my father’s men will hunt us down.’
Firmly, he shook his head. ‘We need rest. We are quite safe here, my lady.’
‘You don’t understand, Father will find us. He will never stop looking, never. We must go on.’
A warm hand took her elbow and Leonor was steered towards the tavern door. The Count’s boldness startled her and she went with him, meek as a lamb. And in
so doing, she discovered that his touch didn’t trouble her. It felt reassuring rather than threatening.
‘I will not permit anyone to harm you, my lady,’ he said, drawing her across the yard. ‘The innkeeper is loyal to my family. He will post a man on the road to alert us if your father’s men appear. I shall secure us a private chamber. We have much to discuss.’
A private chamber? That did sound ominous, and tired though she was, Leonor’s mind began to race. Was the innkeeper as trustworthy as Lord Rodrigo believed? Her father rarely spoke about the people living near his borders and she had no way of judging. Everything Leonor knew was gleaned from Inés. And, love Inés though she did, Leonor would be the first to admit that many of her duenna’s stories were too fanciful to be true.
What she did know was that her father’s kingdom had in ancient times been ruled by the Visigoths. Boundaries had been fluid for centuries and battles such as the one in which Lord Rodrigo had been captured were often fought purely to fill the royal treasury.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. In order to keep the peace, her father owed tribute to Castile, and to get it he was in the habit of capturing Spanish knights simply for their ransom.
Leonor sighed, she was well out of her depth and it seemed that her best course was to follow the Count’s lead. Warily. She would remain watchful. Above all, she must keep him sweet if she was to bend him to her will. That had worked with her father. Sometimes.
The inn was small and unremarkable. Built almost entirely of wood, the outside was largely bare of ornamentation. There was no carving on the walls, indeed, the only image Leonor could see was three golden swirls on a signboard.
The main chamber inside smelt of woodsmoke and fresh bread. The floor was devoid of coloured tiles. Goodness, surely it wasn’t beaten earth? Yes, she rather thought it was.
Through what she guessed must be a serving hatch, she could see an open fire with a complicated arrangement of metalwork hanging over it. A boy was slowly turning a spit. Several cauldrons hung on chains over the flames and a woman was flipping flatbread on an iron griddle.
Curiosity pulled Leonor closer. Never having set foot in the palace kitchens, this was the first time she’d seen anyone cooking. A young girl with a white cloth tied about her waist was chopping onions at a worn table. The girl’s gown was practical and modest, though the fabric looked a trifle heavy. Recalling Inés telling her that most people spun the cloth to make their own clothes, Leonor wondered if the fabric was homespun. It seemed likely. The girl murmured to the woman before crossing to the fire to stir something in one of the pots.
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