The Warrior's Princess Prize

by Carol Townend

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t. She took a deep breath. What was he planning? Murder? War?

  ‘Maura, I don’t suppose any of the contestants are Spanish, are they?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady, I have no idea.’

  Zorahaida had to find out more about the reasons behind this tournament. Asking her father directly was simply not possible. He invariably took questions as a threat to his authority. Briefly, it occurred to her to consult her uncle, Prince Ghalib. But, no, the Prince’s ever-growing family was already in danger, thanks to her father’s resentment of his brother’s prowess in fathering children. Her uncle’s favourite concubine was expecting yet another child. Would it be a boy? If it was a boy, the baby would be a potential claimant to the throne because the Sultan himself had no sons. Sultan Tariq only had three daughters, two of whom he saw as deserters.

  Father has not sired a boy. Prince Ghalib is his successor.

  Was that what this was about?

  Heavens, she must tread carefully. The last thing she wanted was to put another cousin, or indeed the women in her uncle’s harem, in danger.

  She put down her cup, ate a grape and stared blankly at the honey bread. She couldn’t let this lie, she had to act. Today, her father would be busy welcoming his guests. He’d greet them either in the Court of the Lions or in one of the audience chambers. As soon as she’d finished breakfast, she would change into her maidservant’s disguise and head that way. She’d done it before, admittedly when her father was in a more lenient frame of mind.

  Maura was nibbling a bread roll. She wouldn’t tell Maura, she would only fret. Besides, it wouldn’t do to put Maura in the firing line.

  I need to be subtle. For the sake of everyone in the palace, I must find out what Father believes this tournament will achieve.

  * * *

  Dressed as unobtrusively as possible in grey servant’s garb and with her face hidden by her veil, Zorahaida walked carefully towards the Court of the Lions. She had planned her mission with care.

  Experience had taught her the best way to walk to avoid being noticed, so she kept her head down in a meek and modest posture. She walked as though she had a definite objective in mind, she must look as though she was engaged on an errand. She didn’t run and she didn’t dawdle.

  The Sultan’s Guard was out in force. A troop was stationed around the Court of the Lions, making it plain that Sultan Tariq was receiving his knightly guests in a chamber adjoining the courtyard. Zorahaida’s heart lifted. So far, so good.

  At the centre of the courtyard, water streaming from the lions’ mouths glistened in the sun. Zorahaida’s path led across two sides of the square, in the shade of columned arcades. She headed quietly for the shadows next to the most sumptuous of the receiving chambers, where another of her father’s thrones was placed.

  Now for the risky part. Zorahaida’s objective was the curtained alcove reserved wholly for the Sultan’s concubines. An ornamental vase that was tall as a man stood on a stand in the corridor outside. If the alcove was empty, she would only have moments to conceal herself. And if it was not empty...

  Praying that her father was so distracted by his guests that he hadn’t thought the comfort of a concubine would be necessary, Zorahaida held her breath. She slipped past the curtain.

  God was good and the alcove was empty. Straightening the curtain, she breathed again. Decorated tiles covered the walls and a plump cushion took up most of the floor.

  Ignoring the cushion, Zorahaida shifted to the other side of the alcove, where she could hear and see a little of what was going on in the audience chamber. In the gap between the curtain and the wall she could see more guards standing at either side of the entrance to the audience chamber. Beyond the guards stood a group of turbaned men, presumably some of the knights who were her father’s guests. The visiting knights were facing her father on his throne, so they had their backs to her. They looked to be unarmed, which wasn’t surprising, since only the Sultan’s Guard bore arms in the Sultan’s presence.

  Her father was speaking. Zorahaida couldn’t make out what he was saying but his tone was curt. Angry. She bit her lip. That didn’t bode well for the knights in that chamber.

  Twisting sideways, half-leaning against the vase on the other side of the curtain, she eased herself into a position where she could see a little more. Her father’s face was taut and fierce, and his voice was easier to hear.

  ‘You are the son of Ismail ibn Osman of Madinat Runda.’

  Zorahaida’s stomach knotted. That had sounded very much like an accusation. Who was Ismail ibn Osman? The name wasn’t familiar. He must have crossed swords with her father in the past. The Sultan had a long memory for grudges.

  The taller of the men bowed. He was wearing a blue robe belted at the waist. ‘Indeed, Great King,’ he said, in a calm and measured voice. ‘I am Jasim ibn Ismail of Madinat Runda.’

  The Sultan’s fists opened and closed. ‘Jasim ibn Ismail, I am astounded at your effrontery.’

  ‘Great King, should a man be judged only by his parentage?’ the knight said coolly. ‘I am not my father, as I hope to prove to you.’

  The Sultan’s frown deepened. ‘And I am to take your word for that? The son of a known rebel?’

  ‘I am a knight. I have taken knightly vows. That was good enough for your steward, Great King, when I enrolled in the tournament. He was happy to take my word.’ He bowed again. His calm courtesy made a marked contrast with the Sultan’s brusqueness. ‘But if you wish to deny me the chance to prove my worth, I shall of course relieve you of my presence.’

  Silence. No one moved, it was as though they were all watching the workings of an ugly spell to which there could only be a grim ending. Zorahaida’s heart thumped. By behaving so reasonably, this knight had contrived to back her father into a corner. If the Sultan took against this Jasim ibn Ismail with these other knights as witness, he would be made to look a fool. And the Sultan would never forget it.

  God save that knight, Zorahaida thought. No one crosses my father and gets away with it.

  The Sultan’s nostrils flared. When his fists bunched, Zorahaida jerked, knocking the tall vase so it rocked on its stand. In the appalled silence, the noise was horribly loud.

  Footsteps approached and the curtain rings rattled. A guard stood looking at her.

  Praise God, it was Captain Yusuf ibn Safwan, Zorahaida had helped his family more than once.

  Swiftly, the Captain pulled her out of the alcove, making it appear, bless him, that she had merely been standing in the corridor. It wouldn’t do to be caught eavesdropping in the place reserved for the Sultan’s favourite.

  ‘Captain?’ Her father’s voice reached her, angrier than ever. ‘Is someone there?’

  Zorahaida grasped Yusuf’s sleeve. ‘Yusuf, it’s me,’ she whispered.

  Yusuf lifted an eyebrow and kept his reply soft. ‘I didn’t imagine it would be anyone else. Princess, you must take more care.’

  ‘What’s going on? Who is that?’ Her father pushed to his feet, his expression stormy. ‘Captain, bring that woman here.’

  ‘My apologies, Princess.’ Yusuf took her by the elbow and marched her, veil still in place, before her father. There were more guards inside, they lined the walls like statues, obscuring much of the flowing script on the patterned wall tiles. ‘Great King, it is only a passing maidservant.’

  Zorahaida dropped to the floor in full obeisance as the knights and guards looked on. Never before had she been the focus of so many eyes. Men’s eyes. She realised she was trembling, and it wasn’t through fear of the men. Strange men as Maura had called them.

  The bruises she had received at the hand of her father throbbed a warning and she braced herself.

  ‘Rise, girl.’ The Sultan was wearing white robes again with a dazzling jewelled belt. The ruby in his turban glowed as bright and baleful as a dragon�
�s eye and the golden scabbard of his dagger was shaped like a leopard’s claw. ‘Who are you? What were you doing?’

  Head lowered, Zorahaida got to her feet. ‘A thousand apologies, Great King,’ she whispered, in the hope that her father wouldn’t recognise her voice. ‘I am just a servant. I missed my way.’

  ‘You missed your way? Come closer.’

  Swallowing hard, she braced herself and obeyed.

  Her father lifted his hand, seemed to recollect where he was and with whom, and his hand fell.

  ‘Captain, remove this woman. She almost broke a valuable vase. Proper discipline is needed. See to it, personally.’

  Yusuf bowed. ‘At once, Great King.’

  Gaze fixed firmly on the floor, Zorahaida walked out of the audience chamber, Yusuf at her heels.

  * * *

  Uncomfortable, Jasim watched the girl go. The vase hadn’t broken, yet Sultan Tariq had been about to strike her. It was yet further proof that his terrible reputation was well earned. What had he meant when he had said she needed ‘proper discipline’? Would the guard beat her?

  Guilt tightened inside him. Jasim was uneasily aware that his presence, being an unwelcome reminder of his father, had been what had upset the Sultan.

  The Sultan had wanted to strike him rather than the maidservant. If he hadn’t been here, she would probably have been let off more lightly. He had to make sure the guard didn’t maltreat her.

  ‘Great King.’ Jasim bowed. ‘I apologise if my presence here offends you. With your permission, I shall withdraw.’

  The Sultan directed his dark gaze on him, and though he knew he should not, Jasim held that gaze.

  ‘You are withdrawing from the tournament?’ the Sultan asked, frowning.

  ‘If it is your will.’

  The Sultan tucked his thumbs into his belt and took a slow, deep breath. His gaze flickered to the other knights standing before him. Faint colour stained his cheeks. It was almost, Jasim thought, as though the Sultan regretted having lost his temper.

  ‘I spoke hastily, sir knight,’ the Sultan said. ‘Your personal reputation precedes you. I agree with my steward, you may compete in the tourney.’

  ‘Thank you, Great King. You are most generous.’

  Jasim bowed again and before the Sultan had time to change his mind, he backed out of the chamber and strode into the Court of the Lions.

  There was no sign of the maidservant or the Captain. The marble courtyard was full of other guards, but not the one Jasim wanted. He went down one arcade and then another; he passed through an antechamber and found himself blinking into the sun.

  There they were, walking slowly through a square filled with orange trees. The Captain had released the maidservant, who was walking quite freely at his side. They were talking in undertones. Jasim increased his pace, determined the woman shouldn’t be punished on his account. As he caught up with them, something about the way she walked reminded him of someone. He shook his head, the resemblance remained elusive.

  ‘Captain?’

  The man’s hand shot to his sword hilt and he swung round to face him. Not only was the guard bristling with tension but Jasim couldn’t help but note how he had placed himself protectively before the maidservant. She stood, perfectly submissive with her head down, a couple of paces behind.

  Interesting.

  ‘A word, if you please,’ Jasim said. He spread his hands. ‘As you see, I am unarmed.’

  The guard regarded Jasim warily, and after a moment he seemed to accept that Jasim presented no danger to the servant girl for his hand lifted from his hilt.

  ‘You must have missed your way, Jasim ibn Ismail,’ he said softly. ‘The barracks lie in the other direction.’

  ‘I haven’t missed my way, I wanted to speak to you.’ Jasim nodded towards the maidservant. ‘I would like your assurance that this woman will not be harshly punished.’

  Behind the guard, the veiled head lifted, she was listening to him.

  Jasim continued. ‘She knocked into a vase which wasn’t broken. I believe it was my presence in the audience chamber that angered the Sultan and I am afraid that led him to demand a harsh punishment for a light transgression.’ Reaching into his purse, he scooped out a handful of silver. ‘Please, take this, the Sultan’s displeasure is surely punishment enough.’

  The Captain came a couple of paces nearer and to Jasim’s surprise he shook his head and leaned in. ‘That will not be necessary, Master. I can assure you that I wouldn’t dream of harming a hair on her head.’

  Jasim felt himself relax. ‘Good man.’ He slipped the coins back into his purse.

  The servant girl cleared her throat. She was toying with her veil, rolling the edge between thumb and forefinger and Jasim saw that her hand was fine-boned and cared for. Whatever her role in the palace, she didn’t do manual work.

  ‘Peace be upon you, Jasim ibn Ismail,’ she said, softly. ‘Your kindness does you much honour.’

  Jasim felt his jaw drop. No wonder he’d thought her familiar! That melodious voice belonged to the woman who walked about the city with an escort and took a lute into the infirmary. He opened his mouth to say more but found himself staring at her back. They were walking away.

  Wryly, he shook his head. He had been dismissed. As he watched the pair of them cross the tree-filled square, he could hear them talking easily to each other. Who was she and what was her role in the palace?

  Clearly, she was far more than a simple servant.

  * * *

  Each of the competing knights had been allocated space in the barracks hall to assemble their gear and for the rest of the day, Jasim was fully occupied preparing for the tournament. He and Farid stationed themselves by a trestle table, giving his equipment a final check.

  Jasim slid his sword back into its sheath. ‘Well done, Farid, this has a fine edge.’

  Since arriving at the palace, Jasim had felt naked without his sword. He’d known what to expect but he didn’t have to like it. Within the walls of the Alhambra only the Palace Guard and the Sultan’s household knights bore arms. An exception would be made for the tournament.

  The Sultan lived in fear. Assassination was ever in his mind. Given the bloody history of the Nasrid dynasty, it was understandable. Several of the Sultan’s predecessors had died at the hand of a brother or relative, eager to seize the throne.

  Before entering the Alhambra, Jasim had hoped that Sultan Tariq’s reputation for cruelty and self-serving was exaggerated. He had felt confident that his hot-headed father had precipitated the argument that had caused the rift between Madinat Runda and Granada.

  He was no longer so certain. Having seen first-hand Sultan Tariq’s violent reaction to the discovery of the maidservant near the audience chamber, it was plain the Sultan trusted no one. Had it been the Sultan rather than his father who had caused the rift between the districts?

  Grimacing, he shook his head. Given Sultan Tariq’s reaction when he had realised Jasim was Ismail ibn Osman’s son, there was no tactful way he could enquire about that particularly difficult episode in history. He would probably never know the answer. What was clear was that Sultan Tariq lived in fear and crushed anything he considered a threat.

  ‘What a way to live,’ he murmured.

  ‘Master?’

  Jasim kept his voice low. ‘This tournament is the Sultan’s way of reaching out to his allies yet see how we are watched.’

  Farid was an intelligent lad. His gaze skimmed over the guards lining the wall and he nodded. ‘I had noticed, and I don’t think much of it. It makes me feel as though I have done something wrong, and I haven’t, Master, I swear it.’

  ‘I know that.’ Jasim smiled. ‘The tournament will be over soon. With luck, we’ll be on our way home in a couple of days.’

  Jasim prided himself on his easy-going nature. Yet he’d not been in the pal
ace above a day and the atmosphere was making even him edgy.

  Guards everywhere. Watching eyes at every turn. To be sure there was luxury too, but he could do without that. Everyone here was walking on eggshells.

  He had entered this tournament bent on being crowned champion. Was it worth it?

  Of course it was. For years Jasim had wanted to repair the damage wrought by his impetuous father, if indeed his father was to blame.

  Jasim’s father, like Jasim, had been a second son. Ismail ibn Osman had been belligerent, impetuous and brave. Those qualities had served him well on the battlefield, but they had made him unsuitable for the role of Governor. Governors needed tact. Governors needed to be diplomats. And governors were usually chosen on merit.

  There was no doubt that Jasim’s uncle, Ibrahim, was the perfect governor. Or he would be, if he would only assert himself over the lapsed trade agreements.

  Jasim curled his fingers into a fist. In a sense the cause of the rift between Madinat Runda and Granada was irrelevant. It had gone on for far too long. Jasim’s goal hadn’t changed. If he did well or could win the tournament, he would attempt to broker a deal with the Sultan. It was vital that trade between the districts improved and even the Sultan must see that improved relations would be to everyone’s benefit. Jasim would repair the damage caused by the rift between east and west. And if at the same time he could show his uncle the Governor that Jasim ibn Ismail could be relied upon, so much the better.

  This will be worth it, he thought, trying not to scowl at the guard watching his every move.

  He didn’t envy that poor maidservant her position here. Given that he’d seen her in the city, it seemed likely that she served one of the harem favourites. She clearly had some influence, though in all probability she would have no choice but to obey her mistress.