of concubines that must live in this harem, the bond between men and women must be weak indeed.
How many women lived in her father’s harem? She’d heard he kept a harem and had often wondered if that had been true in her mother’s time. How long had Father spent mourning Mamá? A month? A week? A day?
The murmur of voices drifted through the arched doorway. Water was being poured. There was much splashing. A loud yawn. It was odd to think that here in Prince Ghalib’s harem, Alba had been given a glimpse of real love. The bond between a mother and her child was surely stronger than steel.
Conscious that they might be interrupted, Alba drew her veil over her face. She hesitated. Before she left, there was something she must ask. ‘Is my father’s harem close by?’
The young woman’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Why, yes, my lady, if you continue down the path, it’s the next building.’
Alba’s hands fisted in her robes. ‘Was it here when my mother was alive?’
Her uncle’s concubine blinked. ‘I was not brought to the palace until after the Queen’s death, but I believe so. Generations of sultans have kept harems here.’
‘So, it’s true,’ Alba murmured.
‘My lady?’
‘Never mind. Thank you for allowing me to hold Yamina. Farewell.’
‘Farewell, my lady. Blessings upon you.’
‘And upon you.’
Curtain rings were clattering, trailing silks were whispering over the marble floor. Another few moments and the women and children of the harem would be fully awake. If anyone saw Alba, she would face a barrage of questions, she had lingered too long. Giving the young mother a parting smile, she slipped out of the chamber.
Swiftly, she retraced her path through the orange grove. The sky was tinged with pink and the tower Sultan Tariq had built for the three Princesses loomed up in front of her. It was an imposing building, so much so, that when Alba had first seen it, she hadn’t noticed how far it was from the rest of the palace. That had not been an accident, she realised. Sultan Tariq didn’t want his daughters near the rest of the harem.
From this angle the Princesses’ tower, though glowing warmly in the rays of the rising sun, looked as forbidding as a prison. Goosebumps ran down her back.
What if the Sultan decided to keep his daughters in the tower until they were wrinkled and grey? He was so controlling, it was entirely possible. Look at what had happened to Mamá. The Queen had been born in the neighbouring Kingdom of Castile and she’d had the misfortune to be captured by the Sultan’s troops. The story went that as soon as the Sultan set eyes on his Spanish captive, he’d wanted her.
It hadn’t been love. It couldn’t have been love, as far as Sultan Tariq was concerned love was all about possession. He’d made Mamá his Queen and she’d never returned to Spain.
Had Mamá been given the chance to refuse him? Alba doubted it.
Had she missed her homeland? Most likely.
Was that why Mamá had died when she and her sisters were small? Was her father’s iron will to blame?
Briefly, Alba wondered if she was misjudging him. She burned to know whether he had plans for her and her sisters. They had reached marriageable age, and not once had he mentioned marriage. If she never married, she’d never have a child.
Unfortunately, even if the Sultan were to arrange a marriage for her, Alba didn’t trust him to find a good husband. Men were cold and, in her experience, heartless. Her father certainly was, though she ought, in justice, to accept that other men might be different.
Concubinage was another possibility. That girl in the harem had told Alba that Prince Ghalib was good to her.
Unfortunately, Alba didn’t think the Sultan would permit his daughters to become concubines. He was too proud.
Alba had done her best to learn about the world outside the palace, and what she’d discovered had made her extremely wary. Men were belligerent. Her father’s borders were never safe, there was always a new conflict to worry about. Men cared about power, they craved money, possessions and land, which was why all the great marriage alliances were made with political aims in mind. If men thought about love at all, it must come very low on their list of priorities.
She almost tripped over a paving stone as the realisation hit her. She had no need to marry to have a baby. If she could get away from her father, she could surely find someone to give her a child.
Why tie herself to a man? She would be content on her own. She had caskets overflowing with jewels. She had the means to bring up a child without a husband. Her baby would want for nothing. Most importantly, her child would know what it was to have a mother’s love. Her child would live free.
Alba’s heart ached as she stared at the top of the tower where her sisters were sleeping. That tower was a gilded cage. And there was no way she was going to waste her life in a cage. If her child was to enjoy true freedom, it must be born well away from Sultan Tariq. She must, must, must get away.
Would her sisters come with her? Alba’s pulse quickened as she thought it through. That would be wonderful, the three of them would set up home together, they would support each other as they had always done. And she could have a child. Her sisters would love it almost as much as her.
Where? Where might they go?
The Kingdom of Castile—her mother’s homeland—seemed as good a place as any. In Spain, Alba could look for her perfect man. A handsome man who would give her a beautiful child and then leave her in peace. An honourable man who would not lord over her in any way. A man who...
A memory stirred in Alba’s mind. She was looking into the grey eyes of one of the Spanish knights her father had almost cut down on the road to Granada. She’d only seen him a handful of times, and always from a distance. The first time had been when he’d limped off the prison galley at the port in Salobreña. Captured in a border skirmish, he’d barely been conscious, because of a leg wound courtesy of her father’s troops.
Alba reached the tower door, puzzled as to why the memory of that knight kept coming back to her.
The second time she’d seen him had been on the road to Granada. She’d been thankful he’d survived the privations of her father’s prison. His green tunic had been somewhat the worse for wear, but he’d been allowed to keep his gold ring—proof of his high status, no doubt.
There’d been something about the way he’d looked at her, and Alba didn’t think it was simply that she was unused to a man’s regard. He’d made no attempt to hide his curiosity. His gaze had been frank. Admiring. The knight had liked what he’d seen, and he’d made no attempt to hide it. Best of all, she’d seen not the slightest trace of the tyrant in him.
He was brave too. Her father had been bearing down on him, scimitar in hand like a vengeful demon, and that knight had stood firm. For a moment, he’d even looked amused. Amused? Sultan Tariq’s fury was never amusing.
Alba could be reading too much into a look. She was, after all, unused to men. She must take care. However, the appreciative glint in those grey eyes gave her hope. That man didn’t look like a bully. He liked women and he liked them to like him back.
If life didn’t improve here, Alba could think of no better place to settle than in her mother’s homeland, preferably with her sisters. All she had to do was to work out how to get there.
A street in the city of Granada, Al-Andalus
The evening was warm. Moths were fluttering around three lanterns hanging over one of the doorways.
‘Three lanterns,’ Inigo Sánchez, Count of