to escape such a fate, Sultan Tariq had kept his brother out of the way at Salobreña Castle for years. The three Princesses had lived there too.
During that time, Alba had seen her uncle happy and she’d seen him angry. Prince Ghalib had many faces. Underneath them all lay a dark and bitter frustration. Alba sympathised, for she’d heard that the Sultan had made his brother promise after promise.
‘I’ll give you a castle, dear brother, never fear,’ the Sultan had vowed. Or, ‘I’ll put you at the head of an army.’
Her father had broken every promise. While the Sultan lived, Prince Ghalib would never be free, he was too much of a threat. It didn’t help that, unlike the Sultan, Prince Ghalib had fathered many children.
Prince Ghalib had been brought from Salobreña Castle to the Alhambra Palace at the same time as his nieces and, like the Princesses, he continued to be granted every luxury. Except his freedom.
Alba reached the curtained archway as the baby paused to draw breath. A woman was crooning softly, and her soft murmurings dragged Alba back to when she herself was little more than an infant. A sharp pain pierced her, like a lance to her heart. Mamá! Her mother, the Queen, had spoken to her in just such a voice. That was the voice of love, it was the most beautiful sound in creation and she’d not heard it in an age.
Curtain rings clinked as Alba pushed inside. If the baby was Prince Ghalib’s, it would be her cousin.
A young woman about the same age as Alba was lying on a couch with the baby. She looked across and gave a rueful smile. ‘My daughter is keeping you awake? A thousand apologies.’
My cousin. The baby’s cheeks were red with anger and she was waving chubby fists in the air. As Alba drew closer, she looked Alba’s way and the wailing cut off abruptly.
Alba’s heart squeezed. ‘What an adorable child.’ She tossed her veil over her head. Sultan Tariq’s strictures about the Princesses wearing their veils didn’t apply when the Princesses were in their private apartments because no man set foot in them. The same rule must apply in her uncle’s harem. No guard or manservant would dare enter the women’s quarters.
The woman on the couch studied Alba’s face, eyes wary. ‘I’ve not seen you before.’
‘No.’
Gathering the baby to her breast, the woman sat up. ‘May I ask who you are?’
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
