made an impatient sound. ‘Saints, Enrique, how would I know?’ He made his voice dry. ‘They could be the tyrant’s daughters.’
Enrique’s mouth fell open. ‘The Princesses? Truly?’
‘Enrique, I wasn’t serious.’ The Sultan was rumoured to have three identical daughters whom he kept in pampered seclusion in Salobreña Castle. Personally, Rodrigo was sceptical. He stared at his cousin. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that folk tale about the three Princesses.’
Their conversation roused Inigo from his stupor and he squinted up at the tower window, blinking sweat from his eyes. ‘Princesses? Where?’
Rodrigo sighed. ‘There are no princesses, Inigo, it’s just a story.’ Surely no man, not even a tyrant like Sultan Tariq, would incarcerate his daughters in a castle and never allow them to be seen?
Inigo stared up at the tower. ‘Three princesses, Lord.’
Inigo’s voice was little more than a drunken murmur, which was understandable. He was drunk—on pain, on fatigue, on thirst. They all were.
‘There are no princesses, Inigo,’ Rodrigo said firmly. ‘Likely those girls are the castle cooks.’
‘They don’t look like cooks to me.’ Worryingly, Inigo was slurring his words. ‘I know a silken veil when I see one, I know the glitter of gold. Those are the Princesses. The one without the veil looks as though she’s come straight from a harem. I bet the others are just as comely.’ Inigo paused. ‘What luck, there’s one for each of us.’
Enrique let out a bark of laughter.
Rodrigo sighed. ‘Inigo, you have a fever.’
Enrique’s chain rattled. The line was moving again, they were being prodded and gestured towards a paved square that opened out just off the quayside. Rodrigo took Inigo’s arm to help him keep pace.
‘How’s the leg?’ he asked, more to keep Inigo conscious than in expectation of any reply.
‘Throbs like fury.’
Inigo looked like death, sweat was pouring from him and, despite the heat, his face was pale. At least he was making sense, Rodrigo was amazed he’d remained conscious this long. ‘When we get to our lodgings, I’ll see they fetch you a healer.’
‘You think I’ll get one? Don’t want infection to set in. I’d like to keep my leg.’
‘You’ll keep it, never fear.’
Inigo’s gaze held his. ‘You’re certain?’
Despite his doubts, Rodrigo put lightness in his voice. ‘Certain. Only one leg, only half the ransom. They need to keep you whole!’
Inigo’s lips twisted and he glanced back at that window. ‘What do you think his daughters look like close to?’
It was on the tip of Rodrigo’s tongue to say that the Princesses would probably be ugly, buck-toothed hags when it occurred to him that Inigo probably needed a little fantasy. They all did.
He kept his voice light and smiled. ‘Eyes dark as sloes and lips like rosebuds. Their hair will reach beyond their waists—it will be smooth as black satin and scented with orange blossom. Their bodies will be soft and curved, and their skin—’
Madre mía, what was he doing? Clearly the shock of Diego’s death was taking its toll. Sultan Tariq’s troops had killed his brother; Inigo was wounded; a ransom was being demanded for their safe release and here he was fantasising about three princesses who might not even exist.
Enrique tugged on the chain, causing Inigo to stumble. ‘Don’t stop, Rodrigo, I was enjoying that. You’d got to the Princesses’ skin.’
Rodrigo ground his teeth together and managed—just—not to hit him.
Entirely focused on the knight in the red tunic as he helped his companion towards the square, Leonor didn’t hear the pavilion door open.
‘Princess Leonor!’ Inés stood in the door arch, her hands on her hips. ‘My lady, what are you doing?’
Veiled in the same way as the two younger Princesses, Inés was known to most in Salobreña by the Moorish name of Kadiga. It was a name given to her by the Sultan when she had first arrived in the palace with the Princesses’ mother. However, shortly after their mother’s death, Inés had told the sisters that she much preferred her old Spanish name. Consequently, whenever they were in the privacy of their apartments, they called their duenna Inés.
Leonor rose from the cushions and faced her. ‘How do you do that?’
‘Do what, my lady?’
‘You always know which of us is which. It doesn’t seem to make any difference whether we are veiled or not. How do you tell us apart?’
Leonor and her sisters were triplets and were as like as peas in a pod. The three of them had hair that was long and black, with the sheen and texture of silk. They had dark lustrous eyes, prettily shaped mouths and teeth as white as pearls. The only difference between them was a slight variation in height. Leonor was the tallest, then came Alba, and finally the youngest, Constanza. Aside from their height, see one Princess and you’ve seen them all.
Inés had always been the only person in the castle who could tell them apart. That she could do so even when she was looking at them from behind was astonishing.
‘You are all equally beautiful, that is sure,’ Inés said. ‘However, you are my girls and I love you, that is how I can tell you apart.’ She gestured at Leonor’s exposed face. ‘Princess Zaida, you will not distract me. Why is your veil pushed back?’
Leonor grimaced. By using Leonor’s Moorish name instead of her Spanish one, her duenna was reminding her, not very subtly, that it wasn’t wise to go against Sultan Tariq’s orders. Guiltily aware that Inés might suffer for Leonor’s disobedience, and that the poor woman must live in fear of what would happen to her should the Princesses rebel in earnest, Leonor bit her lip. ‘My apologies, Inés, but I am no longer a child.’
‘That is open to question.’ Inés tipped her head to one side and hardened her voice. ‘What isn’t open to question is that you have removed your veil. You cannot have forgotten the Sultan’s command that you remain veiled when you leave your apartments, and that includes when you are in this pavilion.’
‘Have pity, Inés, no one comes here and the port is like a furnace. Even the palm trees are melting. I’m suffocating.’
‘That is irrelevant. You are a Nasrid princess and you must obey your father.’
‘Father might try wearing a veil in this heat and see how he likes it,’ Leonor muttered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Leonor heard the fear in her duenna’s voice and the old guilt stirred—the idea that their faithful duenna might have to suffer their father’s wrath was simply unbearable. With a resigned sigh, she
