Who were these men?
Leonor suddenly recalled hearing her duenna, Inés, muttering to one of the servants. There had been talk of Spanish noblemen chipping away at the edges of her father’s territory. There had been fighting and prisoners had been taken.
Thoughtfully, Leonor stared at the quayside. Prisoners, not slaves. Likely they were being held hostage for the ransom they would bring. Her father, the Sultan, peace be upon him, owed tribute to the neighbouring kingdom of Castile. Ironically, the tribute was intended to serve as a sign of goodwill between the Kingdom of Al-Andalus and the Spanish kingdom. That clearly didn’t stop her father capturing Spanish lords and using them to gain ransom to pay that tribute.
Behind her came the rustle of Granadan silk, her sisters were awake.
‘Leonor, your veil!’ Princess Alba’s voice held censure. ‘Come away from the window!’
Leonor shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘If you lean out far enough, you can see the harbour,’ she said casually.
‘But your veil! What if Father finds out?’
The youngest Princess, Constanza, came to stand at Alba’s side. ‘Father would be very angry. Inés has warned us about what might happen if—’
Leonor made an impatient gesture. ‘Forget the veil, it’s impossible for anyone in the castle to see this window, the line of sight is quite wrong.’ She beckoned her sisters over. ‘A galley has docked, and I think it’s brought captives from the fighting.’
Princess Alba caught her breath. ‘Spanish knights? Here in Salobreña?’
Princess Constanza simply stared.
Leonor smiled. The Princesses’ mother had been a Spanish noblewoman and Leonor’s sisters were as curious about Spain as she was. Sadly, the Queen had died before the Princesses had reached their third birthday and they could barely remember her. Leonor had faint recollections of a dark-eyed woman holding her hand; of a soft voice singing lullabies; of the tinkle of golden bracelets and the whisper of silk slippers on marble floors. Shadowy memories that prompted a strong interest in the part of her heritage that was lost to her. Her mother—a captive—had become the Sultan’s favourite. He had made her his Queen. Leonor ached to know what her mother’s life had been like before she had been captured.
All their companion Inés would tell them was that their mother’s Spanish name had been Lady Juana. Inés had been their mother’s duenna—her governess and companion—before they’d been taken by the Sultan. After the Queen’s death, Inés had been given charge of the little Princesses. Unfortunately, she was closed as a clam, and she refused to reveal Lady Juana’s birthplace, just as she refused to give the Princesses their mother’s full name.
Inés must have been sworn to secrecy. Perhaps she was afraid.
None of which stopped Leonor wondering. What family had Lady Juana left behind? Had she fought to return home? Had she found it easy to adjust when their father had made her his Queen?
‘Spanish knights?’ Alba took a tentative step towards her. ‘Leonor, are you sure?’
‘Look for yourself. You can see quite clearly from the window.’
Alba twisted her fingers together. ‘Leonor, if you can see the ship and the quayside, it follows that someone down there might see you. Put on your veil!’
With a shrug, Leonor turned back to the window. ‘The people on the quay will be ignorant of Father’s rules about veils. And even if they are not, how will they know who we are? We are too far away.’
Leaning out quite shamelessly, she watched the chained men, focusing once more on the man in crimson as he helped his friend limp along the quayside. She couldn’t seem to help herself, he fascinated her. It was somewhat unsettling. Vaguely, she was conscious of first Alba and then Constanza coming to kneel beside her. A couple of swift, sidelong glances told her that her sisters were not in as rebellious a mood as she, their veils remained firmly in place.
She hid a smile. Veils notwithstanding, both sisters were leaning out over the windowsill, just as she was. They too stared down at the quayside.
‘We must be quiet,’ Leonor murmured. ‘The guards...’
Alba nodded and the Princesses watched in silence.
Alba let out a soft sigh. ‘One of them is injured.’
‘The man in the green tunic, aye.’
‘He is fortunate to have friends with him.’ Alba paused, she sounded rather breathless. ‘They are handsome, don’t you think?’
Leonor’s cheeks warmed as she gave a quiet laugh. ‘Aye. Not that I am an expert in such things.’
‘I wonder who they are.’
Leonor kept her voice low. ‘Inés mentioned border skirmishes, that’s why I think they’re Spanish noblemen. Knights who’ve been captured.’
‘Could they be related to Mamá?’
‘Who knows?’
On Leonor’s other side, Constanza kept her lips firmly shut. She too seemed to be watching the captives, but with Constanza one could never be sure.
* * *
Rodrigo wrestled with his fetters, caught Inigo’s arm and kept him steady. Already Enrique, distracted by something on the ramparts of the tyrant’s castle, had let go of him. Surely even Enrique could see that Inigo was on the point of losing consciousness?
‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, show some gratitude, lend Inigo a hand.’ Rodrigo’s voice was brusque, he couldn’t help it. Grief and anger were taking their toll; it was hard to think of anything save the awful truth.
Diego was dead. His brother was dead.
Rodrigo’s guts rolled. He was having a hard time accepting it, but his brother—no more than a boy—had been killed over a few yards of thistles on a patch of barren borderland. He narrowed his gaze on Enrique and tried not to think about the fact that it had been Enrique’s foolhardiness that had got them into the mess in the first place. Recriminations wouldn’t help. If they were to get out of this in one piece, they must stick together. Pointedly, Rodrigo rattled the chain that linked prisoner to prisoner. ‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, think. If Inigo stumbles again, that whip will fall on us all.’
Enrique threw a surly look in his direction and grasped Inigo’s other arm. ‘Inigo should have stayed at home. You all should have done. I would have been all right.’
Rodrigo’s chest ached. That almost sounded like an apology. Certainly, it was the closest Enrique had come to admitting that if he hadn’t filled young Diego’s head with dreams of glory, Diego would be here today. It was too late. Whatever Enrique said, it was too late for Diego.
Enrique was responsible for Diego’s death and their party’s capture. Fool that he was, he’d hurled himself into battle early and Diego—too green to know better—had followed. Rodrigo had flung himself into the fray in a vain attempt to save his brother; Inigo had joined him, and shortly afterwards they’d all been captured.
However, there was nothing to be gained by raking over old coals. They were the tyrant’s prisoners, they needed each other. Who knew what Sultan Tariq might do? Until they were free, they had little choice but to stick together.
Rodrigo and Enrique half-dragged, half-carried Inigo along the quay.
Shadows were short, the port of Salobreña was hotter than an oven. As the captives were herded along, then made to stand next to a pile of fishing nets, Rodrigo suppressed a sigh. The sun was almost directly