seemed, its surface gleaming like beaten metal. The sun sparkled on the swell and gilded the leaves of the palm trees. Best of all, Leonor could feel the breeze caressing her cheeks. It was cool, a touch of paradise and infinitely better than her stupid fan. Bliss. When a gust of wind caught a lock of hair and tugged it free of its pins, she held in a delighted laugh.
Below her on the wall walk, the thud of heavy boots sounded a warning, a guard was doing his rounds. Hand over her mouth lest she draw his attention her way, Leonor held herself still. Her heart thumped in time with the marching boots. If the guard heard anything and leaned over that merlon, he might catch sight of her. For her sake as well as his, it wouldn’t do to be seen, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the harbour below. Paradise was surely looking at the world without a veil. Just this once. There was so much to see. A large galley had docked and was unloading its cargo. No, not cargo exactly. Merciful God, the men walking down the gangplank were chained together in a long line. Chained.
Goosebumps ran down Leonor’s back. Was it a slave ship? There were slaves in the castle, but they were well cared for. Leonor had never seen anyone chained like this and what she saw appalled her.
Those men...poor things. Their bruises spoke of heavy-handed beatings by the brutes in charge of them. A powerful-looking prisoner in a crimson tunic was helping one who looked to be barely conscious. The beaten man stumbled, fighting the drag of his fetters, and it was clear that he was only standing thanks to his friend’s supporting arms. It was odd though, something was very out of place. Most of the prisoners were remarkably well dressed.
Leonor’s gaze was drawn back to the man in crimson. He stood taller than his companions, with strong, wide shoulders. As she studied him, the word ‘warrior’ jumped into her head. Not that Leonor had ever seen a warrior close to—her father, the King, may he live for ever, would never permit it. But that man, yes, he must be a warrior, his physique was truly remarkable. The wind was playing in his wavy dark hair, teasing the edge of his crimson tunic.
Leonor glimpsed a flash of gold and her eyes went wide. He was wearing a gold ring. Goodness, who was he? Why hadn’t the ring been stolen by his captors? As she stared harder, she noticed that the man’s crimson tunic was embroidered with gold thread. She looked at his neighbours and found more signs of wealth. Silver gleamed on the belt buckle of a man in a blue tunic. The man who was hurt also had a gold ring on. These three looked more like princes than slaves. Why were they chained? It didn’t make sense.
Angry voices floated up from the quayside. An overseer cracked his whip and Leonor bit her lip as an agonised groan reached her ears. The injured man stumbled again, the chains jerked and the line of prisoners came to an abrupt halt.
Leonor quite forgot her place and leaned right out of the window. She was no longer the Princess Leonor who should know better than to show her face outside. She was simply a soft-hearted young woman frowning at a sailor for whipping a man who could barely stand.
She wasn’t the only one to be so affronted. As the whip lifted a second time, the tallest captive, the one in crimson, rounded on the overseer.
Leonor’s nails bit into her palms. Anger darkened the face of the warrior-like figure and he stepped directly into harm’s way. The whip snaked towards him, and when it struck, he made no sound. He looked furious. Furious and proud. Something lodged in Leonor’s throat. Even in his anger, that man was devastatingly handsome. No slave, he.
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,
