The Princess's Secret Longing. Carol TownendЧитать онлайн книгу.
Chapter Fourteen
1396—the Alhambra Palace in the Emirate of Granada
Princess Alba lay in the dark, an unfamiliar noise had dragged her from her dreams. She turned restlessly, unable to work out what had woken her. All she could hear was a trill of birdsong. In her mind’s eye, she saw birds flying over lawns and terraces and flitting in and out of shrubs in the wilderness beyond the palace wall. They sounded happy. Free!
A lantern glowed softly in a niche, casting a gentle light on the sleeping forms of Alba’s sisters, Princess Leonor and Princess Constanza. Their black hair was loosely tied back for sleep, just like hers, and their eyelashes lay like dark crescents against their cheeks. Princess Alba and her sisters were triplets, identical triplets.
Alba yawned and, as she looked at her sisters, she was gripped by an odd fancy. It was as though she was looking at other versions of herself, versions which had yet to waken. Irritated, she brushed the thought aside. Her sisters’ features might mirror hers, but their characters—oh, so very different.
The bedchamber shutters were closed, and it was so early that nothing was visible through the star-shaped patterns cut into the wood. The Princesses hadn’t been long in their father’s favourite palace—only a few days—but already Alba knew that in daytime the piercings in the shutters turned bright sunlight into starry splashes on the floor tiles.
There it was again! That mysterious noise. Alba sat up. What could it be? The cry of a hawk? No, that was no hawk. That was surely—a baby.
Her breath stopped. Could it really be a baby? Whose could it be? It couldn’t belong to her father the Sultan, may God exalt him. The Sultan had only sired three children, Alba and her sisters. Sultan Tariq’s unfulfilled wish for other children—more precisely, for a son—was well known.
Alba scrambled to the window. Kneeling on a cushion, for the window was low and the floor hard, she shoved at the shutter and strained to hear more. She’d spent most of her life far away in Salobreña Castle and not once had she held a baby. A pang shot through her, violent and intense. If there was a baby in the palace, she must see it. Hold it.
Loath to wake her sisters, Alba snatched up a robe and veil and was dressed in no time. She took the lantern to light her way, crept softly downstairs and slipped out of the tower.
The stars were fading, the sky was turning pearly grey and the air was pleasantly cool.
Ahead of her, paths ran this way and that. Buildings were visible as black shapes at the end of the paths. So many walls and towers. Alba had yet to learn the layout of the grounds, but in this instance, it didn’t matter. That sound, the faintest of whimpers, was her guide. There was a baby in the palace!
Stepping on to the lawn, Alba sped past a hissing fountain. She entered a small grove of trees and was greeted by the heady scent of oranges. A section of the palace wall lay on her left hand and light glowed briefly from a guardhouse at the top. Her father the Sultan had many guards.
Mindful of the need for discretion, Alba tugged her veil tightly about her face. Sultan Tariq insisted that the Princesses wore veils, even when walking here in the palace grounds. Any man who caught a glimpse of her face would be severely disciplined. Alba wasn’t sure what form the punishment would take, it was enough to know that her father ruled with an iron hand. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if a guard suffered on her account.
God was with her, she saw no guards.
Several buildings were clustered behind a screen of myrtle bushes, the thread of sound came from the nearest. The strengthening light revealed a line of windows with arches shaped like horseshoes and a large door heavily decorated with ironwork. The door opened smoothly, and Alba entered a shadowy antechamber. An indignant wail echoed across the marble floor.
Excitement fizzing through her veins, Alba hurried towards a curtained door arch.
Since her father the Sultan only had three children, this building had to be part of Prince Ghalib’s harem. Prince Ghalib was Alba’s uncle. He was much younger than the Sultan and to say that he must find life difficult was an understatement.
Prince Ghalib was her father’s designated successor, he was an heir locked in a gilded cage. Like Alba and her sisters, her uncle wasn’t allowed his freedom. Alba understood why. Insurrections were commonplace in the long and bloody history of the Nasrid dynasty. Brother would kill brother and seize power. Doubtless, Sultan Tariq feared Prince Ghalib might stage a coup and overthrow him.
Determined 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