Книга - The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

The Knight’s Forbidden Princess
Carol Townend


A princess captive in the tower…A Spanish knight who can set her free!In this Princesses of the Alhambra story meet Princess Leonor, who can’t escape her tyrannical Sultan father. For Spanish knight Count Rodrigo her innocence and her beauty tug at his sense of honour. He will lay down his life to protect her…but the risks are great: she is the daughter of his sworn enemy!







A princess captive in the tower...

A Spanish knight who can set her free!

In this Princesses of the Alhambra story, meet Princess Leonor, who can’t escape her tyrannical sultan father. For Spanish knight Count Rodrigo, her innocence—and beauty—tug at his sense of honor. He will lay down his life to protect her...but the risks are great: she is the daughter of his sworn enemy!

Princesses of the Alhambra miniseries

Book 1—The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

Look out for the next book, coming soon!

“A well built story with believable characters and an evocative sense of time and place.”

—Goodreads Review on Lady Isobel’s Champion


CAROL TOWNEND was born in England and went to a convent school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Captivated by the medieval period, Carol read history at London University. She loves to travel, drawing inspiration for her novels from places as diverse as Winchester in England, Istanbul in Turkey and Troyes in France. A writer of both fiction and non-fiction, Carol lives in London with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at caroltownend.co.uk (http://www.caroltownend.co.uk).


Also by Carol Townend (#u8aba68ae-2275-5b45-9842-d37b1ac1732e)

Knights of Champagne miniseries

Lady Isobel’s Champion

Unveiling Lady Clare

Lord Gawain’s Forbidden Mistress

Lady Rowena’s Ruin

Mistaken for a Lady

Princesses of the Alhambra miniseries

The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

And look out for the next book

coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

Carol Townend






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07369-1

THE KNIGHT’S FORBIDDEN PRINCESS

© 2018 Carol Townend

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my editor, Linda Fildew, who listened very hard (and incredibly patiently) when I was developing this story.

I’d also like to thank Joanna Maitland and Sophie Weston of Libertà! Their sparkles were invaluable. They know what I mean.

A thousand thanks.


Contents

Cover (#u193ec232-f522-5d68-8ce6-c926b57b4561)

Back Cover Text (#uc88575fd-c6ab-5501-8c60-6da2a2ed71e0)

About the Author (#u11ab692c-fce1-56d8-93c6-9ad814922dcb)

Booklist (#ua7e6cc15-b81d-5030-85a9-dad6bbd0e336)

Title Page (#u0077e664-ada9-5556-804d-3a74ce9035ee)

Copyright (#u18ca0f91-97a2-5fc5-945a-79686450cfbf)

Dedication (#u6feddef4-f966-513e-b41c-acf6de50d704)

Chapter One (#uc802a43a-8bb8-50ef-89b4-5c1c9f6d7430)

Chapter Two (#uef32abc3-6631-54f6-8d69-b45fc1cb3bb8)

Chapter Three (#u8234017b-a927-5d66-9793-9288736b2db5)

Chapter Four (#u1bfcc5bf-2e7b-591c-a8ab-190f5dea03de)

Chapter Five (#uebf111c2-8bc4-5102-9d49-f1d78bd1ba16)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u8aba68ae-2275-5b45-9842-d37b1ac1732e)

1396—Castle Salobreña in Al-Andalus—a watchtower overlooking the port

The eldest Nasrid Princess was feeling rebellious. Today, she was using her Spanish name rather than her Moorish one. Today, she was Princess Leonor. She was supposed to be taking her siesta on a pile of tasselled cushions by a latticed window, yet sleep was miles away.

The two other Princesses were dozing nearby. Thanks to the Sultan’s orders, the shutters of the pavilion were firmly closed and, unhappily for the three Princesses, the breeze was too weak to work its way through the lattices. The heat was suffocating.

Leonor lifted the edge of her veil to fan herself and the chink of ruby and pearl bracelets echoed softly around the pavilion walls. With each breath, the gems decorating the fringe flickered like fireflies, and tiny rainbow-coloured lights danced over the tiled floor. Leonor frowned at the evanescent colours, at the brilliant arabesques patterning the pavilion walls, at the script flowing neatly over the door arch. ‘There is no victor but God,’ it read. Her frown deepened. As if she or her sisters could forget. ‘No victor but God’ was the motto of the Nasrid dynasty.

We are in prison. Our father has imprisoned us at the border of his territories. Will we ever be free?

Princess Leonor itched to toss her veil aside, but her father, the Sultan, may blessings rain upon him, had forbidden it. The three Nasrid Princesses were not to be stared at.

In truth, the Sultan himself was the only man alive to have seen their faces. Men in general, including even the hand-picked guards on duty outside their apartment, were forbidden to look at them. To all intents and purposes, the Sultan’s daughters were invisible. Sometimes Princess Leonor felt as though she didn’t actually exist. It was as though she had winked out of sight, like a real firefly.

She gripped her fan. It had been an age since she and her sisters had heard from their father. Did he intend to keep them locked out of sight for ever? The thought of spending her whole life in a jewelled cage was unbearable; something had to change.

Since Leonor was the eldest Nasrid Princess, perhaps it was up to her to see that it did.

She drew in a breath of warm air and gazed through her veil at a beam of light slanting through the latticed shutter. The shutter—yet another barrier to keep her and her sisters safely out of sight—was pierced with pretty stars. Leonor loathed the sight of them. Dust motes hung in the air. The light quivered and was darkened by a swiftly moving shadow.

A seagull outside? An eagle? It was too hot to move.

If I open the shutter, I could see the harbour below.

Not that Leonor was meant to do that. It wouldn’t do for the Sultan’s daughter to lean out of the watchtower window; it wouldn’t do for a Nasrid princess to be seen.

But the heat! Holy heaven, she was melting. If she opened the shutter, just a chink, there would surely be some breeze. The latch was within reach, the latch that she and her sisters were forbidden to lift. Dropping her fan, Leonor stretched out her hand. Even the metal was warm.

She hesitated, picturing the castle walls straggling downhill towards the sea. The pavilion was situated in a remote tower overlooking the port—this window had to be well out of the guards’ line of sight. Who would know if she opened the shutter?

If anyone on the quayside glanced her way, all they would see was a veiled woman in the distance.

Leonor lifted the latch and pushed at the shutter. Light poured in. And sounds! Sounds that the shutter had muffled—the braying of a donkey, the cry of a gull, the creak of a rope. Her pulse quickened. Silk rustled as she pushed to her knees. She leaned her elbows on the embrasure and looked out.

The wind toyed with her veil. She could smell salt and fish. And down there—seen through the film of her veil—the harbour teemed with life. There were so many people! Ordinary people who walked freely about her father’s kingdom.

Out to sea, a ship moved steadily across the water. Hampered by her veil, Leonor couldn’t see the detail, just the shape of it, its sails filled with wind. Even the ripples on the water were blurred by her veil.

Her throat ached. Gritting her teeth, half-expecting the heavens to fall, she reached for the hem of her veil and tossed it over her head.

The heavens didn’t fall, but she blinked. Everything was so bright!

The sea stretched on for ever, it seemed, its surface gleaming like beaten metal. The sun sparkled on the swell and gilded the leaves of the palm trees. Best of all, Leonor could feel the breeze caressing her cheeks. It was cool, a touch of paradise and infinitely better than her stupid fan. Bliss. When a gust of wind caught a lock of hair and tugged it free of its pins, she held in a delighted laugh.

Below her on the wall walk, the thud of heavy boots sounded a warning, a guard was doing his rounds. Hand over her mouth lest she draw his attention her way, Leonor held herself still. Her heart thumped in time with the marching boots. If the guard heard anything and leaned over that merlon, he might catch sight of her. For her sake as well as his, it wouldn’t do to be seen, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the harbour below. Paradise was surely looking at the world without a veil. Just this once. There was so much to see. A large galley had docked and was unloading its cargo. No, not cargo exactly. Merciful God, the men walking down the gangplank were chained together in a long line. Chained.

Goosebumps ran down Leonor’s back. Was it a slave ship? There were slaves in the castle, but they were well cared for. Leonor had never seen anyone chained like this and what she saw appalled her.

Those men...poor things. Their bruises spoke of heavy-handed beatings by the brutes in charge of them. A powerful-looking prisoner in a crimson tunic was helping one who looked to be barely conscious. The beaten man stumbled, fighting the drag of his fetters, and it was clear that he was only standing thanks to his friend’s supporting arms. It was odd though, something was very out of place. Most of the prisoners were remarkably well dressed.

Leonor’s gaze was drawn back to the man in crimson. He stood taller than his companions, with strong, wide shoulders. As she studied him, the word ‘warrior’ jumped into her head. Not that Leonor had ever seen a warrior close to—her father, the King, may he live for ever, would never permit it. But that man, yes, he must be a warrior, his physique was truly remarkable. The wind was playing in his wavy dark hair, teasing the edge of his crimson tunic.

Leonor glimpsed a flash of gold and her eyes went wide. He was wearing a gold ring. Goodness, who was he? Why hadn’t the ring been stolen by his captors? As she stared harder, she noticed that the man’s crimson tunic was embroidered with gold thread. She looked at his neighbours and found more signs of wealth. Silver gleamed on the belt buckle of a man in a blue tunic. The man who was hurt also had a gold ring on. These three looked more like princes than slaves. Why were they chained? It didn’t make sense.

Angry voices floated up from the quayside. An overseer cracked his whip and Leonor bit her lip as an agonised groan reached her ears. The injured man stumbled again, the chains jerked and the line of prisoners came to an abrupt halt.

Leonor quite forgot her place and leaned right out of the window. She was no longer the Princess Leonor who should know better than to show her face outside. She was simply a soft-hearted young woman frowning at a sailor for whipping a man who could barely stand.

She wasn’t the only one to be so affronted. As the whip lifted a second time, the tallest captive, the one in crimson, rounded on the overseer.

Leonor’s nails bit into her palms. Anger darkened the face of the warrior-like figure and he stepped directly into harm’s way. The whip snaked towards him, and when it struck, he made no sound. He looked furious. Furious and proud. Something lodged in Leonor’s throat. Even in his anger, that man was devastatingly handsome. No slave, he.

Who were these men?

Leonor suddenly recalled hearing her duenna, Inés, muttering to one of the servants. There had been talk of Spanish noblemen chipping away at the edges of her father’s territory. There had been fighting and prisoners had been taken.

Thoughtfully, Leonor stared at the quayside. Prisoners, not slaves. Likely they were being held hostage for the ransom they would bring. Her father, the Sultan, peace be upon him, owed tribute to the neighbouring kingdom of Castile. Ironically, the tribute was intended to serve as a sign of goodwill between the Kingdom of Al-Andalus and the Spanish kingdom. That clearly didn’t stop her father capturing Spanish lords and using them to gain ransom to pay that tribute.

Behind her came the rustle of Granadan silk, her sisters were awake.

‘Leonor, your veil!’ Princess Alba’s voice held censure. ‘Come away from the window!’

Leonor shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘If you lean out far enough, you can see the harbour,’ she said casually.

‘But your veil! What if Father finds out?’

The youngest Princess, Constanza, came to stand at Alba’s side. ‘Father would be very angry. Inés has warned us about what might happen if—’

Leonor made an impatient gesture. ‘Forget the veil, it’s impossible for anyone in the castle to see this window, the line of sight is quite wrong.’ She beckoned her sisters over. ‘A galley has docked, and I think it’s brought captives from the fighting.’

Princess Alba caught her breath. ‘Spanish knights? Here in Salobreña?’

Princess Constanza simply stared.

Leonor smiled. The Princesses’ mother had been a Spanish noblewoman and Leonor’s sisters were as curious about Spain as she was. Sadly, the Queen had died before the Princesses had reached their third birthday and they could barely remember her. Leonor had faint recollections of a dark-eyed woman holding her hand; of a soft voice singing lullabies; of the tinkle of golden bracelets and the whisper of silk slippers on marble floors. Shadowy memories that prompted a strong interest in the part of her heritage that was lost to her. Her mother—a captive—had become the Sultan’s favourite. He had made her his Queen. Leonor ached to know what her mother’s life had been like before she had been captured.

All their companion Inés would tell them was that their mother’s Spanish name had been Lady Juana. Inés had been their mother’s duenna—her governess and companion—before they’d been taken by the Sultan. After the Queen’s death, Inés had been given charge of the little Princesses. Unfortunately, she was closed as a clam, and she refused to reveal Lady Juana’s birthplace, just as she refused to give the Princesses their mother’s full name.

Inés must have been sworn to secrecy. Perhaps she was afraid.

None of which stopped Leonor wondering. What family had Lady Juana left behind? Had she fought to return home? Had she found it easy to adjust when their father had made her his Queen?

‘Spanish knights?’ Alba took a tentative step towards her. ‘Leonor, are you sure?’

‘Look for yourself. You can see quite clearly from the window.’

Alba twisted her fingers together. ‘Leonor, if you can see the ship and the quayside, it follows that someone down there might see you. Put on your veil!’

With a shrug, Leonor turned back to the window. ‘The people on the quay will be ignorant of Father’s rules about veils. And even if they are not, how will they know who we are? We are too far away.’

Leaning out quite shamelessly, she watched the chained men, focusing once more on the man in crimson as he helped his friend limp along the quayside. She couldn’t seem to help herself, he fascinated her. It was somewhat unsettling. Vaguely, she was conscious of first Alba and then Constanza coming to kneel beside her. A couple of swift, sidelong glances told her that her sisters were not in as rebellious a mood as she, their veils remained firmly in place.

She hid a smile. Veils notwithstanding, both sisters were leaning out over the windowsill, just as she was. They too stared down at the quayside.

‘We must be quiet,’ Leonor murmured. ‘The guards...’

Alba nodded and the Princesses watched in silence.

Alba let out a soft sigh. ‘One of them is injured.’

‘The man in the green tunic, aye.’

‘He is fortunate to have friends with him.’ Alba paused, she sounded rather breathless. ‘They are handsome, don’t you think?’

Leonor’s cheeks warmed as she gave a quiet laugh. ‘Aye. Not that I am an expert in such things.’

‘I wonder who they are.’

Leonor kept her voice low. ‘Inés mentioned border skirmishes, that’s why I think they’re Spanish noblemen. Knights who’ve been captured.’

‘Could they be related to Mamá?’

‘Who knows?’

On Leonor’s other side, Constanza kept her lips firmly shut. She too seemed to be watching the captives, but with Constanza one could never be sure.

* * *

Rodrigo wrestled with his fetters, caught Inigo’s arm and kept him steady. Already Enrique, distracted by something on the ramparts of the tyrant’s castle, had let go of him. Surely even Enrique could see that Inigo was on the point of losing consciousness?

‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, show some gratitude, lend Inigo a hand.’ Rodrigo’s voice was brusque, he couldn’t help it. Grief and anger were taking their toll; it was hard to think of anything save the awful truth.

Diego was dead. His brother was dead.

Rodrigo’s guts rolled. He was having a hard time accepting it, but his brother—no more than a boy—had been killed over a few yards of thistles on a patch of barren borderland. He narrowed his gaze on Enrique and tried not to think about the fact that it had been Enrique’s foolhardiness that had got them into the mess in the first place. Recriminations wouldn’t help. If they were to get out of this in one piece, they must stick together. Pointedly, Rodrigo rattled the chain that linked prisoner to prisoner. ‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, think. If Inigo stumbles again, that whip will fall on us all.’

Enrique threw a surly look in his direction and grasped Inigo’s other arm. ‘Inigo should have stayed at home. You all should have done. I would have been all right.’

Rodrigo’s chest ached. That almost sounded like an apology. Certainly, it was the closest Enrique had come to admitting that if he hadn’t filled young Diego’s head with dreams of glory, Diego would be here today. It was too late. Whatever Enrique said, it was too late for Diego.

Enrique was responsible for Diego’s death and their party’s capture. Fool that he was, he’d hurled himself into battle early and Diego—too green to know better—had followed. Rodrigo had flung himself into the fray in a vain attempt to save his brother; Inigo had joined him, and shortly afterwards they’d all been captured.

However, there was nothing to be gained by raking over old coals. They were the tyrant’s prisoners, they needed each other. Who knew what Sultan Tariq might do? Until they were free, they had little choice but to stick together.

Rodrigo and Enrique half-dragged, half-carried Inigo along the quay.

Shadows were short, the port of Salobreña was hotter than an oven. As the captives were herded along, then made to stand next to a pile of fishing nets, Rodrigo suppressed a sigh. The sun was almost directly overhead. His scalp itched and his red tunic was dark with sweat. He swallowed painfully, his throat dry as parchment. ‘I’d sell my soul for a drink,’ he muttered.

Inigo mumbled something that might or might not have been agreement and sagged a little. Rodrigo propped him up.

‘What will they do to us, do you suppose?’ Enrique murmured, a slight crease in his brow.

‘The Sultan’s treasury is empty,’ Rodrigo reminded him. ‘He is desperate for money so he can pay his tribute. I’m confident we will be taken into honourable captivity until our ransom is paid.’

Enrique’s brow cleared. ‘Negotiations shouldn’t take long. Mother won’t allow Father to sit on his hands. I reckon I should be free in a couple of weeks.’

Speechless at Enrique’s self-interest, Rodrigo shook his head and drew in a steadying breath. Enrique was his cousin, but if it weren’t for the family connection, Rodrigo would have nothing to do with him. Particularly now Diego was gone.

Enrique glowered. ‘What?’

‘I was thinking about Diego.’

Enrique flinched and Rodrigo was taken by a powerful urge to hit something. Preferably his cousin. Grief. Fury. Telling himself that starting a family brawl on the quayside would get them nowhere, Rodrigo turned his attention to their surroundings.

Diego would want him to keep his wits about him. His brother would want them—yes, even Enrique—to get away from Al-Andalus in one piece. If a chance to escape presented itself, he’d take it.

Methodically, Rodrigo studied the port. He was looking for weakness, for anything he might turn to their advantage. There hadn’t been many guards on the ship, but chained men weren’t hard to control. It might be different here.

He swore under his breath. Hell burn it, even if they were presented with the chance to escape, they couldn’t take it. Not until Inigo’s leg healed. Not with Enrique proving so unreliable.

After their capture by the Sultan’s forces—Rodrigo sent Enrique another dark look—the three of them had taken pains to stress their noble lineage. The grim reality was that they’d been caught fighting to win back land on the tyrant’s borders, and to avoid summary execution they’d told the Moorish commander that they’d pay handsomely for their release.

Salobreña Castle loured over the port, solid and imposing. It looked impregnable, not that Rodrigo wanted to break in. If they were to be lodged in honourable captivity in the castle whilst they waited for their ransoms to be paid, he would be looking for a way out. Inigo might heal quickly.

A flag hung limply from a flagpole, the colours—red and gold—those of the Nasrid dynasty. Rodrigo ran his gaze along the length of the curtain wall as it wound down the cliffs. There were several watchtowers, the nearest of which was close to the port. Interesting. If they were to be lodged in the castle and if they did make their escape, the location of that tower might be useful.

‘Dios mío.’ Enrique gave a low whistle, he had followed Rodrigo’s gaze and was staring at the nearest watchtower. ‘There are women up there. Look, a shutter is open.’

Something fluttered up at the top of the tower. For once, Enrique was right. A latticed shutter was indeed open and three women were leaning out of the embrasure, watching the harbour. Two of them were wearing veils, the other—Lord, if Rodrigo’s imagination wasn’t playing tricks with him and at this distance he couldn’t be sure—the one without a veil was a beauty.

Rodrigo caught the flash of dark eyes, of a jewelled bracelet and a shining black twist of hair. A low murmur reached him. He’d probably imagined the murmur—the tower was surely too far away for him to hear anything over the lap of the water and the clanking of prisoners’ irons. The dark-eyed woman seemed to be watching him. Her friends too were looking their way.

‘Who the devil are they?’ Enrique asked.

Rodrigo made an impatient sound. ‘Saints, Enrique, how would I know?’ He made his voice dry. ‘They could be the tyrant’s daughters.’

Enrique’s mouth fell open. ‘The Princesses? Truly?’

‘Enrique, I wasn’t serious.’ The Sultan was rumoured to have three identical daughters whom he kept in pampered seclusion in Salobreña Castle. Personally, Rodrigo was sceptical. He stared at his cousin. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that folk tale about the three Princesses.’

Their conversation roused Inigo from his stupor and he squinted up at the tower window, blinking sweat from his eyes. ‘Princesses? Where?’

Rodrigo sighed. ‘There are no princesses, Inigo, it’s just a story.’ Surely no man, not even a tyrant like Sultan Tariq, would incarcerate his daughters in a castle and never allow them to be seen?

Inigo stared up at the tower. ‘Three princesses, Lord.’

Inigo’s voice was little more than a drunken murmur, which was understandable. He was drunk—on pain, on fatigue, on thirst. They all were.

‘There are no princesses, Inigo,’ Rodrigo said firmly. ‘Likely those girls are the castle cooks.’

‘They don’t look like cooks to me.’ Worryingly, Inigo was slurring his words. ‘I know a silken veil when I see one, I know the glitter of gold. Those are the Princesses. The one without the veil looks as though she’s come straight from a harem. I bet the others are just as comely.’ Inigo paused. ‘What luck, there’s one for each of us.’

Enrique let out a bark of laughter.

Rodrigo sighed. ‘Inigo, you have a fever.’

Enrique’s chain rattled. The line was moving again, they were being prodded and gestured towards a paved square that opened out just off the quayside. Rodrigo took Inigo’s arm to help him keep pace.

‘How’s the leg?’ he asked, more to keep Inigo conscious than in expectation of any reply.

‘Throbs like fury.’

Inigo looked like death, sweat was pouring from him and, despite the heat, his face was pale. At least he was making sense, Rodrigo was amazed he’d remained conscious this long. ‘When we get to our lodgings, I’ll see they fetch you a healer.’

‘You think I’ll get one? Don’t want infection to set in. I’d like to keep my leg.’

‘You’ll keep it, never fear.’

Inigo’s gaze held his. ‘You’re certain?’

Despite his doubts, Rodrigo put lightness in his voice. ‘Certain. Only one leg, only half the ransom. They need to keep you whole!’

Inigo’s lips twisted and he glanced back at that window. ‘What do you think his daughters look like close to?’

It was on the tip of Rodrigo’s tongue to say that the Princesses would probably be ugly, buck-toothed hags when it occurred to him that Inigo probably needed a little fantasy. They all did.

He kept his voice light and smiled. ‘Eyes dark as sloes and lips like rosebuds. Their hair will reach beyond their waists—it will be smooth as black satin and scented with orange blossom. Their bodies will be soft and curved, and their skin—’

Madre mía, what was he doing? Clearly the shock of Diego’s death was taking its toll. Sultan Tariq’s troops had killed his brother; Inigo was wounded; a ransom was being demanded for their safe release and here he was fantasising about three princesses who might not even exist.

Enrique tugged on the chain, causing Inigo to stumble. ‘Don’t stop, Rodrigo, I was enjoying that. You’d got to the Princesses’ skin.’

Rodrigo ground his teeth together and managed—just—not to hit him.


Chapter Two (#u8aba68ae-2275-5b45-9842-d37b1ac1732e)

Entirely focused on the knight in the red tunic as he helped his companion towards the square, Leonor didn’t hear the pavilion door open.

‘Princess Leonor!’ Inés stood in the door arch, her hands on her hips. ‘My lady, what are you doing?’

Veiled in the same way as the two younger Princesses, Inés was known to most in Salobreña by the Moorish name of Kadiga. It was a name given to her by the Sultan when she had first arrived in the palace with the Princesses’ mother. However, shortly after their mother’s death, Inés had told the sisters that she much preferred her old Spanish name. Consequently, whenever they were in the privacy of their apartments, they called their duenna Inés.

Leonor rose from the cushions and faced her. ‘How do you do that?’

‘Do what, my lady?’

‘You always know which of us is which. It doesn’t seem to make any difference whether we are veiled or not. How do you tell us apart?’

Leonor and her sisters were triplets and were as like as peas in a pod. The three of them had hair that was long and black, with the sheen and texture of silk. They had dark lustrous eyes, prettily shaped mouths and teeth as white as pearls. The only difference between them was a slight variation in height. Leonor was the tallest, then came Alba, and finally the youngest, Constanza. Aside from their height, see one Princess and you’ve seen them all.

Inés had always been the only person in the castle who could tell them apart. That she could do so even when she was looking at them from behind was astonishing.

‘You are all equally beautiful, that is sure,’ Inés said. ‘However, you are my girls and I love you, that is how I can tell you apart.’ She gestured at Leonor’s exposed face. ‘Princess Zaida, you will not distract me. Why is your veil pushed back?’

Leonor grimaced. By using Leonor’s Moorish name instead of her Spanish one, her duenna was reminding her, not very subtly, that it wasn’t wise to go against Sultan Tariq’s orders. Guiltily aware that Inés might suffer for Leonor’s disobedience, and that the poor woman must live in fear of what would happen to her should the Princesses rebel in earnest, Leonor bit her lip. ‘My apologies, Inés, but I am no longer a child.’

‘That is open to question.’ Inés tipped her head to one side and hardened her voice. ‘What isn’t open to question is that you have removed your veil. You cannot have forgotten the Sultan’s command that you remain veiled when you leave your apartments, and that includes when you are in this pavilion.’

‘Have pity, Inés, no one comes here and the port is like a furnace. Even the palm trees are melting. I’m suffocating.’

‘That is irrelevant. You are a Nasrid princess and you must obey your father.’

‘Father might try wearing a veil in this heat and see how he likes it,’ Leonor muttered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Leonor heard the fear in her duenna’s voice and the old guilt stirred—the idea that their faithful duenna might have to suffer their father’s wrath was simply unbearable. With a resigned sigh, she caught the edge of her veil and drew it back over her face.

The veil settled. Perspiration immediately prickled on her brow, even though her veil was light as gossamer.

‘Thank you, Leonor.’ Inés drew closer, her skirts dragging on the floor tiles. She touched Leonor’s arm and her voice warmed, becoming almost conspiratorial. ‘What were you looking at, my dear?’

‘A galley has docked. We were watching the captives come ashore.’

‘Captives?’

‘We think they are Spanish knights,’ Alba said. ‘They must have been captured in the fighting.’

Inés went to kneel on the cushions and peered out the window. Leonor knew she’d see nothing, as the prisoners would have reached the square by now. Where were they being taken? The castle dungeons? Where else might they go—was there a prison in the town?

The Princesses were rarely allowed out. Though they’d lived in Salobreña Castle for years, they knew nothing about the actual town. Leonor couldn’t help but wish that, whatever happened to those Spanish knights, the one in crimson would be able to care for his friend.

‘The quay is empty.’ Inés jerked the shutter closed and the pavilion dimmed. ‘I have to say I doubt the men you saw were truly Spanish knights.’

Constanza let out a soft sigh. ‘They were most handsome, Inés,’ she murmured.

Constanza sounded bright, almost happy. With a jolt, Leonor realised that her sister hadn’t sounded half so animated in, well, in months. Clearly, Leonor wasn’t the only one to feel shut in. And through her filmy veil she would swear she could see Constanza blushing. Constanza, of all people, blushing!

Inés made a clucking sound and shooed them towards the door. ‘Handsome—pah!’

Leonor caught her duenna’s hand. ‘Inés, where are those men being taken? Will they be put in the dungeon?’

‘My lady, the whereabouts of a few Spanish captives is not your concern.’

The glass beads on Constanza’s veil sparkled in the light, she was shaking her head. ‘How can you say that? Inés, you are Spanish by birth. Our mother was Spanish. Those men might be relatives.’

Inés froze. ‘My lady, they are not relatives.’

‘They could be, couldn’t they?’ Constanza continued.

Leonor blinked. Of the three Princesses, Constanza was the most biddable, the quietest one. Indeed, apart from her lute-playing, she was so quiet that most of the time you would hardly know she was there. It was good to hear some life in her voice. Good to think that the Spanish captives had brought a blush to her cheeks. It was almost as though her youngest sister had suddenly woken up.

Leonor turned to their duenna. ‘Inés, you must understand, seeing those men has made us curious. You came to Al-Andalus with Mamá, you must remember what life was like before you entered our father’s kingdom.’

‘I remember nothing.’ Inés frowned. ‘And even if I did, the Queen was a Spanish noblewoman, that is all I am permitted to tell you.’

‘Her name was Juana. You did tell us that,’ Leonor said thoughtfully. Seeing those knights had made her realise that her mother’s background needn’t be shrouded in mystery. In the world beyond her father’s kingdom, there must be many people who knew her mother’s history. ‘Lady Juana. And I think you are forgetting something else. We were small at the time, but I remember it well.’

‘Oh?’

‘You said that Lady Juana was betrothed before she fell captive to Father.’

Inés took a hasty step backward. ‘I did not. I wouldn’t dream of being so indiscreet.’

‘You told us Mamá was betrothed, I remember it distinctly.’ Leonor nodded towards the shuttered window. ‘Don’t be afraid, I won’t carry tales to Father. But you must see I am hungry to learn all I can about Mamá. What happened to the nobleman to whom she was betrothed? Who was he? What was he like? What did he do when Mamá was captured? We long to know more about our Spanish side.’

Slowly, Inés shook her head. ‘No, you do not. It is no longer your heritage. My lady, I regret having told you anything, and I shall say no more.’

Leonor clasped her hands in front of her. ‘Just our mother’s full name, Inés, that is all that I ask. Our memories of Mamá are so meagre. We are her daughters, surely you can tell us where she came from? She was Lady Juana of...?’

Putting up her hand in a gesture of rejection, Inés turned sharply away. ‘You are the Sultan’s daughters and I have already told you far more than is wise. Come, we must return to your apartments in the keep. Before you know it, it will be time for the evening meal. Alba, it’s your favourite, spiced fish with rice.’

‘Inés, please.’

Inés stiffened her spine and Leonor understood her pleading was in vain. Leonor was no longer talking to Inés, her beloved duenna, she was talking to Kadiga, Sultan Tariq’s faithful servant. And Kadiga was displeased.

‘Princess Zaida,’ Kadiga said, in her formal voice. ‘This conversation is unseemly, and if you continue in this vein, I shall be forced to conclude that you need disciplining. Your father, the Sultan, will need to be told. He will be gravely disappointed. For your sisters’ sake, if not your own, you must put your mother’s ancestry out of your mind. Such curiosity is not healthy—for anyone.’

* * *

Healthy or not, Princess Leonor’s curiosity could not be curbed. How could she stop wondering about her own mother’s history? Impossible. However, since it was clear that further argument with Inés would achieve nothing, she curbed her tongue and followed her sisters back to the apartments. As soon as the Princesses were safely inside, they removed their veils. Here at least, where they were waited on by trusted maidservants, there was no need for concealment.

The afternoon dragged. Leonor paced around the fountain in the central courtyard as the spray turned to gold in the sunlight. Constanza toyed with her silver lute and Alba stared moodily out of the window. The shadows lengthened. Constanza’s music filled the air and even though she knew it was forbidden, Leonor’s thoughts kept returning to her long-dead mother.

Sight of those Spanish knights on the quayside seemed to have unleashed the rebel in her. Might those knights really be her kin?

At the least, one of them might have heard of their mother. The disappearance of a Spanish noblewoman, even if it had been almost twenty years ago, must have caused a stir. Leonor would give anything to meet one of those men and speak to him.

Alba and Constanza didn’t have to say a word for Leonor to know that they too were thinking the same. That was the way it had always been. They knew each other’s thoughts so well that speech was scarcely necessary.

Evening came, and the Princesses lay on their silken cushions as their meal was spread before them. Leonor ate sparingly, barely noticing that the fish was spiced with cinnamon, or that the rice was flavoured with saffron, her mind was too busy for food. Where had those men been taken? Were they being well treated? If they were waiting to be ransomed, they would surely receive proper care. She hoped so. It was disturbing, not knowing. Had the knight in crimson secured help for his wounded friend? Were they being fed?

When figs were placed before her, Leonor peeled one with a silver knife and ate it absently as she pondered the likelihood of that knight knowing about a Lady Juana who had been stolen away by Sultan Tariq. It must have caused a scandal at the time.

Leonor set aside her knife with a sigh. It wasn’t likely that those men would be relatives.

She felt oddly nervous, as though she was on the verge of making a momentous decision. Her stomach was in knots and, most curious of all, her hands were shaking.

There must be a way to use the arrival of the Spanish knights to learn more about Mamá. This was a rare chance to talk to someone who might have heard about Lady Juana. If she let it slip by, she would never forgive herself. She had to speak to one of those prisoners.

The image of the knight in the crimson tunic came into focus at the back of her mind. Despite his chains, he had an air of command about him.

Mind working furiously, Leonor pushed the fruit bowl towards Alba. ‘Figs?’

Alba shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

Leonor frowned and glanced at Constanza.

‘Constanza? Figs?’

‘No, thank you.’

Leonor stared at her sisters, both of whom ached to know more about their mother, just as she did. She clenched her fists. She was going to speak to that Spanish knight.

And if her father found out? Her heart thumped. She opened her mouth and swiftly shut it again. The knots in her belly were warning her that she was on her own with this. It was too dangerous to involve anyone else. If she was caught, she alone must bear the blame. Her plans must remain secret.

She glanced towards the door arch. Inés sat in the outer chamber, keeping close to her charges, as usual. Her father’s habit of punishing servants for the Princesses’ sins meant Leonor couldn’t discuss this with Inés either.

She toyed with her eating knife. Watched and guarded as they were, it wouldn’t be easy.

Yet somehow, she must manage it without inflicting her father’s anger on someone else.

Her gaze lit on a curl of manuscript next to Constanza’s lute.

A letter! She would write the Sultan a letter.

With luck, she’d never need to dispatch it, and the letter could be kept purely as a safeguard, in case she was caught. The Sultan’s wrath was legendary, and if Leonor was discovered to have visited the prison, she doubted he would listen to reason. He might, however, read a letter, especially one she had written before speaking to the knight. The letter would set out most clearly that she had acted alone, and it would stress her fervent wish to learn about her mother’s family. The Sultan must be made to understand she couldn’t rest until she knew more.

‘Inés?’

Inés appeared in the door arch. ‘Princess Leonor?’

Leonor smiled. ‘Please fetch another lamp. I shall need parchment, a quill and some ink.’

Her duenna’s eyebrows rose. ‘You wish to write?’

‘Aye.’

‘Very well, my lady.’

* * *

Shortly after cockcrow, Leonor was waiting behind a group of soldiers as the door of the prison scraped open. It had been surprisingly easy to persuade a castle guard to escort her there. The man she had approached—Yusuf—clearly had no clue he was speaking to one of the Princesses. He’d been eager to earn a little gold and no questions had been asked. So here she was, heavily veiled and disguised in the clothing of a maidservant.

Despite the ease of getting to the prison, Leonor was shaking from head to toe. If the Sultan found out... None the less, she had convinced herself that the letter she’d tucked into her jewel box would exonerate Yusuf from all blame.

The soldiers in front of her were laden with sacks of bread and flasks of ale for the prisoners. Also waiting to go inside were a handful of people who undoubtedly had paid handsomely to visit the noble Spanish captives. Leonor did her best to blend in and prayed no one noticed how much she was shaking.

Unhappily, she was the only woman and she soon realised that was enough to attract attention. Her throat was dry. This was the hardest thing she had done in her life. Not knowing what to expect, she forced herself to step into a stuffy corridor. Yusuf kept close.

They passed through another door and entered a room filled with many prisoners. Sight of so many men crammed together turned her insides to water. The smell was appalling; it caught in the back of her throat, so sickly sweet it was hard not to gag. Death crouched in every corner. Sounds were ugly. Someone was screaming in pain. Gaunt and hungry men swore at each other as they elbowed each aside to get to the food. It was grim beyond her worst imaginings.

These were her father’s enemies.

Leonor’s stomach lurched as it hit home. God have mercy, these men were here on her father’s orders. This was what her father did, he imprisoned wealthy enemies and held them until a ransom was paid for their release.

When a harsh remark was directed her way, Yusuf pressed close and muttered for her to hurry. Leonor didn’t need reminding. This was no place for a woman, that much was plain.

‘I’ll be quick,’ she whispered.

Hairs prickled on the back of her neck, the pinched faces of the captives scrabbling for bread told her that some had scarcely eaten in weeks. And these were the fortunate ones. She wasn’t going to think about what happened to those without the means to pay any ransom.

She had long been aware of the Sultan’s cruel streak. She had always resented the way he insisted that his daughters passed most of their days locked in their apartment like birds in a cage. But this! It was hard to take it in.

Her father governed Leonor and her sisters with an iron fist, but still the Princesses had been granted their moments of freedom. They’d been given gifts and privileges.

A couple of years ago, they’d learned to ride. Three beautiful grey ponies had arrived at the castle and that summer, on moonlit nights, the veiled Nasrid Princesses had ridden out accompanied by a troop of household knights. Naturally, they’d had to ignore their escort of knights, and the only person who could speak to them had been the eunuch acting as their riding instructor. It had been such a joy to escape the castle for a while. And the Princesses had learned to ride well, albeit in the darkest hours when no one was about to see them.

Leonor stared about her at the men her father had incarcerated and her throat worked. It was hard to accept that the charming and amusing father who occasionally appeared to shower his daughters with silks and jewels was the same man who lodged his noble captives in so rank a place.

As she struggled to reconcile the two images of her father—the generous parent and the cruel tyrant—her head began to throb. It was so confusing.

Willing herself to focus on finding the knight in the crimson tunic, Leonor searched the room. Luckily, in the sea of chaos—of wounded, haggard men—that bright tunic was easy to see. She found him kneeling at the side of his injured friend. She stepped closer. His tunic was somewhat the worse for wear and his dark, handsome face was tight with worry. Was his friend dying?

* * *

The heat was a curse. Rodrigo had spent the hours of darkness persuading Inigo to drink enough to make up for what he was losing in sweat, yet despite his best efforts, Inigo had tossed and turned for most of the night.

It wasn’t surprising. Rodrigo and his comrades had been housed with about thirty other captured noblemen. It could be worse. Crucially, there was a roof, which meant there was shade in the day. Naturally, the windows high up in the walls were barred, but they were above ground and they let in both air and light and that was a blessing. Despite this, the stench was overpowering. Rodrigo didn’t like to think what an underground cell would be like.

Vaguely, he heard the prison door open. Rodrigo was aware of the rush to get to the food and pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t interested in food though. Inigo was no better and Rodrigo was damned if he was going to lose Inigo as well as Diego. Rodrigo had to find the doctor who had ministered to Inigo the previous evening. The man had promised to return.

Ah, there he was, among the visitors. As soon as the doctor crossed the threshold, a babble broke out—shouting, coughing, groaning.

‘Doctor! Over here!’

‘Doctor, please!’

‘Help me, Doctor!’

In the general melee, Rodrigo got to the man first, practically dragging him to where Inigo lay stretched out on some sacking by the wall. Other captives crowded close, some were curious, others clamoured for the doctor’s attention.

The doctor scowled and waved the crowd back. ‘Be silent,’ he said. ‘Give us space to breathe. I will see to the rest of you shortly.’

The hubbub faded.

The doctor crouched down at Inigo’s side and touched his forehead. ‘How’s his fever? Did it abate after he drank that infusion?’

Rodrigo shook his head. ‘He’s been hot as a furnace all night.’

The doctor gave him a sharp look. ‘He’s not spoken? Has he roused at all?’

‘No, I had to force the drink down his throat. I’d be grateful if you would take another look at his leg.’

The doctor sat back on his haunches. ‘I stitched it most carefully. And that poultice is best left alone.’

‘I would prefer if you checked it, and I’d like him to have fresh bandages.’ Rodrigo spoke firmly, he’d seen a man lose a leg through neglecting to care for a wound and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen to Inigo. There would be no more deaths, not if he could help it.

A wave of grief swept through him. Diego. News of his brother’s death would kill his mother; had it reached her already? Rodrigo had bribed one of the Sultan’s officers to send his brother’s body home. Was the officer honourable? Would he do as he was asked? Rodrigo had no way of knowing.

‘Very well.’ The doctor held his hand out, palm up. ‘For another examination and fresh bandages, I need further payment.’

‘You want more? Good God, I’ve already given you my gold signet ring.’

The doctor gave a regretful smile and glanced pointedly at the other prisoners struggling to catch his eye. A trooper was doing his best to ensure they waited their turn, but it was clear he was fighting a losing battle.

The doctor spread his hands. ‘It’s hard to perform miracles, my lord. This is not the healthiest of places. In my view, your friend needs more infusions to bring down his fever. That will cost you.’ He stood up and prepared to move away. ‘So, unless you can pay, there are others who require my services.’

Rodrigo and his friends had no coin, their purses had been taken the moment they’d been captured. They’d only been allowed to keep their rings as proof of their identity and status. Rodrigo’s gaze landed on Inigo’s signet ring. Like the ring Rodrigo had given the doctor the previous day, Inigo’s was pure gold. Rodrigo had balked at taking it whilst Inigo was unconscious, which was why he’d given the doctor his own ring. Now, it would seem he had no choice.

Reluctantly, he reached for Inigo’s ring.

‘That will not be necessary,’ a gentle voice said.

A small hand reached out and a jewel-encrusted bangle was pressed into his palm. The scent of orange blossom, as refreshing as a breath of spring air, surrounded him.

Rodrigo’s jaw dropped. A woman? Here? He scrambled to his feet and found himself staring at a mysterious, feminine figure. She was swathed in black from head to toe. Everything was hidden, even her eyes were lost behind a full veil. Clearly, she’d been there long enough to overhear his conversation with the doctor.

‘The doctor will accept this as payment for treating your friend,’ she insisted, in a soft, faintly accented voice.

This mystery lady spoke Spanish? Rodrigo was gazing bemusedly at her when the doctor whisked the bangle from his palm and hunched over Inigo.

‘Sir, I am charged to question you.’ That small hand emerged briefly from within the folds of the woman’s all-encompassing gown. She beckoned at a guard who was standing so close he had to be her personal escort, then she and her escort headed for the door.

Two soldiers appeared and Rodrigo was marched out into the corridor.


Chapter Three (#u8aba68ae-2275-5b45-9842-d37b1ac1732e)

Leonor’s pulse was racing. She could hardly believe what she’d done. She, a Nasrid princess, was alone in a cramped prison cell with four men. Alone and unchaperoned.

Her hopes had risen when she’d realised the Spanish knight had parted with his own ring to pay for help for his injured companion. He might be her father’s enemy, but he was obviously loyal to his comrades. With luck, he’d be grateful about the bangle and would be forthcoming when she asked him about her mother.

Folding her hands tightly beneath the maidservant’s veil, she turned to Yusuf and switched to Arabic. ‘Be so good as to take the other guards outside. Wait for me there, I shall call you when I need you.’

Yusuf hesitated and for a dreadful moment Leonor’s skin chilled. If Yusuf refused to leave her, she would achieve nothing. She wouldn’t be able to question the knight about her mother within Yusuf’s hearing, for if Yusuf understood that she was asking about the Sultan’s dead Queen and her family, he’d be bound to tell his commanding officer. Then word would soon get back to her father. And that letter in her jewel box wouldn’t help her; she’d been deluding herself to think it would.

But it was too late for second thoughts. The die was cast and it was imperative that Yusuf leave her alone with this knight.

Yusuf eyed the knight’s chained wrists before giving a curt nod. ‘As you wish.’

‘My thanks.’ Leonor let out a sigh of relief and Yusuf marched out with the other guards.

The knight shifted. ‘If you want any sense out of me, you will need to speak Spanish.’

‘That is not a problem, sir.’

Dark eyes looked her over so thoroughly Leonor felt herself flush from head to toe. She was thankful for the heavy veil.

‘I assume you gave me that bauble because you need my help in some way,’ he said.

‘You are astute, sir.’

‘No serving wench would have such things to give away. May I know to whom I am addressing?’

‘I... No.’

He gave her a curt nod. ‘Very well. Lest you are curious, I am commander of the King’s garrison in Córdoba. Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba, at your service.’

It was a good sign that he had told her his name and Leonor felt herself relax a little. She even took a step closer. Rodrigo Álvarez.

His hair was disordered and in need of a wash. Light from a narrow window fell directly on his face, allowing her to see the hollows under his eyes and a haze of dark beard. His eyes were almost black and fringed with thick eyelashes; his gaze was intent and focused entirely on her. His tunic was torn and dirty, and his wrists rubbed raw—they’d been chafed by his chains. His mouth edged up at a corner—it was a smile, yet at the same time, it was very definitely not a smile. Beneath it, she sensed dark, swirling pain and implacable fury. This man loathed her father, if he knew her identity, he would probably tear her limb from limb.

She lifted her gaze back to his eyes and her stomach clenched. She was astonished to discover that she didn’t feel fear when she looked at this man, though what she did feel was something of a mystery.

Revulsion? Possibly, because he was very dirty. Oddly, she didn’t think it was revulsion. Whatever it was, it unsettled her.

His mouth tightened. ‘Don’t tell me the Sultan has taken to allowing his prisoners a little pleasure.’

Behind the veil, Leonor stared. ‘My lord?’

‘Never mind.’ He leaned a shoulder against the wall, studying her with those penetrating dark eyes. ‘You said you were charged to question me. As you see, I am entirely at your disposal.’

‘Thank you.’ Leonor hesitated. This man made her nervous in a way she had never felt before. For once in her life, she was grateful for her veil. Of course, she’d never conversed alone with a strange man before, it could simply be that. None the less, here in this cell, her veil was a welcome refuge. The Count wouldn’t know how nervous she was. ‘My lord, I am charged to ask you about events which took place nineteen or twenty years ago.’

‘Twenty years ago? You intrigue me. Although I must tell you I was but a stripling then, so I doubt I can tell you anything.’

‘Hear me out, please,’ Leonor said, and the words tumbled over each other in her anxiety to get at the truth of her mother’s history. ‘It concerns a Spanish noblewoman called Lady Juana. She was captured and brought to Granada.’

Lord Rodrigo didn’t move, save to narrow those dark eyes. ‘Captured? Twenty years ago?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Leonor held her breath as something—a shadow?—flickered across his face. Shock? Astonishment? It was hard to say. Notwithstanding, a ripple of excitement ran through her. Lord Rodrigo knew something about her mother, of that she was certain.

A heartbeat later, his expression was once again inscrutable and the doubts rushed back. Had she imagined that look?

‘It might help if you had the name of this lady’s family.’ His voice was dry and brusque.

‘My lord, that is what I am sent to discover.’

His frown deepened. He pushed away from the wall and loomed over her, solid and imposing. ‘Who wants to know about this Lady Juana? Your mistress?’ He paused thoughtfully, his eyes as hard and unyielding as stone. ‘You?’

There it was again, that flash of pain, that deep anger. Leonor resisted the urge to back away. Swallowing hard, she shook her head.

Even through the veil, his eyes held hers. ‘Who are you, mistress? Have I seen you before?’ There was another pause. ‘In a tower overlooking the harbour, perhaps?’

Leonor’s heart jumped and for a wild moment she thought that sharp gaze had pierced her veil. Count Rodrigo couldn’t possibly know that she had been looking out of the pavilion window that day. He had been too far away to see clearly, he had to be bluffing.

She lifted her chin. ‘I am of no consequence, my lord. I am merely an intermediary sent to question you. Lady Juana was taken from her homeland.’

‘You are certain she was born outside Al-Andalus?’

‘Yes. I am hoping to...to contact her family.’

‘I grant you that Juana is a popular name, but you will have to give me more than that.’ A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Where was her home? Did she come from Castile? Aragon, perhaps?’

Unable to dismiss the idea that Lord Rodrigo had heard about her mother’s abduction, Leonor twisted her fingers together. If only she knew more about the world outside her father’s castle. Until this moment, she’d never realised how ignorant she was. She’d been educated, yes, but in a limited fashion. Her world was the world of the harem. It was, so Inés had told her, more cloistered than that of a nun in a convent.

She was so eager to learn but, over the years, her questions about her father’s kingdom and the lands beyond his borders had gone unanswered. She’d heard about the frontier skirmishes, but she had very few facts.

‘I am not certain where Lady Juana came from,’ she whispered. Although Inés had refused to talk about her mother’s birthplace, she had once let slip that she herself had been born in Castile. ‘Possibly Castile.’

The Count gave a quiet laugh. ‘Castile is vast, that’s not much to go on.’

His chains chinked. Frozen by a combination of shock and fascination, Leonor watched as he took her hand.

She stopped breathing. No man, save her father, may he live for ever, had ever touched her. Of course, Count Rodrigo wasn’t touching her skin, the cloth of the veil lay between them. Even so, it gave her a jolt to feel that strong hand on hers.

She jerked free. ‘How dare you!’

Somehow the Count caught her hand again, even going as far as to raise it to his lips. When he kissed it through the veil, a disturbing bolt of energy shot through Leonor’s veins.

The effrontery!

‘It is forbidden to touch me, my lord.’ Again, she wrenched free.

Straightening, the Count retreated to his position against the wall, eyes fixed on hers. ‘Forbidden? By whom?’ To her alarm, a triumphant smile flickered into being. ‘I believe I know who you are.’

Leonor closed her eyes. ‘You can have no idea.’

‘But I think that I do.’ He leaned in again and lowered his voice. ‘Your questions betray you, Princess. All of Christendom knows that Sultan Tariq stole a Spanish noblewoman named Lady Juana and made her his Queen. It was the scandal of a lifetime. And who else but one of his daughters would want to know about that long-dead Queen?’

Heart in her mouth, it was a moment before Leonor trusted herself to speak. Count Rodrigo mustn’t realise he had stumbled on the truth! The last thing she needed was for her father to find out from someone else that she had been visiting the prisoners. ‘You are wrong.’

‘Show me your face.’

‘Never.’

‘You are one of the Princesses.’

‘I am not.’

‘You, my lady, are a liar.’ Count Rodrigo’s voice was little more than a whisper and yet she had never heard anything more threatening. ‘Won’t you tell me your name, Princess?’ He laid his hand on his heart and gave a slight bow. Filthy and dishevelled though he was, she had never seen anyone look less subservient. ‘I swear not to tell anyone you have been here, your secret will be safe with me.’

Thoughts in chaos—what had she done?—Leonor swept to the door and reverted hastily to Arabic. ‘Yusuf, we’re leaving.’

* * *

Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba. The name reverberated in Leonor’s mind as she hurried back to the apartments. Absently, she rubbed the back of her hand. It still tingled. Count Rodrigo hadn’t touched her actual skin, yet her hand was all hot. How could so slight a touch affect her so strongly? What might it feel like if he kissed her skin, rather than the veil?

Her sandal caught on a flagstone and she missed her step. The feelings that the Count had unleashed inside her were astonishing, although she’d be the first to admit she hadn’t been sure what to expect. She’d imagined him to be—what?—overbearing, like her father?

Count Rodrigo had been angry and resentful and not a little intimidating. Yet, filthy and half-starved though he was he, he’d kept his anger in check. He’d been more thoughtful and courteous than she’d dared hope. And that wry smile—why, at times, he’d even seemed amused.

How would Father have behaved in like circumstances?

Leonor wasn’t sure, but she was fairly certain that her father wouldn’t have been half as forbearing.

The Count did have a certain rough charm. Thoughtfully, she glanced at her hand, it felt as though it had been branded. Lord Rodrigo’s kiss had branded her. Did all men have this power? Was this why her father denied his daughters the company of men?

Abruptly, she shook her head. That couldn’t be the reason she and her sisters were kept in seclusion. It was more likely their father was saving them for some dynastic alliance.

Leonor had reached the sun-warmed courtyard near the rosemary bushes when Inés stepped out from behind a pillar. Her duenna wasn’t wearing her veil and her face was chalk white. In her hand was the letter Leonor had written to her father.

Heart plummeting, Leonor glanced at Yusuf. ‘Thank you, Yusuf, that will be all.’

Inés stalked up and took Leonor’s elbow in an iron grip. ‘Come with me, young lady.’

‘You’ve been through my jewel box!’

‘You left an anklet in the bathhouse, I was tidying up after you. And a good thing too.’

‘You’ve read it?’

Inés watched Yusuf’s retreat, pursing her lips until he had left the courtyard. ‘Indeed, I have.’

‘Inés, it’s addressed to the Sultan, not you.’

‘You’ve been into the prison! What were you thinking?’

‘Inés, I never intended to send that letter, unless...’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Unless you were caught?’

‘Yes.’

Inés brandished the letter. ‘Are you aware that this puts Yusuf in grave danger?’

‘I—’

‘Did you know he has a wife and children?’

‘No, I didn’t. However, I don’t believe the letter puts him in danger. I take responsibility for my actions. I made a full confession.’

‘Sultan Tariq is not a confessor. Forgiveness does not come easily to him.’ Inés snatched Leonor’s borrowed veil from her head and her lip curled. ‘What is this rag? It’s not fit for a Nasrid princess. Where did you get it?’

‘I shall not say.’

Inés glared at her. ‘It matters not. If your father had received this letter, he would have had the truth out of you soon enough. And then the owner of this veil would be lucky if she received only a thousand lashes.’

Inés’s tone of voice was colder than the snow lying on the peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Leonor felt terrible. ‘I realised my mistake once I got to the prison, but by then it was too late to back out.’ She gazed earnestly at Inés. ‘Please be calm. No one discovered me, we can destroy the letter and no harm done.’

Inés gave a brusque headshake. ‘I cannot believe what I am hearing. Princess Zaida, your behaviour is beyond unseemly. You tricked your way into the prison and spoke to an enemy captive. Further, this letter betrays an appalling want of responsibility. It condemns Yusuf; it condemns the maid who lent you her veil; and it condemns me. I have done my best with you. As the Sultan’s daughter, you should know better. Do you hate me so much?’

‘Of course I don’t hate you! How could I? You have been a mother to us, you have taught us so much.’

‘Not enough, apparently. Were you really prepared to bring your father’s wrath down on the entire household simply so you may flirt with a stranger you glimpsed on the quayside?’

Leonor bit her lip and surreptitiously rubbed the back of her hand against her gown. ‘I wasn’t flirting.’

‘Then what were you doing, pray?’

‘Asking about Mamá.’

Inés put her hand to her throat. ‘You talked to a foreign captive about the Queen?’

‘Inés, please understand—’

‘Enough! My lady, you need to know that the Sultan forbade me to tell you and your sisters anything about your mother.’

Leonor’s eyes widened. ‘What? You weren’t to tell us anything?’

‘I am afraid not.’ Inés lowered her gaze. ‘Over the years I have told you far more than I should.’

‘Why did you do it, then, if you fear Father so much?’

A sparrow flitted across the rosemary-scented courtyard and vanished into a bush. Inés sighed heavily. ‘I missed home and the three of you were naturally so curious—I couldn’t help myself. It was a grave mistake.’

‘Does Father know you taught us Spanish?’

‘Faith, no! He’d kill me if he found out.’

Guilt lodged, heavy as a stone, in Leonor’s belly. ‘I am sorry, I didn’t understand.’

‘What’s done is done.’ Inés looked warily at her. ‘You spoke Spanish to that nobleman, I expect?’

‘Aye.’

Inés gave a heavy sigh, her eyes haunted. ‘Did he know to whom he was speaking?’

‘I...I am not sure.’ Leonor stared at the ground. She couldn’t bring herself to admit that the Spanish Count had indeed guessed her to be a princess. ‘I said nothing of who I was.’

‘Yet you asked him about Lady Juana and you addressed him in Spanish.’ Inés let out a great sigh. ‘Dear Lord, our idyll is ended.’

‘Idyll? What idyll?’

Inés released her and straightened her back. ‘I shall see you later. My lady, I shall destroy this letter and then I must write to the Sultan myself.’ She gave another sigh. ‘I have delayed writing to him, I should probably have written some months since. However, I can delay no longer, the three of you have outgrown my tutelage.’

Leonor felt as though a shadow had passed over the sun. She caught her duenna’s sleeve. ‘What do you mean we have outgrown your tutelage? Inés, what will you tell him?’

‘Sultan Tariq made me swear to tell him once the three of you reached a marriageable age. Clearly, that time is upon us. I shall inform him that he is best advised to visit his daughters as soon as his duties allow.’

Marriage. Leonor toyed with her remaining bangle. Part of her was relieved that her letter would never reach her father—the last thing she wanted was for anyone to suffer for her desire to learn about her mother. On the other hand, she wasn’t ready for marriage. Neither she nor her sisters had any experience in dealing with men. Other than bearing a man heirs—and even on that score Leonor was woefully ignorant as to how that might be achieved—the Princesses knew little of what a man might require in his bride.

‘Father will arrange for us to be married?’

Inés grimaced. ‘Possibly,’ she murmured. ‘Although it is equally possible that the Sultan will want to keep you pure.’

Leonor felt herself tense. ‘What does that mean?’

‘The King might not wish you to ever marry,’ Inés said. She wasn’t meeting Leonor’s eyes and somehow that was more worrying than anything.

‘Please continue.’

‘I am not certain I can. It was something I was told years ago, and I am not sure I believe it.’

Leonor had never liked not knowing what her future might be. If her father was arranging her marriage, she hoped to have a say in the choice of her future husband—she wanted to get to know him before they married. She had fretted about this for years and in all that time it had never occurred to her that her father might not want his daughters to marry at all.

Father might not want us to marry? Inés must be wrong. What were they to do, if they weren’t to marry?

‘Inés, for the love of God, you can’t leave it at that. What were you told? Does Father plan to have us married or not?’

Inés stared bleakly at her feet. ‘After the three of you were born, Sultan Tariq consulted his astrologer and your horoscopes were cast. The Sultan was advised that once you and your sisters reached marriageable age he should be watchful. The astrologer warned him to gather his daughters under his wings.’

Leonor frowned, it all sounded extremely ominous. ‘To gather us under his wings? What on earth might that mean?’

‘I’m sorry, my lady, I have no idea. However, since you have clearly reached marriageable age, I have no choice but to write to the Sultan and inform him of that.’

Worry scored lines on Inés’s face. Leonor forced a smile. ‘I understand; you must write to Father.’

Her heart felt like lead. What would the Sultan do? Were she and her sisters to be kept closeted all their lives? Was that why they’d been kept so ignorant of the world? She touched the back of her hand where Count Rodrigo had kissed it and, for the first time in her life, looked into the future with fear in her heart.

Leonor had always assumed she would one day be married. Never in her worst nightmares had it occurred to her that all that lay in front of her might be a life of pampered imprisonment.

Such a life would shrivel her soul...it would kill her. She must have some say in her future. She must.

* * *

No one told captives anything. A month had dragged by and Rodrigo was tramping wearily along a dusty highway, one in a long line of prisoners headed for God alone knew where. He was covered in grit and his skin itched. The sky was a solid block of blue. The heat had been building all day and Rodrigo’s clothes were drenched with sweat, he felt as though he was locked in an oven.

Instinct told him this was the road to Granada, but the terrain was unfamiliar and the guards resolutely uncommunicative. Not to mention that there was the language difficulty, neither Rodrigo nor his friends knew more than a couple of dozen words of Arabic.

Inigo walked along in front of him. And Enrique? Rodrigo trained his gaze on the front of the line, but his cousin was lost behind a curtain of dust. The three of them had spent most of the time since their capture trying to keep together and it wasn’t easy. Just then, Inigo glanced over his shoulder and sent him a terse smile.

Praise God, Inigo’s leg was improving every day; the wound hadn’t festered and his limp was barely noticeable now.

Salobreña lingered in Rodrigo’s mind as a stinking hellhole, he wasn’t sorry to leave it. His lips twisted as he thought back to when they’d been herded into the prison yard. Inigo hadn’t come back to his senses until long after that mysterious young woman had given her jewelled bangle to pay for further treatment. Rodrigo hadn’t told Inigo about her largesse, although since then not a day had passed without her slipping into his thoughts.

That husky voice was unforgettable. And, despite his mystery lady’s veil, he’d been able to tell that she had a slender body and a proud bearing.

It was strange how the veil made her more fascinating rather than less, a man couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath it. Something about her told him that despite her proud bearing, she was young. And frighteningly innocent. Rodrigo’s lips twisted as he recalled the outrage in her tone when he’d kissed her hand. It hadn’t been his finest hour. He’d kissed her to distract her; he’d kissed her out of anger.

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 (#u8aba68ae-2275-5b45-9842-d37b1ac1732e)

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 face 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.’

She prayed for calm, understanding instinctively that if her father sensed her agitation, he would react badly. And she dreaded to think what might happen if she inadvertently revealed that she’d spoken to the Count in person. That would surely condemn him to a slow and painful death. She prayed for the right words.

‘Father, it is my guess that that man is a Spanish knight, so he won’t speak our language. How can he obey an order he doesn’t understand?’

Her father’s eyebrows formed a heavy black line. ‘You are an expert on Spanish knights, Daughter?’

Dimly, Leonor heard the light ripple of bells. Her sisters had joined her, their horses flanked hers.

‘Please, Father, they won’t speak our tongue,’ Alba whispered.

‘Father, be merciful,’ Constanza added softly.

The King looked from one daughter to the other, and when his gaze returned to her, Leonor forced her lips to move. ‘The foreigners mean no insult, I am sure.’ Recalling her father’s obsession with refilling his treasury, she paused. ‘Look at their clothing, Father.’

‘Rags,’ the Sultan bit out. ‘Filthy rags.’

‘Look closer, Father, and you will see that the embroidery is most fine. These men must be especially wealthy. Kill them and you will lose much in the way of ransom.’

The Sultan glowered. ‘They are arrogant dogs. They should not be looking upon you. They must be punished.’

‘We are veiled, Father,’ Leonor said, in a cool voice. In truth, her heart was beating wildly and she felt sick with fear. She didn’t want the Spanish knights killed simply for looking their way. She gripped the reins and hoped her voice wasn’t shaking. ‘Make an example of them, Father, by all means. Please don’t kill them because they can’t speak Arabic. Be merciful, Father, I implore you.’

Alba and Constanza added their voices to hers. ‘Please, Father. We beg you.’

The Sultan watched them, face inscrutable. Then he glanced at a nearby guard. ‘Guard? Guard! Yes, you with the prisoners. Get up.’

The guard scrambled to his feet, his face as pale as parchment. He bowed so low his forehead almost touched the ground. ‘Great King?’

‘You are in charge of these insolent fools?’ the Sultan asked, indicating the three knights.

Leonor held her breath.

‘Yes, Great King,’ came the wary reply.

The Sultan tapped his boot with the flat of his scimitar. ‘You expect them to fetch something in the way of ransom?’

The guard kept his head down. ‘Yes, Great Lord. Their families have been notified and the ransom is on its way.’

The Sultan gave a curt nod and put away his scimitar. He looked at Leonor. ‘Very well, my daughter. Since you ask so prettily and your sisters have added their pleas to yours, I shall be merciful. These men shall be imprisoned in the Vermillion Towers until their ransom arrives. However, they should not have gazed upon you. For that insolence, they shall do hard labour until their release.’

He flicked his hand in a gesture of dismissal and the guard effaced himself.

Leonor drew in a relieved breath. ‘Thank you, Father.’

As she spoke, a skirl of wind raced along the highway, whisking up dust as it came. It caught the edges of the Princesses’ veils and, distracted as they were, their veils lifted. For a few tense moments, their faces were revealed and there were no barriers between them and the world.

Leonor saw everything very clearly. That was to say, she saw Lord Rodrigo very clearly, for she was looking at him and him alone. Her stomach lurched. Apart from that day she’d been watching the port from the pavilion, Leonor’s father was the only man she had gazed on without the protection of a veil. In Salobreña, distance had been her shield. Lord Rodrigo was closer now, close enough for his dark brown eyes to catch hers and, for her life, she couldn’t look away.

She could see the rise and fall of his chest. His firm mouth was crooked into a faint smile, just as it had been that day she had visited him in the prison. His hair was tousled and dusty, and a grey smudge ran across one high cheekbone. As her eyes met his, she thought she saw him dip his head. His beard was untidy, he was hung about with chains, but he held himself like a prince. A strong, well-muscled prince who stole the breath from her lungs. Despite his unkempt state, Count Rodrigo de Córdoba was surely the most handsome knight in the world.

‘Daughters, your modesty!’ The Sultan’s growl brought Leonor sharply back to reality. ‘Cover your faces!’

Leonor wrestled her veil into submission and the moment was gone.

* * *

Realising his mouth hung open, Rodrigo closed it with a snap. Before the woman’s veil had lifted, her voice had revealed her to be the girl who had given her golden bangle to pay for Inigo’s treatment. His heartbeat quickened. His mystery lady was a princess, just as he had suspected.

She was a rare beauty. His most fevered imaginings could never have conjured so sweet a face. Those large dark eyes, that twist of shining black hair, that shy yet sensual tilt to her mouth—in truth, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

A twist of longing tightened inside him. Ruthlessly, he quashed it. She was his enemy’s daughter, a Nasrid princess.

After talking to her in that cell, Rodrigo had thought about her more than once. In his mind, she had become Lady Merciful. He’d passed many an hour wondering what Lady Merciful looked like beneath her veil, and whether in fact she was his enemy’s daughter. Now his doubts had melted away.

The guard jerked on the chains. As they bit into his wrists, Rodrigo was pulled further into the ditch. He didn’t resist; the sight of the Princess had left him oddly stunned. That Princess—Lord, it wasn’t right that the tyrant’s daughter should be so lovely. She had her veil under control now, he could no longer see a thing. It didn’t matter. A man could live off one glimpse for years. The jolt she had given him had been visceral. Her face—delicate and lovely—was unforgettable.

Covertly, he watched her gather her reins and prepare to ride on. He had no way of knowing what had passed between her and her father, but it was obvious that she had interceded on his behalf.

She had saved him. She had saved Inigo back in Salobreña and now he too was beholden to her. He grimaced. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Being beholden to his enemy’s daughter made a mockery of his grief for Diego. He ought to hate her.

The royal party proceeded up the road and the horseman in him watched her critically. She rode surprisingly well, sitting straight in the saddle, her posture graceful and relaxed. Veils fluttered, bells chimed and all too soon the pretty grey mares had disappeared behind the brown stallions of the Sultan’s household knights.

Were her sisters equally beautiful? Rodrigo hadn’t noticed, he’d only had eyes for her. She was a brave woman, intervening with Sultan Tariq like that. Exasperated with himself, Rodrigo shook his head. He mustn’t allow a pair of shining black eyes to bewitch him. Even tyrants must love their daughters. Maybe she hadn’t been so brave, she must have known her father would bend to her will—he probably adored her. She was certainly impulsive, though he knew that already, for a similar impulse had driven her to visit him in the prison. It was possible that wanting to learn about Lady Juana hadn’t been the only reason for her visit, curiosity must also have played a part. She probably craved a bit of excitement.

God knows what life must be like for a pampered princess. She’d be kept closer than a nun on retreat. And those veils—Rodrigo grimaced—it must be stifling under all that cloth.

Rodrigo watched the royal party go with mixed feelings. The face that had been revealed when Lady Merciful’s veil had lifted had left him feeling wrong-footed. And more than a little confused. In his heart, he knew he wasn’t doing her justice. And justice was something that woman cared about. Briefly, the fury in the tyrant’s eyes had made it seem he was about to lash out, yes, even at his daughter, yet she’d still intervened to stop her father using that scimitar. Without hesitation, she’d drawn the Sultan’s anger on herself.

Rodrigo narrowed his gaze on the Nasrid standard as the dust enveloped the crimson and gold. Gripped by a feeling of unreality, he clenched his jaw. He had now become beholden—twice—to the Sultan’s daughter, to a princess who looked as though she had stepped out of another world. Everything about her was fresh and innocent. Had his mind conjured her? It must have done, that arresting beauty couldn’t be real. However, the way she had confronted her father certainly was. There’d been definite tension in the air. All three Princesses had been palpably afraid of what their father might do, yet they had still confronted him.

He drew in a deep breath. So. His enemy’s daughters had at least one virtue, they were brave. No, make that two virtues, they were merciful.

The dust drifted back to earth, the guards cracked their whips and the line of captives was driven back on to the highway. As Rodrigo forced his weary legs to move, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way the Princess’s gaze had held his. She had looked directly at him and every fibre of his being had snapped awake. He’d liked it. He’d also noticed a faint flush on her cheeks as their eyes had caught. He’d liked that too.

He trudged on, adjusting his pace to take account of the play of the chains. His feet throbbed, they had to be bleeding. There was dust in his eyes, dust in his hair and dust in his throat. Yet despite everything, he couldn’t get the face of the Nasrid Princess out of his head. So lovely. His enemy’s daughter. Dios mío, he was losing his mind.

Hardening his heart, Rodrigo pushed her from his thoughts. He would do far better to be thinking about the revenge he would take against Sultan Tariq when his ransom was finally paid.


Chapter Five (#u8aba68ae-2275-5b45-9842-d37b1ac1732e)

The Alhambra Palace, Granada

It should have been paradise. Instead it was a beautiful prison.

The alabaster fountain in the central court of the Princesses’ tower played continually. By day, the jets of water gleamed like fire; at night, the central pool had the sheen of silver. From the top of the tower, Leonor looked down into the palace gardens. She was filled with disquiet. Sparrows flitted from myrtle to orange tree and back again to the myrtles. On moonlit evenings, nightingales sang in the lemon trees. How could she be unhappy in so lovely a place?

The Sultan lavished every luxury on his daughters. Three pairs of songbirds were brought to the Princesses’ tower. The birds twittered and fluttered in golden cages, filling the top floor with song. A few days later, peacocks appeared on the palace lawns; they paraded up and down, luminescent feathers shimmering in the sun—turquoise, green, gold. Shortly after that, the Princesses were given a pet monkey. Alba adored him, named him Hunter, and took to carrying him on her shoulder.

A step away from the Princesses’ tower, there was even a Romanesque bathhouse. Maidservants stood under gorgeously tiled arches, linens in hand, silently waiting on the sisters’ every whim. Light filtered through fairy-tale fretwork, and the surface of the bathing pool danced and sparkled with borrowed life. There were hot rooms, and cold rooms, and a restroom for the Princesses to lie in after they had bathed. Long divans were built along the tiled walls of the restroom, and they overflowed with cushions. The silent maidservants brought iced juices, grapes, sweetmeats...

Paradise? Leonor was afraid that a snake lurked at its heart.

Her thoughts were dark. She no longer trusted her father. The look on his face when he’d confronted Lord Rodrigo had been so ugly. If she hadn’t intervened, her father would have butchered him there and then.

Tucked away in Salobreña all these years, Leonor had no real grasp of the King’s character. Unfortunately, she was starting to know him. His moodiness was chilling. One moment he was all benevolence, showering his daughters with gifts, and the next he behaved like a tyrant. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

It was also wrong that Leonor spent so much time worrying about the fate of the three Spanish knights. If her father could read her thoughts, he’d fly into a frenzy. She told herself that mind-reading was impossible and was careful to guard her tongue, particularly in front of Inés. It wasn’t that she feared for herself or her sisters, what she feared was drawing her father’s anger down on an innocent servant or slave. She felt unbearably edgy.

It soon became clear that Alba too was concerned. Leonor was lying on a crimson cushion threaded with gold, staring blindly into the gardens, when Alba came in, Hunter perched on her shoulder. Since they were in the privacy of their tower, the Princesses had discarded their veils.

Alba took the cushion next to Leonor. Hunter jumped from her shoulder and scampered towards a bowl of sunflower seeds, chattering happily. ‘What do you think they are doing?’ Alba murmured.





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