Would he actually try to kill Prince Ghalib’s tiny daughter?
It was possible. The Sultan had always been jealous of his brother’s ability to father so many children when the Sultan himself had only sired three girls, Zorahaida and her sisters.
I cannot let this pass.
Bile in her throat, Zorahaida jerked her veil from her belt. It was damp with pond water and clung to her skin. None the less, she must wear it, at least until she was back in her apartments. If the Sultan found out she’d run out of the tower with her face bared to the world, he would have an apoplexy.
‘I pray whoever was standing there didn’t see me,’ she muttered, though it seemed a forlorn hope. Turning towards the Court of the Lions, she beckoned for Maura. ‘I need you to come with me.’
Maura hung back. ‘Must I?’
‘I would be grateful for your assistance. My father needs to know that it is unacceptable for one of his men to stand by when his brother’s daughter is drowning.’
Maura made a squeaking sound and stood like a rock, slowly shaking her head.
Zorahaida sighed. ‘Very well, I shall go on my own.’ The tone of her voice was dry. ‘If you could manage to find Prince Ghalib, I imagine he would like to know his daughter is safe.’
‘Of course, Princess.’
Maura scuttled off and Zorahaida took in a sustaining breath. Now for her father.
* * *
The door to the council chamber adjoining the Court of the Lions was closed. The Commander of the Sultan’s household knights was, as Zorahaida had foreseen, standing guard before it, huge arms folded, feet planted stolidly apart.
‘May I help, Princess?’
Commander Abdul ibn Umar’s voice was courteous, though his eyes were cold as stone. And Zorahaida didn’t miss the insolent curl to his lip as he took in her damp veil and the water streaks staining her clothes.
Hiding her anger, she kept her voice calm. ‘I need to speak to my father, Commander. Would you be so good as to ask him if he is free?’
Commander Abdul ibn Umar bowed. ‘As you command, Princess.’
It wasn’t long before the door of the council chamber was opened and Zorahaida was announced.
Sultan Tariq, ruler of the Emirate of Granada, was seated on his wide, gilded throne. He was clad in white and a great ruby glinted in his turban. His crimson slippers rested on a large footstool. Slaves stood at the Sultan’s either hand, palm fans in hand, valiantly attempting to create a breeze.
Despite the slaves’ best efforts, the atmosphere was oppressive. The hanging braziers didn’t help, smoke was wafting from them like grey snakes, filling the council chamber with the heavy scent of frankincense. The red and gold standard of the Nasrid dynasty hung limply in a corner, as though melting in the heat.
Hurrying in, Zorahaida fell at her father’s feet and kissed his silken slippers.
Commander Abdul ibn Umar, she couldn’t help but notice, took up a position behind her father, along with a handful of fellow officers, her father’s most trusted knights.
‘Father, a thousand blessings upon you.’
Gold rings glinted as a languid hand gestured for her to rise.
A smile began to form on her father’s face. ‘Daughter, you bring me joy, as ever.’ The smile faded as the Sultan took in her dishevelment. ‘But what is this? Your clothes are creased, and your veil—its dripping on the floor. What has happened?’
Heart in her mouth, Zorahaida decided bluntness was the only approach. Her father was a capricious and harsh master, she feared servants were beaten most days, but thus far she’d never known him to hurt a child. At the back of her mind remained a seed of doubt. Yamina was the daughter of her father’s heir, Prince Ghalib. Even though the Sultan had all the power, rivalry between the brothers was nothing new.
‘Father, something dreadful has happened in the gardens. I came straight here, confident you would want to be told.’
The Sultan’s eyebrows formed a dark black line. ‘Oh?’
‘Yamina fell in the lily pond.’
The Sultan stroked his beard. ‘Dear me, poor little thing.’ His voice dripped with insincerity.
Zorahaida’s anger flared and she fought to keep calm. Nothing would be achieved by alienating her father, yet this couldn’t be ignored.
‘Father, Yamina cannot swim.’ She paused, her gaze flickering briefly to the Commander. ‘Furthermore, while Yamina sank beneath the lilies, your commander stood idly by.’
Her father sucked in a breath. His face was an expressionless mask. ‘My niece has drowned? May the angels protect her.’
‘No, Father. You will be relieved to hear that Yamina is safe.’
Commander Abdul ibn Umar leaned forward and whispered in her father’s ear.
Sultan Tariq’s eyes flashed, dark and hard as obsidian. ‘You saved her, Daughter. My commander saw you.’
‘Yes, Father, I saved her.’ Zorahaida cleared her throat, biting her lip beneath her veil.
She had heard that tone of voice before. Polite. Formal. Distant. Zorahaida knew her father and she shivered. Never had he used that tone with her. I am his favourite, she reminded herself. Father loves me. He will be angry, but he will never hurt me.
She clasped her hands together. ‘Father—’
‘Enough! Zorahaida, your insolence is disappointing. Worse than that though, is your disobedience.’
‘I beg your pardon, Father, but I didn’t disobey you. All I did was pull my cousin out of the water.’
Slowly and with such menace that her stomach turned over, the Sultan shook his head.
‘You were running, tearing about the gardens like a wanton.’
Her mouth fell open. ‘Father, I—’
‘Where was your veil?’ Several veins bulged in the Sultan’s neck. ‘Your face was seen. Seen. What has happened to you? You are a disgrace.’
Rising from his gilded couch, the Sultan stepped towards her. Zorahaida’s chin lifted.
‘What, no apology, Daughter? No show of contrition. Very well.’
He lifted his hand, rings flashing and struck her cheek. The thump of flesh meeting flesh stole Zorahaida’s breath and she reeled sideways, seeing stars. Stunned.
‘Daughter, you anger me. Get out of my sight.’
* * *
The next morning, Zorahaida lay on a cushion next to a window in the uppermost chamber of her tower, staring at the distant peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Even now, her face throbbed. She had a blinding headache.
‘Princess, if you would turn your head a little,’ Maura said, quietly. ‘You need more balm on that cheek.’
Obediently, Zorahaida submitted to Maura’s gentle hands. ‘Thank you.’
‘You will be bruised for a time, Princess,’ Maura said.
‘It is no matter.’ Zorahaida spoke calmly, though her insides were churning. She’d never been hit before. Her father had hit her and that was bad enough, but what terrified her most was that he had taken his commander’s side over hers. It made her think the unthinkable. Father feels guilty. Had he asked Commander Abdul ibn Umar to kill Yamina? Had he ordered her drowned? His own niece?
She reminded herself that, to her knowledge, Sultan Tariq had never brutalised a child. He was cruel. He dismissed servants on a whim. He beat them. He attacked anyone who threatened to defy him, including the three Castilian knights with whom her sisters had run away. The knights had been prisoners at the time, they’d been chained and unarmed. Helpless. That hadn’t stopped him. Zorahaida would never forget how the Sultan had charged at the knights with his scimitar drawn. Fortunately, when Zorahaida and her sisters had intervened, he’d calmed down.
Zorahaida had always been confident of calming him. Of making him see the error of his ways.
Not so yesterday. Violence ran through the Sultan’s veins. She remembered the
way his gold rings had flashed as he had struck her. Gold rings. Zorahaida had read several sacred writings and she understood that as a man, her father shouldn’t be wearing gold rings. Much that he cared. Her father took heed of no one’s opinion but his own.
Had he ordered Yamina’s death? Hinted that something might happen to her? She no longer knew.
A soft rap on the door broke into her thoughts and Sama came in, carrying a gleaming casket.
‘What’s this?’
‘Princess, Prince Ghalib sends you his warmest greetings and begs that you accept this humble gift as a token of his everlasting gratitude and esteem. It’s a jewel box.’
The box was gilded metal, decorated with enamelled panels of great beauty. Zorahaida took it and ran her fingertips over the delicate enamelwork. Geometric patterns covered the lid—diamonds, lozenges and stars. The colours were extraordinary: vivid reds, the brightest of blues, greens gleaming like emeralds.
‘How beautiful, it looks as though it came from France,’ she murmured.
‘Aye, your uncle said it is from Limoges.’
Turning the key, Zorahaida lifted the lid. On a bed of velvet, lay a pink rosebud with the dew still upon it. Tears stung the back of her eyes.
‘Sama, please convey my thanks to Prince Ghalib. Tell him I will treasure his gift, it is beautiful.’
‘At once, Princess.’ Sama stood for a moment frowning at Zorahaida’s face. ‘Does it still hurt?’
‘Not as much as it hurts inside,’ Zorahaida said. The thoughts she couldn’t say, not even to Sama, she kept to herself.
What hurt most was how helpless she felt. All hope had been crushed. She had believed that her father would eventually mellow. She had thought him capable of change as he grew older. She couldn’t have been more wrong. In truth, he was getting more irascible and ungovernable by the day.
‘Sama, did you speak to Imad about collecting my sisters’ pigeons?’
‘They will be collected on the morrow.’
‘And you informed him that I should like to go with him?’
Sama’s face fell. ‘Oh, Princess, I thought...after yesterday... I am very sorry, I told him you had changed your mind.’
‘Sama, that was wrong of you, I intend to go.’
Maura gasped. ‘Princess, you cannot!’
‘I think you will find that I can.’
‘No. Princess, please don’t.’ Sama hesitated. ‘Last time you were almost caught. What if the Sultan, may he live for ever, finds out? After yesterday, he’ll kill you. And if he doesn’t kill you, he will certainly harm your guards.’
‘Or us,’ Maura put in, quietly.
Zorahaida looked at her handmaid. ‘Maura, you need not fear. Our guards are loyal and intelligent. They know when Father’s men are looking the other way. I shall take the greatest care and I will not be discovered.’ She stood up, gently probing her bruised cheek. ‘If I don’t get out, just briefly, I swear I shall lose my wits. Please, Sama, convey my message to Imad.’
‘As you command, Princess.’
Chapter Two
The heat from the furnace was intense and the armourer’s face was dripping with sweat.
Jasim ibn Ismail, knight at arms, retreated a couple of paces and watched closely as the armourer gave the final taps to an armbrace damaged during his last practice session.
Being the best workshop in Granada, it was packed with rival knights. All were as eager as Jasim to see that their weapons and armour were ready for the coming tournament. The queue for last-minute repairs straggled into the street.
Prepared to wait, Jasim rested his shoulders against a wooden partition. There was no sense rushing the armourer, he wanted the job done well.
A knight standing behind Jasim cleared his throat. ‘I assume you’re here for the Sultan’s tournament?’ he asked.
‘Aye.’ Jasim smiled and waited. His red-gold hair and beard often caused speculation. As he had anticipated, the knight was looking uneasily at Jasim’s eyes, which most people said were the colour of amber.
‘Where are you from?’ the knight asked, cautiously.
Jasim pitched his voice to carry above the clang of hammer on steel.
‘Madinat Runda. Jasim ibn Ismail at your service.’
The knight’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Your father was Ismail ibn Osman? The rebel? I’m surprised to see you in Granada after the stir your father made on his last visit.’
Jasim held in a sigh. If only people wouldn’t rush to judgement. His father wasn’t truly a rebel, though after his falling out with Sultan Tariq his reputation had suffered. ‘I am not my father. And he, may he rest in peace, died some years’ since.’
At least the knight hadn’t made any comments about Jasim’s mother. With his father having been so dark, remarks concerning his mother’s ancestry often followed. And Jasim knew precious little about her. His father’s second wife, Jasim’s mother had died giving birth to him.
The knight held his gaze for a moment before nodding pleasantly. ‘My apologies, that was badly done.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I am sure you honour your father, though you must admit that his intervention with Sultan Tariq was disastrous.’
‘Father wasn’t a diplomat,’ Jasim agreed coolly. ‘Although in his favour, dealing with Sultan Tariq is rarely straightforward. I expect he did what he thought was best.’
‘I’m sure. Well, I wish you good fortune in the lists.’
‘My thanks. Good fortune to you too.’
‘It’s likely we’ll need more than a little luck,’ the knight said drily.
‘Oh?’ Jasim gave the knight a quizzical look.
The knight grinned. ‘Clearly, you’ve never entered one of the Sultan’s tournaments.’
Jasim lowered his voice. ‘Are you saying the bouts are rigged in some way?’
The knight glanced uneasily over his shoulder. ‘No, no, nothing like that. All I am saying is that you should take care. With your name, contestants may assume you are fighting to restore your father’s honour. The Sultan’s supporters could gang up against you, in a rush to prove where their loyalty lies.’
‘That had occurred to me.’ Jasim shrugged. ‘I’m used to my father’s reputation preceding me. However, I think it’s more likely that the Sultan may refuse me entry.’
Jasim’s entry had already been approved by the steward, though he was conscious that the Sultan himself—unpredictable and volatile as he was—might intervene and deny him the chance to fight. If that happened, Jasim would have to find another way of proving to his uncle, the Governor of Madinat Runda, that sometimes the best way to deal with a bully was to confront him. In Jasim’s opinion, his uncle’s policy of appeasement simply wasn’t working.
The conversation turned and Jasim conversed easily with the knight until the armourer beckoned him over. ‘Sir Jasim, your armbrace.’
Jasim approached the glowing furnace as another armourer was thrusting a sword into it. Sweat beaded the man’s brow. How men worked in here was beyond him, it was hotter than the devil’s pit.
He examined his armbrace. ‘Good as new, I’d say.’
The armourer grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Jasim drew out his purse and made a point of grimacing as he weighed it in his hand.
The purse was almost empty, he’d deliberately given half of his coin to his squire to carry, for he wanted word to get around that Jasim of Madinat Runda had entered the Sultan’s tournament because he was eager for coin.
‘How much?’ he asked.
When the armourer named his price, Jasim winced and made a show of counting out the coins with grudging slowness. When he was done, he was almost certain that the armourer and anyone watching would assume that Sir Jasim and his squire would be on short rations for the next few days.
The Sultan had made a point of announcing that several
caskets of gold dinars had been set aside for tournament prizes. Jasim wanted people to assume he was desperate to win a bout or two. In truth, Jasim had coin, however, he could always find a use for extra gold. His motives for entering the tournament were simple: he wanted his uncle to realise that he wasn’t his father and to that end he intended to do well in the tournament.
God willing, Jasim wanted to find himself in a position where he could open negotiations between his uncle and the Sultan. The entire district around Madinat Runda had suffered because of his father’s impetuosity. Jasim was determined to redress the balance.
He found his squire, Farid, outside.
‘The horses are in the paddock?’ Jasim asked.
‘Yes, Master. And before you ask, they are well guarded.’
‘Good.’ Jasim was about to ask if Farid was hungry when he heard the tramp of marching feet.
It was a small procession of some kind. Half-a-dozen armed guards in grey surcoats were heading towards them. The guards’ faces were hidden, swathed in white scarves. Out of habit, Jasim searched for an insignia. Catching a flash of red beneath the surcoats, he stilled.
Red. The insignia of the Sultan was red and gold. Who were they guarding? Jasim strained to see but his view was blocked by the guards, who were in very close formation.
As the party approached, the townsfolk drew back to allow them to pass. People nudged each other and some started to smile. Whoever was at the heart of this strange procession, they were well known and well liked, which must imply that this little entourage didn’t have anything to do with the Sultan. Even in Granada, the Sultan was not universally loved.
Briefly the escort parted. A dark veil fluttered. It was a woman. Jasim stared, expecting to see a lady in vividly embroidered silks. A merchant’s wife, perhaps. Many of them went about like princesses. But no, this woman’s all-enveloping veil was unadorned, and as far as he could see, her clothing was as plain a grey as her escort’s surcoats. If it weren’t for her escort, he wouldn’t have given her a second glance.
The Warrior's Princess Prize Page 2
