The Knight's Forbidden Princess

by Carol Townend

  Rodrigo wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to see her again. Their love—if indeed that was what it had been—had died years ago. It had been boyish and naive. And so gut-wrenchingly painful when it had ended that he’d sworn never to feel that way again. Fortunately, none of his mistresses had come close to inspiring half the devotion he’d felt for Sancha.

  Princess Leonor on the other hand...

  No, no, no. The political situation was impossible. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have a minor war on his hands. Not to mention that his mother would never speak to him again. Princess Leonor had to go home.

  * * *

  The Princess’s summons—and ‘summons’ was the only word for it—came on the afternoon of the third day.

  Ana ran breathlessly into the chamber he used as an office and dipped into a curtsy.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Ana?’

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting, but I have a message from Lady Leonor. She requests your presence in the tower chamber.’

  Despite his cares, Rodrigo felt a smile form. Three days. She’d waited three days. It was more than he’d expected. ‘She requests, does she?’

  Ana’s cheeks darkened, which told its own story. Rodrigo suspected that more had been said, much more, and that Ana was too embarrassed to repeat it. He rose, walked round the desk and leaned against it. ‘Ana, I’m curious, what did she really say?’

  Ana pursed her lips. ‘Lady Leonor said to tell you that she appreciates there are difficulties with her staying here as your guest. She mentioned Lady Isabel. Lady Leonor is insistent that you go to her at once, she says she needs a story to explain her presence here. My lord, she is anxious for exercise.’ Ana gazed at him with the frankness of an old and trusted retainer, and added softly, ‘It is in my mind that she fears, well, imprisonment.’

  Guilt shivered through him. Lord, he should have thought of this, and if he hadn’t been so anxious to comfort his mother, he would have done. He swore under his breath.

  ‘Do you think it would help if I allowed her to see the rest of the castle?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Ana hesitated. ‘What happened to Lady Leonor? Why did you bring her to Castle Álvarez?’

  Rodrigo’s smile froze. ‘Tread carefully, Ana. You are in danger of overstepping the bounds.’

  ‘That may be, my lord, but Lady Leonor is kind and surprisingly innocent, I like her. Do you intend to make her your mistress?’

  Ana’s blunt question conjured a vision of Leonor lying languidly in Rodrigo’s bed. He could see, all too clearly, the lissom limbs that had been so barely concealed by her flimsy harem silks. He could see the soft shine of a golden anklet. And the gentle curve of her breast and waist. Leonor’s dark eyes were melting with passion and her hand was outstretched towards him. On her mouth was a smile of welcome and acceptance. Rodrigo had never seen such a smile, not even on Sancha. Of course, he and Sancha had been so young. But now...

  Desire, hot and dark, swept through him. He didn’t want it. Never mind the diplomatic ramifications, he didn’t want Leonor, he couldn’t want her. She was going home.

  Dismissing the vision with a shake of his head, he had to clear his throat to speak. ‘I have Lady Leonor’s interests at heart.’

  Ana studied him closely and what she saw must have reassured her, for her mouth relaxed and she nodded. ‘Lady Leonor is eager to see the rest of the castle, my lord.’

  ‘Very well, Ana. You may tell her I shall join her before the hour is out.’

  * * *

  ‘This way, my lady.’ Rodrigo gestured across the bailey in the direction of the stables.

  Having shown Princess Leonor the castle from battlements to cellars, they were going for a ride. The Princess, he was learning, had boundless energy and she shared his passion for horses. The ride was his way of apologising for inflicting confinement on her. He hoped it would restore him to her favour, he wanted her to think well of him.

  Why, he had no idea. Her opinion of him shouldn’t matter, particularly since she wasn’t going to be with him for long. He was certain he would hear from her father very soon, and then she’d be gone.

  The thought was disquieting. He pushed it aside.

  Princess Leonor was wearing a diaphanous blue veil and a damask gown with a full skirt that swirled as she walked. No cloak, the sun was too fierce for that, but she was using her veil to simulate one, wrapping it around her throat and shoulders in a way that protected her modesty. All in all, her new clothes were less revealing than the ones she’d been wearing when she’d fled the palace—those glimpses of scarcely covered skin had been tantalising beyond belief. Today, there were no hints at the flesh beneath the gown, only her shape was revealed. Rodrigo’s lips curved appreciatively. It was a very nice shape. No, it was more than that, it was perfect. Her waist was tiny, her breasts high. The blue gown emphasised her femininity, and when she moved, her natural grace came to the fore. The sway of her hips was incredibly alluring. Rodrigo wasn’t the only man to notice, several of his sentries were also looking at her.

  He smothered a sigh. He’d known that guarding a Nasrid princess, particularly one who was so lovely, wouldn’t be easy. That was why he’d brought her here. His men were hand-picked, he trusted every one. Even so, it was inevitable they would be intrigued by the mysterious beauty he’d brought back from Granada.

  In truth, as far as Princess Leonor was concerned, his mother was more of a threat than his men. However, he didn’t want the Princess embarrassed by the staring. She’d spent most of her life behind a veil, it must make her ill at ease. At the next roll call, he would be sure to remind his men of the importance of focus and discipline.

  ‘Did Ana sew your gown?’ he asked. ‘It is most becoming.’

  ‘Ana’s a marvel with a needle, she did most of the work,’ she replied. ‘Catalina and I helped. I embroidered the swirl along the edge of the veil.’

  Rodrigo’s brows lifted. The Princess sewed? He hadn’t really thought about it, but he’d imagined that the Sultan’s daughters had never had to lift a finger.

  She had noticed the eyebrow. ‘I like sewing.’ A touch of defensiveness crept into her voice. ‘Usually I stick to embroidery. It was most instructive learning how to make a Spanish gown.’

  One of the grooms came out of the stables, spotted the Princess, stumbled and stared at her, mouth agape.

  Rodrigo shook his head. ‘Steady, Albert.’

  Albert’s face flamed and he looked swiftly away. It was obvious that he assumed that Leonor was his mistress. Never mind that Rodrigo wouldn’t dream of bringing a mistress—even a favoured one—under the same roof as his mother. Rodrigo felt a twinge of regret, he hadn’t thought Leonor would be here long enough for this to become an issue.

  Fortunately, Leonor hadn’t noticed Albert, she was taking in her surroundings with her usual bright-eyed interest. Her gaze flickered over the bailey and wall walk, and came to rest on the cross on the chapel roof. Her eyes narrowed and she changed direction, heading directly for the chapel.

  Hell burn it, she would want to see in there, the one place he hadn’t taken her.

  Rodrigo strode to intercept her. Lady Isabel was a God-fearing woman, she would probably be in the chapel, praying for Diego’s soul. At the best of times, his mother was the most forthright of women. And now, with her nerves raw with grief...

  Rodrigo didn’t like to think what she might say if she came face-to-face with the strange lady gossip was naming his mistress. And should the Princess let fall her identity...

  ‘My lady!’ He caught her elbow.

  Leonor—when had she become Leonor in his mind?—looked down at his hand and lifted an eyebrow. ‘My lord?’

  He smiled. ‘The horses are in dire need of exercise.’

  ‘I haven’t see the chapel. My lord, my mother was Christian and I’ve never been inside a chu
rch. I’d like to see it.’

  ‘The chapel can wait, your palfrey can’t.’ Ignoring her slight gasp of surprise, he guided her firmly back to the stable. ‘The palfrey is chestnut, my lady, not grey like the mare I saw on the road to Granada.’

  A shadow crossed her face and her dark eyes met his. ‘You remember Snowstorm?’

  ‘I’m a knight; how could I forget her?’ He kept his voice light. ‘She’s a wonderful animal. I’ve never seen three mares so beautifully matched.’

  Her mouth turned down. ‘Father sold them.’ Her voice cracked.

  Thinking he must have misheard, Rodrigo stared. ‘Why on earth would he do that? Those mares were perfect for the three of you. He’ll never find their like again.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ she said on a sigh. ‘Not that it matters any longer, with only one Princess left at the palace.’

  She averted her face, although not before he’d seen the bright sheen of tears in her eyes. He covered her hand with his. ‘I am sorry, my lady, it’s never easy to lose a fine horse.’

  ‘No.’

  She looked so mournful, Rodrigo’s chest ached. Lord, the more he heard about her father, the more of an ogre he became. It scarcely seemed possible that Leonor—so sweet and warm—should be his daughter.

  His conscience pricked him, he’d acted with the best of intentions when he’d sent word to her father with a view to sending her home. Had he made a terrible mistake?

  To the people outside Al-Andalus, the Sultan’s reputation was that of a tyrant. He was capricious and ruthless with prisoners. The poorer prisoners were killed, whilst noblemen with large coffers were kept for ransom. That said, Rodrigo was a realist, Sultan Tariq wasn’t the only king to behave in this way. The kings of Castile also used ransom as a weapon of war; they too used it to fill their treasuries.

  Rodrigo had been confident that the Sultan of Al-Andalus would treat his daughters with more care. He’d seen for himself the luxury Leonor was used to—the golden bangles and anklets, the harem silks, the grey mares with their silver bells—and he’d assumed that she and Princess Alba must have crossed him in some petty argument. That they’d run away to spite him.

  Had he completely misjudged her?

  Thoughts in turmoil, he steered her gently into the stable. ‘The mare’s in the end stall. Her name is Amber.’

  ‘Amber.’ Leonor brushed away a tear and found him a smile. ‘That’s pretty.’

  He watched as she introduced herself to the mare, carefully allowing the animal to take her scent before she petted her. This woman was no spoilt princess. She was a sweetheart. And in alerting her father to her whereabouts, Rodrigo suspected he might have made the most ghastly error of judgement. If he sent her back to the palace, would her father punish her severely? What would he do?

  Something niggled at the back of his mind, something Leonor had said shortly after fleeing the palace. She’d told him she couldn’t go back and she had been very definite about that.

  Father will kill me.

  Rodrigo’s blood chilled. Could that really be true?

  I can’t send her back. If I do, I would be just as much an ogre as her father.

  ‘My lady?’

  She looked across, still petting the mare. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Are you happy to ride her?’

  ‘Very happy.’

  He gave a brief bow. ‘I’ll send a groom in to saddle her, and allow you and Amber to become better acquainted. I’ll wait in the bailey.’

  Outside, Rodrigo leaned against a sun-warmed wall and returned to his dark thoughts. His instincts were beginning to tell him that he shouldn’t send Leonor back to the palace and that she would be far better off remaining in Castile. But supposing he was wrong?

  Leonor had been brought up in a different culture. He’d be the first to admit that he didn’t know anything about the protocols a Granadan princess must follow. Did he have the right to make judgements? What he did know was that he’d come to like and trust her. Leonor was no liar, when she said she didn’t want to go home, she truly meant it. As to her belief that her father would kill her if she went home—Lord, what a coil.

  If Leonor didn’t return to the palace, ill feeling would surely build up between Castile and Al-Andalus. It could cause more fighting at the frontiers, fighting that could escalate into all-out war.

  Rodrigo shoved his hand through his hair and stared bleakly at the chapel door. He had the men and the allies to deal with further conflict, the pity was that what both kingdoms sorely needed was peace.

  The sharp clip of iron-shod hoofs drew his attention to the gatehouse, where a horseman was exchanging greetings with the guards. Rodrigo didn’t recognise the horse, but he knew the man. Miguel was back. Rodrigo pushed away from the wall.

  Miguel dismounted with a creak of leather and a grunt that spoke of hours in the saddle.

  ‘Well met, Miguel,’ Rodrigo said. ‘You made excellent time.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Miguel reached into his tunic and brought out a scroll that was covered in red and gold seals, and tied with black ribbon.

  The Sultan’s reply had arrived.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rodrigo took the scroll with a heavy heart and glanced swiftly at the stable door. There was no sign of Leonor, she must still be petting Amber. He looked past the gatehouse, to the highway. The road was empty. He frowned. ‘Where’s my lady’s escort?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Didn’t Lady Leonor’s escort accompany you?’

  His squire wrenched off his helmet. ‘There’s no escort, my lord.’

  ‘What did her father say?’

  ‘As you instructed, I didn’t speak to the Sultan myself. His scribe told me the letter would clarify matters.’

  ‘Very well. My thanks, Miguel. Did you sleep last night?’

  Miguel grinned. ‘Not much.’

  ‘Away with you. Go and refresh yourself.’

  Conscious that Leonor would emerge at any moment, and praying he wouldn’t have to hunt out an interpreter, Rodrigo made for the bench set against the chapel wall. He cracked the seal and the scent of saffron filled the air, the letter was perfumed. Crucially, the Sultan had done him the courtesy of getting the scribe to pen it in Spanish.

  Scarcely breathing, Rodrigo skimmed past the usual salutations.

  The most powerful King of Al-Andalus, Lord of Granada, sends greetings of peace and prosperity to Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba, et cetera...et cetera.

  Lord Rodrigo, after your emissaries had negotiated your release I expected no further contact between us. The missive your squire delivered came as a great surprise.

  Rodrigo’s brow creased. The red and gold seals swung to and fro.

  Great Lord, your message spoke of my daughter Princess Leonor. I beg to inform you that I have no daughter named Leonor. I have but one daughter; she lives with me in the palace. Her name is Zorahaida and she is most beloved.

  If I had another daughter and she had the temerity to run off with an infidel, I tell you she would be dead to me. To have lowered herself to such an extent she would be disparaged beyond repair.

  Such a daughter, a disobedient daughter who had no care for her father’s feelings, must know that she has placed herself so far beyond the bounds of filial devotion that she may expect nothing from me. Nothing.

  In short, she is not my daughter. I repudiate her utterly.

  I should like to point out that I have at my command many men who are loyal to the Nasrid house. If such a daughter were ever to set foot in my lands again, they would not take kindly to her disobedience and would judge her in need of serious punishment. I leave that to them. The so-called daughter you claim to have on your hands is not my concern.

  I trust this is clear, and that this will be an end to our correspondence.

  Pow
erful Lord, may God’s blessings rain upon you and yours.

  Sultan Tariq, King of Al-Andalus, et cetera...et cetera.

  There followed the usual closing remarks.

  Anger burned in Rodrigo’s chest. Was the Sultan truly repudiating Leonor? He read the letter again. And again. It was hard to believe. Rodrigo stared at the sentence referring to men loyal to the Nasrid house. Who were they? Assassins?

  The opening and closing phrases, so effusive and flowery, made a grim contrast with Leonor’s callous rejection. Incredibly, her father had banished her from Al-Andalus. But would it end there? Did the Sultan’s influence reach Córdoba? Rodrigo thought it unlikely. None the less, he wouldn’t be taking any chances. Not with Leonor. He swore under his breath.

  ‘My lord?’ A groom, Felipe, was looking questioningly at him from across the bailey. ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘No, thank you, Felipe.’

  Dios mío, he’d have to double the guard on the castle gates. He’d sent word to Córdoba too; the city gates must be closely watched. And if Leonor set as much as a toe outside his bailey, she must take an escort.

  Allowing the letter to curl back into a scroll, Rodrigo stared briefly at the beribboned seals before tucking it away in his tunic. He had seldom felt as conflicted. Amazingly, anger was no longer the predominant emotion. Relief was coming to the fore, his recent realisation concerning Leonor was sound. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d spoken of her father’s harsh treatment, nor had she been lying when she’d told him that her father would kill her if she returned to the palace. She was telling the truth, about everything.

  The Sultan, may he rot in hell, didn’t want her back. The sense of relief he felt was truly astonishing, a great swell of it flooded him, mind and body. He didn’t have to send her away, if she wished, she could stay in Castile.

  The question was, what should he say to her? What was he to do?