Читать книгу The Knight’s Forbidden Princess - Carol Townend - Страница 12
ОглавлениеLeonor’s pulse was racing. She could hardly believe what she’d done. She, a Nasrid princess, was alone in a cramped prison cell with four men. Alone and unchaperoned.
Her hopes had risen when she’d realised the Spanish knight had parted with his own ring to pay for help for his injured companion. He might be her father’s enemy, but he was obviously loyal to his comrades. With luck, he’d be grateful about the bangle and would be forthcoming when she asked him about her mother.
Folding her hands tightly beneath the maidservant’s veil, she turned to Yusuf and switched to Arabic. ‘Be so good as to take the other guards outside. Wait for me there, I shall call you when I need you.’
Yusuf hesitated and for a dreadful moment Leonor’s skin chilled. If Yusuf refused to leave her, she would achieve nothing. She wouldn’t be able to question the knight about her mother within Yusuf’s hearing, for if Yusuf understood that she was asking about the Sultan’s dead Queen and her family, he’d be bound to tell his commanding officer. Then word would soon get back to her father. And that letter in her jewel box wouldn’t help her; she’d been deluding herself to think it would.
But it was too late for second thoughts. The die was cast and it was imperative that Yusuf leave her alone with this knight.
Yusuf eyed the knight’s chained wrists before giving a curt nod. ‘As you wish.’
‘My thanks.’ Leonor let out a sigh of relief and Yusuf marched out with the other guards.
The knight shifted. ‘If you want any sense out of me, you will need to speak Spanish.’
‘That is not a problem, sir.’
Dark eyes looked her over so thoroughly Leonor felt herself flush from head to toe. She was thankful for the heavy veil.
‘I assume you gave me that bauble because you need my help in some way,’ he said.
‘You are astute, sir.’
‘No serving wench would have such things to give away. May I know to whom I am addressing?’
‘I... No.’
He gave her a curt nod. ‘Very well. Lest you are curious, I am commander of the King’s garrison in Córdoba. Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba, at your service.’
It was a good sign that he had told her his name and Leonor felt herself relax a little. She even took a step closer. Rodrigo Álvarez.
His hair was disordered and in need of a wash. Light from a narrow window fell directly on his face, allowing her to see the hollows under his eyes and a haze of dark beard. His eyes were almost black and fringed with thick eyelashes; his gaze was intent and focused entirely on her. His tunic was torn and dirty, and his wrists rubbed raw—they’d been chafed by his chains. His mouth edged up at a corner—it was a smile, yet at the same time, it was very definitely not a smile. Beneath it, she sensed dark, swirling pain and implacable fury. This man loathed her father, if he knew her identity, he would probably tear her limb from limb.
She lifted her gaze back to his eyes and her stomach clenched. She was astonished to discover that she didn’t feel fear when she looked at this man, though what she did feel was something of a mystery.
Revulsion? Possibly, because he was very dirty. Oddly, she didn’t think it was revulsion. Whatever it was, it unsettled her.
His mouth tightened. ‘Don’t tell me the Sultan has taken to allowing his prisoners a little pleasure.’
Behind the veil, Leonor stared. ‘My lord?’
‘Never mind.’ He leaned a shoulder against the wall, studying her with those penetrating dark eyes. ‘You said you were charged to question me. As you see, I am entirely at your disposal.’
‘Thank you.’ Leonor hesitated. This man made her nervous in a way she had never felt before. For once in her life, she was grateful for her veil. Of course, she’d never conversed alone with a strange man before, it could simply be that. None the less, here in this cell, her veil was a welcome refuge. The Count wouldn’t know how nervous she was. ‘My lord, I am charged to ask you about events which took place nineteen or twenty years ago.’
‘Twenty years ago? You intrigue me. Although I must tell you I was but a stripling then, so I doubt I can tell you anything.’
‘Hear me out, please,’ Leonor said, and the words tumbled over each other in her anxiety to get at the truth of her mother’s history. ‘It concerns a Spanish noblewoman called Lady Juana. She was captured and brought to Granada.’
Lord Rodrigo didn’t move, save to narrow those dark eyes. ‘Captured? Twenty years ago?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Leonor held her breath as something—a shadow?—flickered across his face. Shock? Astonishment? It was hard to say. Notwithstanding, a ripple of excitement ran through her. Lord Rodrigo knew something about her mother, of that she was certain.
A heartbeat later, his expression was once again inscrutable and the doubts rushed back. Had she imagined that look?
‘It might help if you had the name of this lady’s family.’ His voice was dry and brusque.
‘My lord, that is what I am sent to discover.’
His frown deepened. He pushed away from the wall and loomed over her, solid and imposing. ‘Who wants to know about this Lady Juana? Your mistress?’ He paused thoughtfully, his eyes as hard and unyielding as stone. ‘You?’
There it was again, that flash of pain, that deep anger. Leonor resisted the urge to back away. Swallowing hard, she shook her head.
Even through the veil, his eyes held hers. ‘Who are you, mistress? Have I seen you before?’ There was another pause. ‘In a tower overlooking the harbour, perhaps?’
Leonor’s heart jumped and for a wild moment she thought that sharp gaze had pierced her veil. Count Rodrigo couldn’t possibly know that she had been looking out of the pavilion window that day. He had been too far away to see clearly, he had to be bluffing.
She lifted her chin. ‘I am of no consequence, my lord. I am merely an intermediary sent to question you. Lady Juana was taken from her homeland.’
‘You are certain she was born outside Al-Andalus?’
‘Yes. I am hoping to...to contact her family.’
‘I grant you that Juana is a popular name, but you will have to give me more than that.’ A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Where was her home? Did she come from Castile? Aragon, perhaps?’
Unable to dismiss the idea that Lord Rodrigo had heard about her mother’s abduction, Leonor twisted her fingers together. If only she knew more about the world outside her father’s castle. Until this moment, she’d never realised how ignorant she was. She’d been educated, yes, but in a limited fashion. Her world was the world of the harem. It was, so Inés had told her, more cloistered than that of a nun in a convent.
She was so eager to learn but, over the years, her questions about her father’s kingdom and the lands beyond his borders had gone unanswered. She’d heard about the frontier skirmishes, but she had very few facts.
‘I am not certain where Lady Juana came from,’ she whispered. Although Inés had refused to talk about her mother’s birthplace, she had once let slip that she herself had been born in Castile. ‘Possibly Castile.’
The Count gave a quiet laugh. ‘Castile is vast, that’s not much to go on.’
His chains chinked. Frozen by a combination of shock and fascination, Leonor watched as he took her hand.
She stopped breathing. No man, save her father, may he live for ever, had ever touched her. Of course, Count Rodrigo wasn’t touching her skin, the cloth of the veil lay between them. Even so, it gave her a jolt to feel that strong hand on hers.
She jerked free. ‘How dare you!’
Somehow the Count caught her hand again, even going as far as to raise it to his lips. When he kissed it through the veil, a disturbing bolt of energy shot through Leonor’s veins.
The effrontery!
‘It is forbidden to touch me, my lord.’ Again, she wrenched free.
Straightening, the Count retreated to his position against the wall, eyes fixed on hers. ‘Forbidden? By whom?’ To her alarm, a triumphant smile flickered into being. ‘I believe I know who you are.’
Leonor closed her eyes. ‘You can have no idea.’
‘But I think that I do.’ He leaned in again and lowered his voice. ‘Your questions betray you, Princess. All of Christendom knows that Sultan Tariq stole a Spanish noblewoman named Lady Juana and made her his Queen. It was the scandal of a lifetime. And who else but one of his daughters would want to know about that long-dead Queen?’
Heart in her mouth, it was a moment before Leonor trusted herself to speak. Count Rodrigo mustn’t realise he had stumbled on the truth! The last thing she needed was for her father to find out from someone else that she had been visiting the prisoners. ‘You are wrong.’
‘Show me your face.’
‘Never.’
‘You are one of the Princesses.’
‘I am not.’
‘You, my lady, are a liar.’ Count Rodrigo’s voice was little more than a whisper and yet she had never heard anything more threatening. ‘Won’t you tell me your name, Princess?’ He laid his hand on his heart and gave a slight bow. Filthy and dishevelled though he was, she had never seen anyone look less subservient. ‘I swear not to tell anyone you have been here, your secret will be safe with me.’
Thoughts in chaos—what had she done?—Leonor swept to the door and reverted hastily to Arabic. ‘Yusuf, we’re leaving.’
* * *
Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba. The name reverberated in Leonor’s mind as she hurried back to the apartments. Absently, she rubbed the back of her hand. It still tingled. Count Rodrigo hadn’t touched her actual skin, yet her hand was all hot. How could so slight a touch affect her so strongly? What might it feel like if he kissed her skin, rather than the veil?
Her sandal caught on a flagstone and she missed her step. The feelings that the Count had unleashed inside her were astonishing, although she’d be the first to admit she hadn’t been sure what to expect. She’d imagined him to be—what?—overbearing, like her father?
Count Rodrigo had been angry and resentful and not a little intimidating. Yet, filthy and half-starved though he was he, he’d kept his anger in check. He’d been more thoughtful and courteous than she’d dared hope. And that wry smile—why, at times, he’d even seemed amused.
How would Father have behaved in like circumstances?
Leonor wasn’t sure, but she was fairly certain that her father wouldn’t have been half as forbearing.
The Count did have a certain rough charm. Thoughtfully, she glanced at her hand, it felt as though it had been branded. Lord Rodrigo’s kiss had branded her. Did all men have this power? Was this why her father denied his daughters the company of men?
Abruptly, she shook her head. That couldn’t be the reason she and her sisters were kept in seclusion. It was more likely their father was saving them for some dynastic alliance.
Leonor had reached the sun-warmed courtyard near the rosemary bushes when Inés stepped out from behind a pillar. Her duenna wasn’t wearing her veil and her face was chalk white. In her hand was the letter Leonor had written to her father.
Heart plummeting, Leonor glanced at Yusuf. ‘Thank you, Yusuf, that will be all.’
Inés stalked up and took Leonor’s elbow in an iron grip. ‘Come with me, young lady.’
‘You’ve been through my jewel box!’
‘You left an anklet in the bathhouse, I was tidying up after you. And a good thing too.’
‘You’ve read it?’
Inés watched Yusuf’s retreat, pursing her lips until he had left the courtyard. ‘Indeed, I have.’
‘Inés, it’s addressed to the Sultan, not you.’
‘You’ve been into the prison! What were you thinking?’
‘Inés, I never intended to send that letter, unless...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Unless you were caught?’
‘Yes.’
Inés brandished the letter. ‘Are you aware that this puts Yusuf in grave danger?’
‘I—’
‘Did you know he has a wife and children?’
‘No, I didn’t. However, I don’t believe the letter puts him in danger. I take responsibility for my actions. I made a full confession.’
‘Sultan Tariq is not a confessor. Forgiveness does not come easily to him.’ Inés snatched Leonor’s borrowed veil from her head and her lip curled. ‘What is this rag? It’s not fit for a Nasrid princess. Where did you get it?’
‘I shall not say.’
Inés glared at her. ‘It matters not. If your father had received this letter, he would have had the truth out of you soon enough. And then the owner of this veil would be lucky if she received only a thousand lashes.’
Inés’s tone of voice was colder than the snow lying on the peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Leonor felt terrible. ‘I realised my mistake once I got to the prison, but by then it was too late to back out.’ She gazed earnestly at Inés. ‘Please be calm. No one discovered me, we can destroy the letter and no harm done.’
Inés gave a brusque headshake. ‘I cannot believe what I am hearing. Princess Zaida, your behaviour is beyond unseemly. You tricked your way into the prison and spoke to an enemy captive. Further, this letter betrays an appalling want of responsibility. It condemns Yusuf; it condemns the maid who lent you her veil; and it condemns me. I have done my best with you. As the Sultan’s daughter, you should know better. Do you hate me so much?’
‘Of course I don’t hate you! How could I? You have been a mother to us, you have taught us so much.’
‘Not enough, apparently. Were you really prepared to bring your father’s wrath down on the entire household simply so you may flirt with a stranger you glimpsed on the quayside?’
Leonor bit her lip and surreptitiously rubbed the back of her hand against her gown. ‘I wasn’t flirting.’
‘Then what were you doing, pray?’
‘Asking about Mamá.’
Inés put her hand to her throat. ‘You talked to a foreign captive about the Queen?’
‘Inés, please understand—’
‘Enough! My lady, you need to know that the Sultan forbade me to tell you and your sisters anything about your mother.’
Leonor’s eyes widened. ‘What? You weren’t to tell us anything?’
‘I am afraid not.’ Inés lowered her gaze. ‘Over the years I have told you far more than I should.’
‘Why did you do it, then, if you fear Father so much?’
A sparrow flitted across the rosemary-scented courtyard and vanished into a bush. Inés sighed heavily. ‘I missed home and the three of you were naturally so curious—I couldn’t help myself. It was a grave mistake.’
‘Does Father know you taught us Spanish?’
‘Faith, no! He’d kill me if he found out.’
Guilt lodged, heavy as a stone, in Leonor’s belly. ‘I am sorry, I didn’t understand.’
‘What’s done is done.’ Inés looked warily at her. ‘You spoke Spanish to that nobleman, I expect?’
‘Aye.’
Inés gave a heavy sigh, her eyes haunted. ‘Did he know to whom he was speaking?’
‘I...I am not sure.’ Leonor stared at the ground. She couldn’t bring herself to admit that the Spanish Count had indeed guessed her to be a princess. ‘I said nothing of who I was.’
‘Yet you asked him about Lady Juana and you addressed him in Spanish.’ Inés let out a great sigh. ‘Dear Lord, our idyll is ended.’
‘Idyll? What idyll?’
Inés released her and straightened her back. ‘I shall see you later. My lady, I shall destroy this letter and then I must write to the Sultan myself.’ She gave another sigh. ‘I have delayed writing to him, I should probably have written some months since. However, I can delay no longer, the three of you have outgrown my tutelage.’
Leonor felt as though a shadow had passed over the sun. She caught her duenna’s sleeve. ‘What do you mean we have outgrown your tutelage? Inés, what will you tell him?’
‘Sultan Tariq made me swear to tell him once the three of you reached a marriageable age. Clearly, that time is upon us. I shall inform him that he is best advised to visit his daughters as soon as his duties allow.’
Marriage. Leonor toyed with her remaining bangle. Part of her was relieved that her letter would never reach her father—the last thing she wanted was for anyone to suffer for her desire to learn about her mother. On the other hand, she wasn’t ready for marriage. Neither she nor her sisters had any experience in dealing with men. Other than bearing a man heirs—and even on that score Leonor was woefully ignorant as to how that might be achieved—the Princesses knew little of what a man might require in his bride.
‘Father will arrange for us to be married?’
Inés grimaced. ‘Possibly,’ she murmured. ‘Although it is equally possible that the Sultan will want to keep you pure.’
Leonor felt herself tense. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The King might not wish you to ever marry,’ Inés said. She wasn’t meeting Leonor’s eyes and somehow that was more worrying than anything.
‘Please continue.’
‘I am not certain I can. It was something I was told years ago, and I am not sure I believe it.’
Leonor had never liked not knowing what her future might be. If her father was arranging her marriage, she hoped to have a say in the choice of her future husband—she wanted to get to know him before they married. She had fretted about this for years and in all that time it had never occurred to her that her father might not want his daughters to marry at all.
Father might not want us to marry? Inés must be wrong. What were they to do, if they weren’t to marry?
‘Inés, for the love of God, you can’t leave it at that. What were you told? Does Father plan to have us married or not?’
Inés stared bleakly at her feet. ‘After the three of you were born, Sultan Tariq consulted his astrologer and your horoscopes were cast. The Sultan was advised that once you and your sisters reached marriageable age he should be watchful. The astrologer warned him to gather his daughters under his wings.’
Leonor frowned, it all sounded extremely ominous. ‘To gather us under his wings? What on earth might that mean?’
‘I’m sorry, my lady, I have no idea. However, since you have clearly reached marriageable age, I have no choice but to write to the Sultan and inform him of that.’
Worry scored lines on Inés’s face. Leonor forced a smile. ‘I understand; you must write to Father.’
Her heart felt like lead. What would the Sultan do? Were she and her sisters to be kept closeted all their lives? Was that why they’d been kept so ignorant of the world? She touched the back of her hand where Count Rodrigo had kissed it and, for the first time in her life, looked into the future with fear in her heart.
Leonor had always assumed she would one day be married. Never in her worst nightmares had it occurred to her that all that lay in front of her might be a life of pampered imprisonment.
Such a life would shrivel her soul...it would kill her. She must have some say in her future. She must.
* * *
No one told captives anything. A month had dragged by and Rodrigo was tramping wearily along a dusty highway, one in a long line of prisoners headed for God alone knew where. He was covered in grit and his skin itched. The sky was a solid block of blue. The heat had been building all day and Rodrigo’s clothes were drenched with sweat, he felt as though he was locked in an oven.
Instinct told him this was the road to Granada, but the terrain was unfamiliar and the guards resolutely uncommunicative. Not to mention that there was the language difficulty, neither Rodrigo nor his friends knew more than a couple of dozen words of Arabic.
Inigo walked along in front of him. And Enrique? Rodrigo trained his gaze on the front of the line, but his cousin was lost behind a curtain of dust. The three of them had spent most of the time since their capture trying to keep together and it wasn’t easy. Just then, Inigo glanced over his shoulder and sent him a terse smile.
Praise God, Inigo’s leg was improving every day; the wound hadn’t festered and his limp was barely noticeable now.
Salobreña lingered in Rodrigo’s mind as a stinking hellhole, he wasn’t sorry to leave it. His lips twisted as he thought back to when they’d been herded into the prison yard. Inigo hadn’t come back to his senses until long after that mysterious young woman had given her jewelled bangle to pay for further treatment. Rodrigo hadn’t told Inigo about her largesse, although since then not a day had passed without her slipping into his thoughts.
That husky voice was unforgettable. And, despite his mystery lady’s veil, he’d been able to tell that she had a slender body and a proud bearing.
It was strange how the veil made her more fascinating rather than less, a man couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath it. Something about her told him that despite her proud bearing, she was young. And frighteningly innocent. Rodrigo’s lips twisted as he recalled the outrage in her tone when he’d kissed her hand. It hadn’t been his finest hour. He’d kissed her to distract her; he’d kissed her out of anger.
It had been surprisingly stimulating. He was unlikely to see her again, although if he did, he would enjoy testing her with a more measured kiss. Since talking to her in that cell, he’d spent many nights with her scent twisting through his dreams. Orange blossom and woman. It had been tantalising and very frustrating.
Could the stories of three identical Nasrid Princesses be true? Might his mystery lady be one of them? Her questions had all concerned Sultan Tariq’s dead Queen, Lady Juana, so it was possible.
Guilt preyed on his mind. Rodrigo had told the truth when he’d said that he didn’t know any Lady Juana. He’d never met her, though he had heard of her. All of Christendom knew of Lady Juana’s scandalous abduction, and Rodrigo more than most had reason to regret it. Should he have told that girl what he knew?
He grimaced. Her questions had caught him off guard. They had opened old wounds, wounds which, despite the passing of many years, still smarted. By the time Rodrigo had himself in hand again, the girl had swept out of the cell.
I frightened her off.
Should he have told her?
Lord, no. He’d never see the girl again and what was the point of delving into the past? The best thing he could do would be to put the entire incident out of his mind.
On the other hand, her bangle had bought Inigo more treatment. She had certainly saved Inigo’s leg, and possibly his life too. Which left Rodrigo with an inconvenient sense of obligation towards her. Scowling at the road ahead, Rodrigo told himself to forget the entire incident.
Doubtless, his mysterious visitor had many bangles.
Still, he felt bad that the girl had gone away with none of her questions answered. He could at least have told her that when Lady Juana disappeared she had been betrothed to Count Jaime of Almodóvar.
His nostrils flared. Doubtless, Count Jaime would be able to answer the girl’s questions in more detail. Not that she was ever likely to meet him if she was indeed a Nasrid princess.
Rodrigo and Count Jaime weren’t exactly on speaking terms. It wasn’t that he and the lord of Almodóvar were enemies, but they certainly weren’t friends. Perhaps, when Rodrigo was finally free of Al-Andalus, he’d let Lord Jaime know that someone in Salobreña Castle had been asking about Lady Juana. Perhaps.
Scowling at a stone in the road, he toed it into the ditch and marched on. What the devil was he doing thinking about Count Jaime? He’d far rather be wondering about his mystery lady. Had she been among those women in the castle tower on the day their ship had docked? Why had she singled him out for questioning? There were plenty other prisoners in Salobreña to choose from. She must have been watching him.
He felt a smile form. The thought that his mystery lady might be the dark beauty who’d leaned out of that window had a certain appeal. If she was a princess, she was his enemy’s daughter.
Faith, what was he doing? It was pointless thinking about her. He’d only allowed himself to do so because back in the prison it had been either that or dwell on the horror of Diego’s death. He wasn’t ready to grieve, though grief would doubtless be a dull ache he’d be carrying for years.
God willing, he’d soon be home.
Freedom. Heart aching, Rodrigo squinted up the road. Today it seemed a million lifetimes away. He hated not having command over his life; he hated not knowing how many more miles lay ahead.
Rodrigo gave Inigo an assessing glance and was relieved to see him walking as well as a man could when hobbled with chains. Thank the Lord, that wound hadn’t festered. He wasn’t sure how patient the guards would be if they fell behind.
A guard cantered past, bellowing orders. Choking on grit, Rodrigo found himself wishing for the man’s horse. No matter that the animal had a back like a bow and an uneven gait, at least on horseback there was a chance of escaping the worst of the dust.
The guard shouted again, in Arabic. The words meant nothing to Rodrigo, but a nearby prisoner must have understood them, for he muttered under his breath and scowled back along the road. He was probably bemoaning the lack of water. Rodrigo didn’t blame him, rations—even of water—were in short supply on this trudge to hell. The riverbed at the side of the road was completely dry, a scrubby patch of weeds grew in the middle where water must once have flowed. The river, like Rodrigo’s throat, was bone dry.
Another shout from the direction of Salobreña caught his attention, the voice was tight and angry. The ground shook and Rodrigo turned.
A troop of horsemen was thundering towards them.
Lord, what a troop! Even in battle, Rodrigo had never faced fiercer-looking foes. The horses—black stallions—and their knights were surely giants, sprung out of some ancient Arabic fable. Silver breastplates gleamed on the knights’ wide chests. Beneath their armour, the knights’ tunics were black. Black turbans, black tunics, black boots, black shields. The knights’ faces were hidden.
The stallions were big-boned and well muscled and their coats gleamed like jet. Envy stirred in Rodrigo’s breast. A man might sell his soul for one of those horses. Dust swirled into his eyes, he blinked it away. This was an elite troop and he knew of only one man in Al-Andalus who could field knights as formidable as these. This troop answered to Sultan Tariq.
A harsh voice cracked out an order, a whip snaked out and the black horses wheeled as one, stepping purposefully forward to herd the straggling line of prisoners into the dried-up riverbed. A scimitar flashed.
Rodrigo stumbled along with the rest of them. When the prisoners were strung out among the withered weeds at the edge of the highway, there came another shout. To Rodrigo’s astonishment, every man fell face down on the ground.
Almost every man. Inigo and Enrique had no clue what was happening either, the three comrades were the only ones still on their feet. Rodrigo’s bemusement grew when their guards flung themselves off their horses and prostrated themselves along with the prisoners.
The nearest black horseman was screaming at Rodrigo, eyes bulging with anger. From his frantic gestures, Rodrigo understood he was expected to fall on his face like everyone else. Rodrigo didn’t move. He’d be damned if he was going to put his face in the thistles for no good reason.
Hoofbeats heralded the arrival of a second, smaller, party—about a dozen knights on brown horses. The knights were armed to the teeth.
The nearest horseman continued to scream at him. Rodrigo ignored him, because something most intriguing had caught his ears.
The light tinkle of bells. Bells?
Dust puffed out from beneath the horses’ hoofs, coating the shrubs and weeds. A standard fluttered. It was red and gold, the colours of the Nasrid dynasty. Those magnificent black knights did indeed answer to Sultan Tariq. If Rodrigo was not mistaken, he was about to set eyes on the King himself.
A scimitar flashed.
Unless that brute in black killed him first.
