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‘I know, my lord, and I’m sorry.’ Guillen brightened. ‘If you go ahead, I can meet you later.’
Inigo shook his head, the idea of leaving his squire alone in Granada while he went tearing after Enrique didn’t sit well with him. ‘No, lad, we only have one letter of safe conduct. We’d best stick together.’
Inigo collected his horse, Soldier, and he and Guillen were soon at the smithy. Irritatingly, the blacksmith was deep in conversation with a neighbour and Guillen’s horse wasn’t ready. It was necessary for Inigo to impress upon the man that speed was of the essence. A gold dinar did the trick, and while they were waiting for Raven to be shod, they called for more lamps and Guillen was able to act as Inigo’s barber.
At length, Inigo and Guillen hauled themselves on to their horses and took to the road. The whole operation had taken far longer than Inigo had anticipated. He could only pray that Enrique had fallen into a stupor at the inn.
The lights of the town faded, and moonlight became their guide. The road was a silver thread winding through groves of orange and olive. The air hummed with cicadas.
Eventually, stronger lights gleamed, they had reached The Black Sheep. A small area of scrub had been roped off and was serving as a paddock for the tavern’s customers. A couple of old men—grooms presumably—sat beneath a tree, guarding a handful of horses. Enrique’s wasn’t among them.
Inigo held in a groan. ‘Guillen, this doesn’t look good.’
‘No, my lord.’
Leaving their mounts with the grooms, Inigo and Guillen went into the inn. It was crammed to the rafters with big-bellied, prosperous-looking men in fine brocades. Merchants. A couple of shepherds huddled in a corner. The noise was deafening.
No Enrique. And no sign of his squire, either. The innkeeper, a cloth about his waist, approached and greeted them in Arabic.
‘My apologies, I don’t understand,’ Inigo said, over the din. The smell of roasted chicken filled the air and his stomach growled. ‘Do you speak Spanish?’
The innkeeper shook his head and gestured towards the serving hatch where a boy was filling bowls from a blackened cauldron.
The boy joined them. ‘Sir?’
‘I am looking for a friend, a knight. He would have had his squire with him.’
‘They are Castilian?’ The boy hesitated. ‘And the knight had been drinking?’
Inigo grimaced. ‘You could say that.’
‘They have gone, sir.’
‘When?’
‘Not long.’
‘Which direction did they take?’
‘I heard them mention the Alhambra Palace.’
Dear Lord, Enrique had a death wish. Inigo snatched a hunk of bread from a tray and tossed it at his squire.
‘Guillen?’
‘My lord?’
‘Get back outside. Stop them unsaddling the horses and keep an eye out for Rodrigo. If he arrives, don’t let him dismount. I’ll grab provisions and follow you.’
His squire dashed off and Inigo secured a couple of bundles of food—chicken, bread and cheese. Lord, this was supposed to be his first night of freedom and it looked as though he was going to have to spend it preventing Rodrigo’s wretched cousin from despoiling an innocent girl.
Guillen reappeared. ‘My lord, Count Rodrigo has arrived.’
Inigo left the inn. Seeing Rodrigo and his squire were still mounted, he let out a breath of relief. Thank God for reliable friends.
‘Take this.’ He thrust a food bundle at Rodrigo. ‘Save it for later.’
‘Later?’ Rodrigo frowned. ‘Inigo, what in hell’s going on?’
‘Enrique’s in trouble again.’ Inigo said, hauling himself into the saddle.
‘Madre mía, this must stop. Last time we rushed to Enrique’s rescue, Diego died. Cousin or no, I’ve no wish to see him again.’
Inigo nodded. Diego’s death had upset him, and he could only begin to imagine the depth of Rodrigo’s grief. What must it be like to lose a beloved younger brother? His jaw tightened. ‘We have no choice.’
Rodrigo’s expression was bleak. ‘Don’t we? Enrique never learns, as far as I’m concerned, he can stew in his own juice.’
‘Not this time.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s drunk.’
Rodrigo looked at him. ‘Is that all? Good grief, given the conditions we’ve endured, you can hardly blame him for that.’ He glanced meaningfully at the tavern. ‘I wouldn’t mind a drink myself.’
‘If only it were as simple as that,’ Inigo said. Trusting Rodrigo and the squires to follow, he dug in his spurs and cantered on to the road that led back to the Alhambra Palace. The lights of the inn fell back, they would have to rely on the moon.
Rodrigo soon caught up. ‘Slow down, man. What’s going on?’
‘Enrique’s been muttering about revenge all day. Wants to make the Sultan pay for treating us like slaves.’
Rodrigo swore. ‘There’s no way he can get to Sultan Tariq, the palace is a fortress and he rarely leaves it. Not to mention that entire battalions answer to the Sultan’s command and we are in his heartlands. Leave it, Inigo. My cousin can get himself out of the mire this time.’
Inigo grimaced. ‘You wouldn’t be so sanguine if you knew what he was planning.’
‘Surprise me.’
‘He’s going to abduct the Sultan’s daughters.’
‘What? That’s insane.’
‘I assure you, it’s true. Enrique’s going to lure them out of that tower.’
‘They’d never leave the palace.’
Inigo raised his eyebrows and, voice filled with doubt, Rodrigo repeated himself. ‘No, they’d surely never leave the palace.’
‘Rodrigo, hear me out. Enrique has made contact with someone inside the palace, a maidservant or duenna of some kind, I believe. It’s already arranged. The Princesses want to run away. They’re to meet your cousin tonight.’
‘What? We’ve only been released a day, how on earth has Enrique managed to organise it in that time?’
‘He didn’t give me any more details.’
‘You’re certain it’s tonight?’
‘That’s what he said. Rodrigo, your cousin’s a madman when the drink is in him.’
Rodrigo grunted in acknowledgement. ‘Unfortunately, he’s a madman with a will of iron.’
‘Well, he’s after vengeance tonight, and he’s decided the Sultan’s daughters will give it to him. I’ve never seen him quite so set on anything.’
‘I’ll thrash him when I see him,’ Rodrigo said curtly. ‘Those Princesses are very young. Sheltered. What do you reckon he’s after, ransom? You don’t think he’d harm them?’
Inigo gave a harsh laugh. ‘His reputation with women is not good.’
‘He’s a married man.’
‘Don’t make the mistake of judging your cousin by your standards. Enrique is roaring drunk and he wants revenge.’
A muscle flickered in Rodrigo’s jaw. ‘If my cousin carries off just one of the Sultan’s daughters, he could set off a minor war. And I’m not just referring to here in Al-Andalus. If Enrique’s father-in-law believes my cousin has slighted his daughter by carrying off a Nasrid princess, he will never forgive him. Enrique must be stopped. When did he set out?’
‘He’d gone when I got here. The innkeeper says he left about an hour ago.’
‘I take it he took his squire with him?’
‘Aye.’
Inigo and Rodrigo gave their horses the spur and they and their squires flew into the night.
Chapter Three
In the grounds of the Alhambra Palace
The night of the Princesses’ escape had arrived. Leonor and Alba were leading the way even though they had never been in this part of the grounds. The iron gate that marked the entrance to the disused sally port had been almost impossible to find in the dark, and the gardens were so quiet all Alba could hear was her own breathing, fast and flurried. Despite the warmth of the night, she shivered as she peered into the secret tunnel to the outside.
A few yards in, a torch flickered and hissed. Beyond the torch, a gloomy corridor ran deep into the earth. Alba had heard mutterings about this tunnel. Some said it was a secret passageway into the palace, others that it was an escape route for previous sultans fleeing murderous relatives. This last might well be true, many of her father’s predecessors had had their lives cut short by ambitious brothers. Her nails dug into her palms. Whatever its use, the passage smelt dank and looked terrifying. Shadowed and seemingly without end, it couldn’t have been used for centuries.
This was their route to freedom? Was it safe?
It was certainly narrow. Alba hated confined spaces, normally nothing would persuade her to set foot in a tunnel like this. Unfortunately, life in the palace had become intolerable. The sally port was her only way out. God was good though, and the rusting iron gate on the palace side was open, as her duenna, Inés, had promised.
There would be no turning back.
Alba had no regrets. No, that wasn’t entirely true. She deeply regretted having to leave Hunter, her pet monkey, behind. She’d had to do it though, Hunter was exuberant and far too noisy to come with them. He would have given them away in a heartbeat. Alba had wept when she left him in the care of a maidservant.
Another regret was the songbirds. The Sultan had given each of the Princesses a pair of songbirds in a gilded cage. Earlier that evening, Alba had released hers into the wild. Like her, they must take their chances away from the palace. Leonor, too, had freed her songbirds, Constanza had not. A maidservant would care for Constanza’s birds.
In the flare of the flickering torch, Alba noticed the tremble of Leonor’s veil. Perversely, it gave her heart to see that her brave older sister was unnerved.
‘Where’s Constanza?’ Leonor whispered. ‘We can’t leave without her.’
‘She’s just behind, stop fretting. She’ll follow us, she always does,’ Alba said.
Alba had often wondered if she and her sisters were close because they were triplets or because they had been brought up together. Had the Sultan’s policy of isolating them from the rest of the world, indeed, of isolating them from almost everyone except for a handful of servants and their beloved Spanish duenna strengthened the bond between them? The three Princesses ate together, they laughed together, they cried together. They would escape together too. Once in Spain, they would start anew. Together.
Alba gave Leonor a gentle push. ‘Hurry, for pity’s sake, Father’s guards are everywhere.’
Leonor went into the tunnel. A huge key hung on a hook below the torch, it was as rusty and ancient as the gate. Leonor grabbed it and thrust it at Alba.
‘Take this, I’ll take the torch.’ Leonor started down the corridor.
The key was cold and heavy, Alba gripped it as though her life depended on it. As she followed Leonor, she prayed that the lock in the door at the other end hadn’t rusted solid. They must escape.
Their father the Sultan was becoming more tyrannical by the day. When Alba and her sisters had asked permission to explore Granada on horseback, he had responded by locking the three of them in their tower. Later, the Princesses had been informed their ponies were no longer in the palace stables. They had been sold.
The sale of their beloved ponies had been the final straw, the moment when the Princesses understood that not only was Sultan Tariq a tyrant, but also that there was no hope for him. He was never going to change. Grimly, Alba set her jaw. She had hopes. Dreams. Her father wasn’t going to crush them.
The tunnel twisted this way and that, a dark serpent winding beneath the palace grounds. The air was stale and smelled of earth and rust, and with every step the walls closed in. It was hard to breathe. Alba’s skin prickled with sweat and she had the strangest urge to pant.
Torchlight wavered over the tunnel walls. Alba tried to imagine which part of the palace lay above. The orange grove? The lawn beloved of the palace peacocks? The Court of the Lions?
There were footsteps at her back, Constanza must be close on her heels. Gradually, her breathing eased. The three of us are in this together.
The key bit into Alba’s palm. Her veil was a nuisance, filmy though it was, it was suffocating. Alba didn’t stop to remove it though, the habit of obedience held her, even here in the tunnel.
Alba and her sisters had broken the Sultan’s rules once or twice. But tonight, even though they were, she prayed, escaping the life of restriction their father had planned for them, the veil that symbolised their oppression was peculiarly comforting—a shield as it were. There was no saying what was in store for them outside the sally port, she might want to hide.
Leonor forged on without as much as a backward look, clearly, she had no doubts. Suddenly, she stopped. ‘I can’t see the end,’ she said. ‘Is Constanza behind us?’
‘I think I can hear her. Keep going.’
Alba had strapped a money pouch beneath her clothing; it felt heavy, like a dead thing. Her chest ached for lack of air—she was all too conscious of the weight of earth and rock above them. Her palms were clammy and cold sweat trickled down her spine.
Then the air shifted, it seemed cleaner. Sweeter.
Leonor halted, she was frowning at a door so ancient it looked to have grown into the walls. ‘We’ve reached the end.’
Panting only a little, Alba reached past her, fitted the key into the lock and twisted. The handle was rusty and when Leonor wrenched at the door, the hinges moaned in protest.
‘Here, let me help,’ Alba murmured.
They pushed and shoved, and between them made a narrow crack. As it widened, fresh air wafted in. Leonor squeezed through the gap.
A soft footfall in the tunnel told Alba that Constanza was a few paces behind. Swallowing hard, she gathered her cloak about her and slipped out, breathing properly for the first time since entering the tunnel. Like magic, the tight band about her forehead eased.
They were outside the palace! The danger wasn’t past, but at least she was free of that ghastly corridor, it had felt like a tomb.
Trees made dark silhouettes against a starry sky. The moon, barely visible through her veil, glistened through a tangle of branches. In a hollow below the sally port, she could see the faint glow of a lantern.
How odd, the only person Alba could see was Leonor. Beneath her veil, she frowned. Three Castilian knights should be waiting for them. It was all arranged. Their duenna Inés had sworn that their ransom money had been paid in full. Those men should be free. Where were they? Had they, alienated by their captivity, changed their minds?
Alba wouldn’t be surprised; her father had treated those knights abysmally. They’d spent weeks clearing a rock-choked ravine outside the palace walls, the same ravine that was overlooked by the Princesses’ tower. The Princesses, bored and angered by their confinement and the loss of their beloved ponies, had been quick to notice and recognise them as the self-same men they’d seen first at Salobreña, and again in a convoy of prisoners marching from Salobreña to Granada.
Fuelled by anger, the Princesses had begun a forbidden flirtation from the top of the tower. At night, when the palace was lost in sleep, they had listened to the knights singing. Realising the men were half-starved, they’d sent food baskets down on a rope. In short, they’d ignored all protocols and had behaved quite outrageously. Inés, who had come from Spain with their mother the Queen, and was herself Spanish, encouraged them.
No one had dreamed anything would come of it. It had been a rebellion, a way for the Princesses to channel their anger. Sultan Tariq had locked them in the tower; he had sold their ponies; he refused to listen to reason.
Throughout this dalliance the Spanish knights were distant, mysterious figures, prisoners of their father. Other than that, the Princesses knew next to nothing about them. It was a measure of their seclusion and desperation that they only had these men—strangers—to help them escape.
Inés had contacts outside the palace and she wanted the Princesses to be happy. She had laid her plans with care. The three knights were supposed to spirit the Princesses out of the Emirate of Granada and into the Spanish Kingdom of Castile where they would be beyond the reach of their tyrannical father.
Castile. Alba had longed to see it all her life. In the years since the Queen’s death, Inés had taught the Princesses Spanish. Sultan Tariq might have isolated his daughters, but that hadn’t stopped them from learning that they had relatives in Castile. They were determined to find them and make a new home for themselves. They would be together, and they would be safe.
Alba peered warily about. The terrain around the disused sally port was all in shadow. It was lightly wooded, resembling the scrubland overlooked by the Princesses’ tower—namely a gully, clothed with shrubs and trees, and choked with rocks.
Where were the knights? Her breath was flurried. Nerves, she supposed.
And then she saw them. Six men. Three she recognised as the knights, the others must be their squires. The knights were arguing, their words were sharp and angry. Alba’s stomach knotted. Angry men wouldn’t be much use. The dark wood seemed to tilt, she was dizzy with an overwhelming mix of excitement, exultation and fear. She had escaped the palace. She and her sisters were free. Could they trust these men? Were they dangerous?
The odd phrase reached her.
‘For pity’s sake, Enrique,’ one of the knights ground out. ‘Will you see sense?’
A second knight cut in. ‘Enrique’s my cousin, I’ll deal with him. Rest assured, no one will be hurt.’
Alba recognised the second knight as Count Rodrigo. Leonor had managed to speak to him in private once, and she’d told Alba his name some days ago.
In the distance, dogs were barking. Alba’s heart jumped. Had her father released his hunting dogs? Filled with fear, she tried to see through the trees. It was impossible.
With a start, she realised that Count Rodrigo was standing next to Leonor and he too must have heard the dogs, for he cocked his head to listen, took command of Leonor’s torch and put it out.
The dark intensified. One of the other knights approached and bowed over Alba’s hand. He was touching her.
Alba froze. Save for her father, in her whole life no man had presumed to touch her. She willed herself not to react. This knight was her means of escape. He was not a palace guard, he was Spanish like her mother, and Inés had explained that a Spanish knight would not think it odd or shameful in any way to touch a woman. In the Kingdom of Castile, men often greeted women by bowing over their hands in this manner. For a princess who’d been shielded from men, it was disquieting.
‘My lady, I believe you can ride?’ the knight said.
Please, sir, be kind.
Alba found her voice. ‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘This way, if you please. You must ride astride, I’m afraid.’
Alba peered through her veil, but with the torch extinguished she could hardly see. Even so, she knew him. It was the knight her father’s men had wounded, the one who had hobbled off the captives’ galley when it had made port at Salobreña. He had spent weeks as Sultan Tariq’s prisoner and she had no idea how he would treat her.
Would he seek revenge for his imprisonment? He was a nobleman, he was bound to have pride, pride her father’s treatment must have dented. At best, he was bound to resent the weeks spent away from Castile.
His tall masculine shape made a black silhouette against the night sky. He was waiting for her decision. Realising she must accept his assistance—and swiftly—if she was to win her freedom, Alba allowed him to help her on to his horse.
Her entire body quivered as he mounted behind her and took up the reins. She was sharing a horse with a Spanish nobleman. A nameless foreigner. Her father’s enemy. Yesterday, it would have been unthinkable.
‘Your name, sir?’ she whispered.
‘Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville,’ he murmured. Then, as a blood-curdling howl cut through the dark, he urged his horse on.
God be merciful.
They forged on through undergrowth that prickled and scratched. The stars and moon were gone, the darkness thickened. The air was close and muggy. Alba clung to the saddle, praying the horse didn’t stumble. The last thing they needed was a poor horse screaming in agony because it had broken its leg. Sounds were harsh—the thud of hoofs, the baying of the hounds, an ominous rumble of thunder.
Water splashed on the back of Alba’s hands. A storm. Months of drought was coming to an end.
Count Inigo reined in. Count Rodrigo drew up alongside, Leonor sat before him on the saddle.
Count Rodrigo gestured at the ground. Small rivulets were swirling around the horses’ hoofs, rainwater from a storm high in the mountains was rushing down the gully.
Alba swallowed a groan, it had been a hot, dry summer and a flood was inevitable.
‘The riverbed is prone to flash floods,’ Lord Rodrigo said. ‘We’ll use that in our favour. Get the river between us and the palace. With luck, it’ll confuse the dogs.’
‘Good idea,’ Count Inigo said. She felt his hand on her hip, settling her more securely before him.
Leonor touched her elbow. ‘Alba, is Constanza behind us?’
Alba twisted to look along the way they had come, her rain-sodden veil clinging to her neck. There was no sign of Constanza. Ominously, other than the two knights and their squires, she could see no one else.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen her.’
Leonor turned towards the squires. ‘And you, sirs, have you seen my other sister?’
‘No, my lady.’
Leonor looked at Count Rodrigo. ‘My lord?’
Lord Rodrigo held up his hand. ‘A moment, if you please. Inigo, our chances of escape will be better if we separate. I’ll head south-west. They won’t be expecting that.’
Count Inigo shifted. ‘Understood.’
‘God willing, I’ll be in Córdoba in a week.’
‘Very well, I’ll meet you there.’ Lord Inigo gave his horse the spur and they surged up the riverbank.
Drenched with rain, they pelted into the unknown with Lord Inigo’s squire keeping close as a shadow. Alba felt the drumming of the horse’s hooves in every bone and kept praying that they didn’t lose their footing. May God preserve us. Most of all, she focused on keeping her seat. Panic was a breath away. She had no wish to end up alone in this storm-soaked wilderness so close to the palace. The Sultan’s troops might catch them. This time Father’s punishment would be...
Her mind refused to go down that road. They had done the right thing. They would get away. But what had happened to Constanza?
Lord Inigo’s chest pressed against her back. His arms were locked firmly around her.
Was he a kind man? Did such a thing as a kind man even exist outside a fairy tale?
Lord Inigo was a warrior. He’d been caught fighting her father in the recent conflict on the border. He’d been wounded and imprisoned, and the Sultan had demanded a ransom payment, doubtless a large one, for his release from captivity. At best, Lord Inigo was bound to be resentful.
And this was the man she was reliant on to make good her escape?
If only she knew more about him.
However, as the sodden landscape wheeled past—stubby trees, dark bushes whose leaves slapped wetly at her—Alba realised that she wasn’t entirely ignorant as to Lord Inigo’s nature. Lord Inigo was clearly close to Count Rodrigo whom Leonor trusted. Leonor had only met Lord Rodrigo the once, and he’d made a good impression. Why else would she have been so eager to escape?
What do I know about Lord Inigo?
He’d been wounded by her father’s men. He’d come to her rescue. Why? Behind her sodden veil, Alba grimaced. Could she trust him?
Inigo was cursing the day he had set foot in Al-Andalus. The going was appalling, the sudden downpour had turned what had lately been dust into mud, yet he had no choice but to urge his stallion to greater speed. Soldier slipped, found his footing and charged on.