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‘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.
Riding hard at night was a risky business when visibility was good and now, with moon and stars lost behind a curtain of rain and cloud, not to mention the poor terrain, it was downright foolhardy. Inigo prayed his luck was in. Soldier was the best of horses, he had no desire to lose him.
This race to freedom was, Inigo realised, even more dangerous than when he had dashed into battle to save Rodrigo’s foolhardy cousin, Enrique.
As for the slight, feminine form Inigo was wrestling to keep safely in front of him—he couldn’t in all honour blame her for his predicament. He hadn’t been forced to get involved. The trouble was that as soon as Inigo had got wind of Enrique’s plans, Inigo’s fate had been sealed. He couldn’t stand by while Enrique avenged himself on the Princesses. They weren’t responsible for Sultan Tariq’s misdeeds.
Thunder shook the heavens and the occasional pause was filled with insistent howling. Inigo focused his mind, he would think about the Nasrid Princess later. He had saved her from Enrique, which was the main thing. The rest—what on earth was he to do with her?—must wait. Other problems were more pressing.
Glancing back to ensure that Guillen was keeping pace, Inigo jabbed Soldier’s flanks.
Guillen’s background was humble, he mustn’t fall into the Sultan’s hands. The sole reason that Inigo had survived the Sultan’s hospitality was because he was a nobleman and could afford the ransom demanded for his release. Should Guillen be captured, Inigo would be more than willing to pay to get his squire home in one piece, but he doubted that the Sultan’s officers would pause long enough to find that out. Guillen must not be caught.
They gained higher ground on the other side of the fast-filling river, and Inigo searched the heavens for a guiding star. Unfortunately, the rain was unremitting and there wasn’t as much as a glimmer, he would have to rely on instinct. Summer storms were generally brief, the light must improve soon. He blinked water from his eyes and prayed for the skies to clear. If necessary, he would alter course when the stars reappeared.
They forged on. A flurry of wind caught the Princess’s veil and Inigo found himself batting yards of wet, jewel-encrusted fabric out of his face. Swearing under his breath, he slowed, one-handedly gathering the exotic fabric into a bundle. The Princess half turned.
‘My lord?’ A slender hand pulled at the veil. ‘You’re strangling me.’
‘My apologies, Princess, the wretched thing is blinding me.’ Ruthlessly, Inigo tugged. ‘It must come off.’
There was a brief pause before her head dipped in agreement and that small hand came up, to fumble with ties or pins, he knew not what, but the veil came free.
Ruthlessly, he gathered the soggy mass into a ball and prepared to toss it aside.
She caught his hand. ‘No!’
Inigo lifted an eyebrow. ‘It’s a nuisance.’
Somehow, she wrested it from him. ‘It’s a valuable nuisance, my lord. I shall have need of it later.’
Nodding brusquely, Inigo relieved her of the veil and bundled it into a saddlebag. ‘I dare say you’ll find the ride easier without it.’
Wrapping his arms about her again, Inigo gathered the reins. Inevitably, the movement brought them closer and she didn’t face forward immediately. He felt her gaze on him and wondered if she could make out as little as he. He’d seen the faces of all three Princesses, while moving from the prison in Salobreña to hard labour in Granada. It had only been a glimpse, enough to confirm that the stories about them were true. The Princesses were triplets, identical triplets. They were also very lovely. Inigo wouldn’t mind seeing Princess Alba’s face properly, if only to confirm that she couldn’t be quite as beautiful as his memory painted her.
The Princesses had intervened to save Inigo and his comrades from a beating—or worse—when they had inadvertently run foul of the Sultan’s orders on the march from Salobreña to Granada. For that he would be eternally grateful. He was also grateful for the food they had sent down in baskets during their time clearing the ravine near the Princesses’ tower.
None of which meant that Inigo welcomed having been forced to rescue her. He was betrothed, the last thing he needed was to return to Seville with a Nasrid princess. That would make explanations to Margarita interesting, to say the least. He and the Princess would be parting ways at Córdoba.
‘My lord...’ her whisper reached him through the dark and wet ‘...my name is Alba.’
‘Princess Alba, I am honoured.’ Inigo bowed his head. ‘Hold tight.’
‘Where are we going, my lord?’
‘North. The border’s closest there. With luck we’ll reach Córdoba before very long.’ He wondered how stoic she was. ‘It’s a fair ride, you understand.’
