The Warrior's Princess Prize

by Carol Townend

  Whoever she was, she walked with a youthful, flowing step. After a moment, her guards—for there could be no doubt that despite the woman’s humble attire, she was being protected—closed ranks about her. It was then that Jasim noticed that though she was simply dressed, she had servants. A man and a woman were carrying baskets and another woman had what looked like a lute case slung over her shoulder.

  A lute case?

  Curious, Jasim caught the eye of a fellow knight. ‘Who is that woman, do you know?’

  The knight shook his head. ‘No idea. I’m not from these parts.’

  The small procession wound on, turned into the next street and then Jasim had it. One of the hospitals was sited in that street.

  ‘She must be a patron,’ he murmured.

  The knight looked at him. ‘Master?’

  ‘That woman’s doing charity work at the hospital.’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  Jasim turned to Farid. ‘Are you hungry? I believe there’s an inn opposite the infirmary.’

  ‘I’m always hungry.’ Farid grinned. ‘Lead on, Master.’

  Nodding farewell to the knight, Jasim and Farid strode down the street and entered the square opposite the hospital. A well head stood in the centre of the square and the inn was set to one side. The inn appeared popular, tables had been set up outside and they were filling fast. Jasim eased on to a bench next to a palm tree.

  ‘Farid, see if they have wine, will you? And ask for cheese pastries. Fruit. You have whatever you want.’

  ‘Very good, Master.’

  After Farid had gone into the inn, a faint noise caught Jasim’s attention. Across the square, the infirmary shutters were open and inside someone was playing a lute. A gentle melodic tune that was new to him hung in the air. It was soothing. Calming. Whoever was playing was incredibly talented.

  Was it the young woman? It must be. While Jasim waited for Farid to return, he gazed blindly at a cat stretched out in the sun and allowed the music to float through him. He’d never heard anything quite like it; it was plaintive, filled with yearning and utterly beautiful. If it was the girl in grey, she played like an angel.

  A couple of knights rode past and the clop of hooves drowned out the music, and after that Farid returned and Jasim turned his attention to the cheese pastries. He forgot about the girl.

  As the shadows fell back, the tavern’s customers spilled into the square. Every now and then a servant from a nearby house came to the well to draw water. Some tradesmen joined them and stood in clusters talking idly to one another. One had a willow cage at his feet, a few pigeons were shifting about inside it.

  The sun rose ever higher, and the heat built. The infirmary door opened. It was the young woman, surrounded by her entourage.

  Jasim found himself wishing she wasn’t wearing that veil. He would have liked to see her face. His gaze followed her as she crossed to the well head. To Jasim’s surprise her men fell back and she engaged the merchant with the cage of pigeons in conversation.

  That woman, who was she? Sensing a mystery, Jasim strained to hear her voice. Curse it, there were too many people, and her voice was quiet. As melodic as the music, it was too soft for him to make out the words.

  A bellow of laughter drowned her out completely and then, as the laughter faded, that melodious voice reached him.

  Spanish? Jasim froze. If he wasn’t mistaken, he had caught a snatch of Spanish. Jasim spoke a little Spanish himself, though not half as well as this woman. Why, she spoke like a native.

  Thoroughly intrigued, he shifted his attention to the merchant with the pigeons. Every citizen in the Emirate knew that relations between Granada and the neighbouring Kingdom of Castile had soured. Skirmishes at the border were a regular occurrence. Was the man Spanish? What was this? Revolt? It didn’t seem possible that this young girl would be involved, but these days...

  The tradesman was replying to her in Arabic. Jasim frowned. Had he imagined hearing Spanish? He would swear he had not.

  Crumbling the remnants of a pastry between his fingers, he watched the group by the well head like a hawk.

  The young woman nodded and smiled as the tradesman picked up his bird cage and passed it to her. Her hand was slim and unadorned, Jasim saw no rings or bangles, which would seem to indicate that she was of no great importance. Yet she had the habit of command, immediately handing the cage over to her maidservant. And the way her escort watched her every move. Who was she?

  She gestured and her two other servants handed a pair of covered baskets to the tradesman. She’d accepted a cage of pigeons; Jasim couldn’t imagine what these other baskets contained.

  Jasim nudged Farid in the ribs. ‘Did you see that?’

  Farid wiped crumbs from his chin. ‘See what?’

  ‘That woman, the pigeons? The baskets?’

  But the crowd had swirled around the well and the young woman’s guards had her in their midst, she was lost to view. All Jasim could see was the white scarves of her escort as they trooped back towards the street of the armourers.

  Curiosity thoroughly aroused, Jasim pushed to his feet. ‘Never mind. You’ve settled up?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  The little procession moved swiftly through the streets. It went past the armourers’ workshop and up the tree-lined road to the main city square.

  Jasim knew exactly where they were. Unbelievably, it looked as though the young woman and her entourage were heading towards the Alhambra Palace. But if she and her guards had come from the palace, why bother to hide the Sultan’s insignia? If someone from the palace was helping in the hospital, why the need for subterfuge? Curiosity strong in him, Jasim continued after them.

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ Farid asked. ‘Our horses are the other way, down the hill.’

  ‘I know, lad. Bear with me. I doubt this will take long.’

  The hill grew steeper as the small procession hurried up the road. The trees fell back. The lack of trees proved they were indeed headed for the Alhambra. The last time Sultan Tariq had been threatened with insurrection, he’d ordered the trees cut back some distance from the palace walls.

  And there, sure enough, a great wall loured over them, stones gleaming red in the sunlight. In the sky above, swifts were screaming to one another as they sliced through the air.

  The young woman’s party hurried past the first gate, took the road skirting the edge of the wall and continued. Jasim was determined not to lose sight of them, but he kept his distance. There was no saying what might happen if those guards realised his interest. That young woman’s charity work might be a cover for something more sinister. Whatever she was doing was surely clandestine.

  ‘Isn’t that the palace?’ Farid asked, a worried frown appearing. ‘Are we going inside?’

  ‘Not today.’

  The anxiety on Farid’s face reminded Jasim about the warning the knight had given him earlier. With Jasim’s parentage, the Sultan might well question his motives for entering the tournament. He shot his squire a quick look.

  ‘You’re afraid the Sultan will resent my entering the tournament? There’s no need. I have it in writing that my entry is valid. The steward sent word I would be welcome.’

  Farid mumbled beneath his breath, but Jasim was too busy staring up at the palace to hear him.

  Ahead, two great buttresses leaned out from the walls. Between the buttresses was an unremarkable iron-banded door with a small grille. One of the guards in grey marched up to it and rapped on the wood. A spy hole appeared behind the grille, the door opened smoothly, and the girl and her party slipped through.

  Thoughtfully, Jasim turned away. He knew that the door was unlikely to lead directly into the palace or its grounds. There would be a series of linked corridors, followed by innumerable doors and gates, all of which would be carefull
y watched and guarded. There would be barracks, and guardhouses and armouries.

  As he and his squire made their way back down the hill towards the city proper and their horses, Jasim couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious young woman. Even though he would shortly be in the palace himself, he was unlikely to see her again.

  Which was a pity, for she fascinated him. A woman from the palace had been playing her lute in the city infirmary. For what reason. Charity? Or was it something more sinister? Could she really be hand in glove with the Spanish?

  Farid huffed out a breath. The boy was still worried.

  ‘Why the long face?’

  Farid jerked a shoulder towards the palace. ‘You’re truly going to enter the tournament?’

  Jasim stopped walking. ‘Farid, I enrolled months ago, you know I am. I’m not going to change my mind.’ He searched his squire’s troubled face and swore softly. ‘My uncle’s been talking to you, I see.’

  Farid chewed his lip and didn’t bother to deny it. ‘Master, the Governor is extremely concerned about you fighting in front of your father’s old enemy.’

  Jasim’s eyebrows lifted. His uncle, Ibrahim ibn Osman was a cautious man, and Jasim believed he understood his reservations, though he didn’t agree with them. As Governor of Madinat Runda, his uncle’s decision to hold the Sultan at arm’s length had been disastrous for local trade. Madinat Runda had suffered because of it. And it would go on suffering until some sort of accord was made between the two districts.

  Jasim would be the first man to admit that the Sultan was difficult, and he was all too aware that the trouble had started when his father had made his noble but ill-judged attempt to challenge him on the matter of taxes and tariffs.

  He set his jaw. He was confident that the people of Madinat Runda would benefit from closer association with Granada. By entering the tournament, Jasim hoped, in his small way, to bridge the distance that had developed between the districts. ‘My uncle told you to speak to me, didn’t he?’

  ‘Aye. The Governor wishes you to withdraw from the tournament.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  Farid looked earnestly at him. ‘Master, the Governor has your interests at heart. He doesn’t trust the Sultan an inch.’

  His uncle was concerned for him? It was far more likely he was fretting over the possibility of new tariffs and taxes. Jasim smiled inwardly. There was much of the merchant in his uncle.

  He made his voice stern. ‘Whose squire are you, mine or my uncle’s?’

  ‘Why yours, of course.’

  ‘Fine. Now we have that straight I’ll hear no more talk about withdrawing from the tournament. We’ll be moving into our lodgings in the palace at first light. I need your support, Farid, and I trust that I have it.’

  ‘Yes, Master, always,’ Farid said, his face relaxing. ‘I knew that would be your answer. I told the Governor you wouldn’t be persuaded, but he made me promise to try.’

  Jasim clapped him on the back. ‘And so you have. Objections duly noted.’

  As they made their way back to the stables, the calling of swifts gave way to the chattering of sparrows and house martins. Temporarily, the mysterious young woman was forgotten.

  Chapter Three

  Zorahaida yawned and stretched. She was in the habit of breaking her fast early in the courtyard at the bottom of her tower. Usually she rose when the sparrows started cheeping in the myrtle bushes outside. They were already cheeping, and light was edging into her bedchamber. It was time to get up. Wondering why no one had come to assist her, she dressed herself and went downstairs. Hunter rode on her shoulder, gently gripping her hair.

  The courtyard below was cooled by a fountain. Zorahaida enjoyed sitting near it, because when the doors to the adjoining chambers were open, light came in from all angles. Oddly, the courtyard was filled with shadow, the doors were firmly closed.

  ‘Maura?’ Zorahaida called. How strange that no one had come to help her dress. Where was everyone? ‘Sama?’

  Except for the sparrows in the myrtles, all was quiet. There was no sign of her handmaids. Nor, save for a bowl covered with a cloth on a shelf, was there any sign of her breakfast.

  How very peculiar.

  Pulling the doors open one by one, Zorahaida went into the adjacent rooms and opened the shutters. Hunter bounced off her shoulder and scampered back to the central courtyard. Having let in as much of the morning light as she could, Zorahaida returned to find him perched on the shelf. He had whipped the cloth from the bowl which was full of dates and dried fruit. Eagerly, the monkey helped himself to a date.

  ‘Hunter, you are a naughty boy. You are supposed to wait until I feed you.’

  Ever since Alba had gone, Zorahaida had been trying to train him. In the main, she had succeeded. Hunter no longer used the gilded birdcage as a swing, he no longer raced around the tower like a mad thing, leaping on anyone who came near. But as far as food was concerned, she was fighting a losing battle. Hunter ate what he liked. And he loved dates and dried fruit.

  Zorahaida went to the window facing the palace grounds and frowned. Why was it so quiet?

  A door thudded shut and she heard a swift footstep. Maura hurried in, basket in hand.

  ‘Forgive me, Princess,’ Maura, said. ‘The kitchens are overwhelmed. It’s utter chaos. There were plenty of grapes, but I had to wait for a fresh batch of honey bread to come out of the oven.’

  Zorahaida blinked. ‘They never run out of honey bread.’

  Maura set the basket on the table. Her face was lit up, clearly, she had interesting news to impart.

  ‘They do when your father has invited every knight in the kingdom to take part in a tournament,’ Maura said, watching Zorahaida for her reaction.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A tournament. Your father the Sultan, peace be upon him, is hosting a tournament. Knights are arriving from all over the Emirate and beyond. The kitchens are struggling to keep up with demand.’

  ‘A tournament,’ Zorahaida breathed. Her interest was well and truly caught. She knew a tournament was a practice battle, a competition held to hone warriors’ skills. Such mock battles were usually run according to ancient laws of chivalry.

  All Zorahaida knew about chivalry was that her sisters Leonor and Alba had had the good fortune to run away with two of the most chivalrous men in the Kingdom of Castile. She did, however, know that not all knights were Christians living in the Spanish kingdom. There were knights in the Emirate too. Moslem knights who, like their Christian counterparts, had been trained to fight according to chivalric rules such as those practised in Spain. Educated, noble men, they swore to fight for justice, give aid to the poor and protect those less able to defend themselves.

  ‘Maura, do you know where it will be held?’

  Maura smiled. ‘Right here in the palace.’

  ‘Here?’ Zorahaida felt a pang go through her. ‘I’d love to see it.’

  Firmly, Maura shook her head. ‘Oh, no. All those strange men. You won’t be allowed anywhere near.’ An expression of revulsion crossed her face. ‘Besides, tourneys are battles, are they not? Blood will be shed. You won’t like it.’

  Zorahaida sighed. ‘Maura, the fighting isn’t real. Tournaments are mock battles, a practice of sorts.’

  ‘In this instance, I think you will find you are wrong, Princess. Particularly since Sultan Tariq has announced that the overall champion will receive several caskets of gold and the finest gem in his collection. Men have fought to the death for less.’ Maura gestured Zorahaida toward a cushion and offered a plate of bread and grapes. ‘Here, you must be hungry. The bread is still warm.’

  Zorahaida reached absently for some bread, so wrapped in thought that she barely tasted it.

  The Sultan had offered the finest gem in his collection to the Champion? It was hard to believe. Of late, her father had taken to retir
ing to the treasury more and more. She’d been told that he liked nothing better than having a strong box unlocked so he could run his fingers through the best of the jewels. He was often open-handed, but long ago Zorahaida had come to realise that his generosity was calculated.

  ‘I wonder what he wants,’ she murmured.

  Maura, pouring a cup of juice, snorted. ‘You know the answer to that.’

  ‘Father wants prestige,’ Zorahaida said, quietly. ‘He wants the world to know how powerful he is, how indomitable, how rich. He wants every district in the Emirate to bow to his authority.’

  ‘No doubt he wants to impress the Spanish King too.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Maura picked up the jug. ‘Do you care for orange and pomegranate juice?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Zorahaida sipped thoughtfully, aware her heart was beating faster than it had in some time.

  News of this tournament was exciting and somewhat unnerving. Life in the palace had a certain rhythm, everything ran like clockwork. Her father liked it that way. He liked to know where he stood. That he was choosing to host a tournament spoke volumes about his insecurity. And when her father felt insecure, Zorahaida noticed that someone else usually suffered.

  First Yamina, she thought. Who would be next?

  The idea that the Sultan might take it upon himself to host a tournament simply for entertainment was ludicrous, particularly since it was being held inside the palace walls. The gates wouldn’t be open to all. Only the most trusted counsellors and servants were allowed anywhere near.

  No, her father was up to something. Was he planning war against the Spanish Kingdom of Castile? Was this an attempt to rally the troops, as it were?

  The thought made her queasy. Since Leonor and Alba had fled to Castile, their father seemed to have forgotten that their mother, Lady Juana, his beloved Queen, had herself been Spanish. The Sultan had become so bitter. In the immediate aftermath of what he termed her sisters’ defection, Zorahaida had withstood his ill temper and changeability. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt again and again, certain that in his heart he loved all his daughters. Her father was hurting, she told herself. She’d been sure that time would heal him.