скачать книгу бесплатно
Alba smiled and, since she only used her Spanish name when she was in the company of her sisters or her duenna, she gave her Moorish one. ‘I am Princess Zoraida.’
Her uncle’s concubine jumped up as though scalded and made a hurried obeisance. ‘Princess Zoraida!’ The baby in her arms wriggled.
‘Please,’ Alba said. ‘There’s no need for that.’
The young woman swallowed. ‘There is every need.’ Her expression was haunted as she looked Alba up and down. ‘You are the middle Princess, I believe?’
‘Aye.’
Dawn was breaking, and light was filtering into the chamber. The young mother looked past Alba towards the door arch, her expression pinched. ‘Where are the other Princesses, my lady?’
‘They are asleep. Please, do not concern yourself.’
The concubine bit her lip. ‘My lady, I doubt the Sultan, may he live for ever, would sanction your visiting Prince Ghalib’s harem.’
Alba held the girl’s gaze. ‘I shall say nothing of coming here.’
Her uncle’s concubine let out a trembling sigh. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
The baby had stopped crying, her eyes were fastened on Alba’s lantern. Gently setting it on a ledge, Alba held out her hands.
‘May I hold her?’
The girl hesitated and smiled. ‘Of course. Here, my lady. Yamina is usually very good, I don’t know what has got into her this morning.’
A warm bundle was thrust into Alba’s arms and she was transfixed by a painful emotion she could not name. Holding her cousin gave her a sense of belonging. Of completion.
‘Yamina is a lovely name.’
Alba could feel Yamina’s warmth creeping into her heart. Indeed, it seemed to fill every part of her, warming her in ways that the summer sun could never warm. She’d never felt like this before, such pain—yearning, she supposed. Such joy. Yamina was a sweetheart. Alba’s unconfessed miseries coalesced into a piercing spear of longing. A baby. This was what was missing from her life. A baby. For months Alba had felt restless and ill at ease, now she knew why. Deprived of love herself, she yearned for someone to love. She yearned for a baby.
Eyes misting, Alba cradled Yamina. She stroked her face, marvelling at the softness of her skin. Yamina was so trusting. So dear. Aching inside, Alba swallowed down a lump in her throat. ‘My cousin,’ she murmured.
Dark eyes watched her. ‘My lady, her life will be very different to yours. You are a princess. My daughter will be fortunate if she can remain in the palace. It is lucky she is a girl.’
‘Oh?’
The concubine shrugged. ‘Who can say what the fate of a male child of Prince Ghalib’s might be? However, since I have a daughter, I am hopeful she will be permitted to stay. Perhaps she will attend you, my lady, when she is grown.’
Alba stared. This child was her cousin and she might well become a lady-in-waiting. On the other hand, life was precarious and if something untoward happened to Prince Ghalib—what then? Yamina could be forced into servitude, she could be ill treated. Alba had never seen a servant beaten, but such things were commonplace, her father the Sultan was a hard taskmaster. As for his temper, it was as black as sin. Alba had witnessed his temper first-hand...
When she and the other Princesses had been riding from their old home in Salobreña Castle to their newly built tower in the Alhambra Palace, their father had almost killed three prisoners they had come across on the road. Spanish knights, they were being held for ransom. The knights didn’t speak Arabic and were ignorant of local custom, so they hadn’t understood they weren’t permitted to look at the Princesses.
Sultan Tariq had been so enraged by what he saw as the knights’ insolence, that he’d been prepared to execute them on the spot. If Alba and her sisters hadn’t begged for clemency, those Spanish noblemen would surely be dead.
There was no question but that the Sultan was inflexible and capricious. However, surely even he wouldn’t allow his niece to be beaten? Whatever happened to Prince Ghalib, she prayed her father wouldn’t force Yamina into servitude.
‘Will your daughter have a say in how she lives her life?’
‘No, my lady. Prince Ghalib, long may he prosper, will decide.’
Alba held the concubine’s gaze. ‘Then her life is little different to mine. I, too, must obey my father.’
When her uncle’s concubine looked at her, face suddenly blank, Alba knew a moment of shame. It was true that the three Princesses lived according to their father’s dictates, but their mother had been the Queen. The women living here were simply Prince Ghalib’s concubines. The life of such a woman, even one who had borne a child, was infinitely more precarious than that of a princess.
‘Men can be callous.’ Alba shook her head. ‘All they care about is their own pleasure. And war and conquest, of course.’
The concubine threw a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘My lady, you must not speak in this manner.’ Her fingers crept to a silver bangle. ‘Prince Ghalib, may blessings rain upon him, is generous. He gives me gifts. He allows me to dress my daughter in the finest linens.’
Alba didn’t reply. The Sultan showered the Princesses with gifts too, although Alba had long suspected that the gifts were a means of their father displaying his range of influence. Frankincense and myrrh from the east, silk from Byzantium, silver from Arabia—all these and more had been given to his daughters. Not for a moment did Alba think the gifts were given out of love, Sultan Tariq didn’t know the meaning of the word. No, Alba was coming to suspect that the Sultan used gifts as a means of ensuring his daughters’ obedience. He wanted to keep them sweet. He wanted them to know how powerful he was. The question was why?
Alba pursed her lips and wondered if she would still be living in the palace when Yamina became an adult. The thought was unpleasant on several levels. The Sultan appeared to be in no hurry to arrange marriages for his daughters. Alba had had her fill of palace life—of the endless intrigues, of the constant tiptoeing around her father’s anger. If her father wasn’t going to arrange a marriage for her, she would have to find a way to escape.
Pressing her lips firmly together, Alba hugged her cousin. A sturdy leg had escaped its wrappings. Heart hurting, she stroked it gently.
‘Your daughter is beautiful,’ she said. ‘You are very blessed.’
‘Thank you.’
Soft voices reached them. A woman laughed. Her uncle’s harem was coming to life.
‘I ought to leave.’
‘That would be wise, my lady.’
Alba handed Yamina back and the young mother’s face softened into an expression of love and acceptance. It was then that the realisation hit home. Men didn’t understand love, they didn’t need it. Alba couldn’t be more different, she needed love as she needed air. She craved it. Love was what was missing from her life. This tiny child had shown her as much. If she had a baby...
Her days had felt empty because she had no one to love and care for. Naturally, Alba had her sisters, but she had come to fear that the love she felt for her sisters was all that she would ever have. She was a woman grown and sisterly affection was no longer enough.
Her mind raced. Given the number 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.
Chapter Two (#ua1002de1-2b82-5548-9c3d-30d1466b6297)
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 Seville, murmured. His saddle creaked as he turned to his squire, Guillen. ‘This is the place?’
‘It must be, my lord.’
The Three Lanterns was a bathhouse. Its popularity with merchants from outside the Emirate gave Count Inigo hope that the presence of a Spanish knight and his squire wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. He was finally on the point of returning home and the last thing he wanted was trouble.
Earlier that day Inigo had been freed from Sultan Tariq’s prison in the Vermillion Towers. As Count of Seville, and lord over sizeable holdings in the Spanish kingdom of Castile, a hefty ransom had been paid for Inigo’s release. He remained uneasy. Until he left the Sultan’s territory, he wasn’t going to let his guard down. His incarceration had given him a grave mistrust of Sultan Tariq, and while there was no question that Inigo was free, he wouldn’t truly relax until he was back in Castile. One more night and they’d be on their way.
‘You have our safe conduct, lad?’ Inigo asked.
Guillen patted his saddlebag. ‘In here, my lord.’
‘Good. And you were given assurances that we may explore Granada unmolested?’
They were still within a stone’s throw of the Sultan’s palace. If they encountered prejudice, Inigo needed to know he and Guillen had protection. Having won his release, Inigo had no wish to fall foul of city authorities.
‘Indeed, my lord. Provided we leave by noon tomorrow, Granada is ours to explore.’
Slivers of light were seeping out between cracks in the bathhouse shutters. Inside, Inigo could hear water being poured. There was a faint tang in the air. Almond oil. It was beyond tempting. After months in captivity, his skin itched. With a grimace, he tugged at what was left of his green tunic. Head to toe, he was filthy. ‘I stink to high heaven.’
Guillen grinned and said not a word.
Inigo lifted an eyebrow and prepared to dismount. ‘That bad, huh?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Wretch. Here, hand me that safe conduct, I’m not about to let it out of my sight.’
Guillen unbuckled his saddlebag, drew out a scroll and passed it to Inigo.
‘My thanks. See to the horses before you come to attend me.’
Inigo rapped on the door, which opened at his touch. A tiled entrance led to a small courtyard that was starred with lamps. The bathhouse was larger than it appeared from the street, arched doorways led off in all directions. The scent of almond oil mingled with other scents—bay, sage, rose...
Inigo heard the hum of conversation and then a soft footfall. A young boy was bowing at him.
‘My apologies, I don’t speak Arabic,’ Inigo said. Conscious that his unkempt appearance might lead the boy to peg him for a beggar or a thief rather than a customer, he opened his money pouch and took out a handful of silver. ‘I am Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville, and I am hoping you speak my tongue.’
