Rodrigo and Count Jaime weren’t exactly on speaking terms. It wasn’t that he and the lord of Almodóvar were enemies, but they certainly weren’t friends. Perhaps, when Rodrigo was finally free of Al-Andalus, he’d let Lord Jaime know that someone in Salobreña Castle had been asking about Lady Juana. Perhaps.
Scowling at a stone in the road, he toed it into the ditch and marched on. What the devil was he doing thinking about Count Jaime? He’d far rather be wondering about his mystery lady. Had she been among those women in the castle tower on the day their ship had docked? Why had she singled him out for questioning? There were plenty other prisoners in Salobreña to choose from. She must have been watching him.
He felt a smile form. The thought that his mystery lady might be the dark beauty who’d leaned out of that window had a certain appeal. If she was a princess, she was his enemy’s daughter.
Faith, what was he doing? It was pointless thinking about her. He’d only allowed himself to do so because back in the prison it had been either that or dwell on the horror of Diego’s death. He wasn’t ready to grieve, though grief would doubtless be a dull ache he’d be carrying for years.
God willing, he’d soon be home.
Freedom. Heart aching, Rodrigo squinted up the road. Today it seemed a million lifetimes away. He hated not having command over his life; he hated not knowing how many more miles lay ahead.
Rodrigo gave Inigo an assessing glance and was relieved to see him walking as well as a man could when hobbled with chains. Thank the Lord, that wound hadn’t festered. He wasn’t sure how patient the guards would be if they fell behind.
A guard cantered past, bellowing orders. Choking on grit, Rodrigo found himself wishing for the man’s horse. No matter that the animal had a back like a bow and an uneven gait, at least on horseback there was a chance of escaping the worst of the dust.
The guard shouted again, in Arabic. The words meant nothing to Rodrigo, but a nearby prisoner must have understood them, for he muttered under his breath and scowled back along the road. He was probably bemoaning the lack of water. Rodrigo didn’t blame him, rations—even of water—were in short supply on this trudge to hell. The riverbed at the side of the road was completely dry, a scrubby patch of weeds grew in the middle where water must once have flowed. The river, like Rodrigo’s throat, was bone dry.
Another shout from the direction of Salobreña caught his attention, the voice was tight and angry. The ground shook and Rodrigo turned.
A troop of horsemen was thundering towards them.
Lord, what a troop! Even in battle, Rodrigo had never faced fiercer-looking foes. The horses—black stallions—and their knights were surely giants, sprung out of some ancient Arabic fable. Silver breastplates gleamed on the knights’ wide chests. Beneath their armour, the knights’ tunics were black. Black turbans, black tunics, black boots, black shields. The knights’ faces were hidden.
The stallions were big-boned and well muscled and their coats gleamed like jet. Envy stirred in Rodrigo’s breast. A man might sell his soul for one of those horses. Dust swirled into his eyes, he blinked it away. This was an elite troop and he knew of only one man in Al-Andalus who could field knights as formidable as these. This troop answered to Sultan Tariq.
A harsh voice cracked out an order, a whip snaked out and the black horses wheeled as one, stepping purposefully forward to herd the straggling line of prisoners into the dried-up riverbed. A scimitar flashed.
Rodrigo stumbled along with the rest of them. When the prisoners were strung out among the withered weeds at the edge of the highway, there came another shout. To Rodrigo’s astonishment, every man fell face down on the ground.
Almost every man. Inigo and Enrique had no clue what was happening either, the three comrades were the only ones still on their feet. Rodrigo’s bemusement grew when their guards flung themselves off their horses and prostrated themselves along with the prisoners.
The nearest black horseman was screaming at Rodrigo, eyes bulging with anger. From his frantic gestures, Rodrigo understood he was expected to fall on his face like everyone else. Rodrigo didn’t move. He’d be damned if he was going to put his face in the thistles for no good reason.
Hoofbeats heralded the arrival of a second, smaller, party—about a dozen knights on brown horses. The knights were armed to the teeth.
The nearest horseman continued to scream at him. Rodrigo ignored him, because something most intriguing had caught his ears.
The light tinkle of bells. Bells?
Dust puffed out from beneath the horses’ hoofs, coating the shrubs and weeds. A standard fluttered. It was red and gold, the colours of the Nasrid dynasty. Those magnificent black knights did indeed answer to Sultan Tariq. If Rodrigo was not mistaken, he was about to set eyes on the King himself.
A scimitar flashed.
Unless that brute in black killed him first.
Princess Leonor sat on her grey mare, Snowstorm. Behind her veil, she was smiling, she loved riding and it was a rare privilege to be out during the day. Best of all, she and her sisters were finally leaving Salobreña Castle. They were on their way to the Alhambra Palace to live with their father.
Naturally, there were drawbacks. Owing to the length of the journey, they were riding through the heat of the day. It was hot and sticky and Leonor’s veil clung to her skin. However, it wasn’t often that the Princesses could see the roads and highways of their father’s kingdom. Leonor was determined to make the most of it.
Excitement bubbled inside her. Change was in the air. Sultan Tariq, may blessings shower upon him, had deigned to acknowledge his daughters’ existence.
The Sultan had arrived at Salobreña Castle a few days ago, and he’d practically turned it upside down when he’d announced that the Princesses were to travel with him to Granada. Apparently, a tower had been built especially for them in the Alhambra Palace. Sultan Tariq’s eyes had softened when he told his daughters that the tower overlooked the surrounding countryside. There was a fine view of the mountains from one side, and from the other they could look down upon the palace gardens.
The Sultan had been smiling and charming. Uncertain as to what Inés might have told him, Leonor had been dreading seeing him again, but he had greeted his three daughters with equal warmth.
‘Let me look at you. Such beauties you have become.’
Their father had seemed genuinely pleased to see them. Inés could not have told him about her unorthodox visit to the prison.
That visit haunted Leonor. She found herself chasing away the mental image of Lord Rodrigo in that narrow cell far too often. Doubtless, she couldn’t stop thinking about him because conditions in the prison were so appalling. It was a place of evil, fit only for the devil. She was ashamed her father sanctioned it.
And there was that other matter. Lord Rodrigo kissed my hand. The first foreigner she’d ever spoken to. If her father found that out, he’d have Count Rodrigo torn apart.
The Sultan had taken pains to describe the alabaster fountain in the central court of the Princesses’ new tower. He told his daughters that he’d ordered poems to be inscribed in tiles on the tower walls and that delicate arabesques adorned the arches and door frames. As Leonor watched her father’s smiling face, as she listened to him describing what he’d planned for them, her anger for the years of neglect began to fade.
And her fears for her future? Hope was starting to flower. They weren’t to languish in Salobreña until the end of time. Finally, she and her sisters were going to become part of their father’s court. Life could change. She even dared to hope that her father might learn to be less intransigent in his dealings with his enemies.
So, here they were, riding towards the