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
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 mos
t 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.’
The Knight's Forbidden Princess Page 2
