Sama stepped into the chamber and carefully shut the door.
‘Princess, Imad has brought it to my attention that there are no more Spanish pigeons in the loft. Unless a delivery comes from Castile, the messages between you and your sisters will come to an end.’
Thankful it was nothing more serious, Zorahaida allowed herself to relax. A few years ago, her sisters had run away to marry Spanish noblemen in the neighbouring Kingdom of Castile. Their father the Sultan had responded by banishing them from his Emirate on pain of death. She hadn’t seen them since.
The three sisters were triplets, identical triplets. Perhaps that was why the bond between them was stronger than steel. Determined to stay in touch, they used carrier pigeons to communicate with each other.
Pigeons were astonishing birds. Faster than a horse and capable of flying hundreds of miles in a day, a homing pigeon was inconspicuous and reliable, perfect for taking messages between Al-Andalus and Castile. Best of all, there was no need for a human messenger to endanger life and limb by crossing the troubled border between the Kingdom of Spain and the Emirate.
There had been teething difficulties, but the system worked remarkably well. Zorahaida and her sisters, Leonor and Alba, regularly exchanged news. Mercifully, Sultan Tariq didn’t have the slightest notion that his youngest daughter was in secret contact with her sisters.
‘Don’t worry, Sama,’ Zorahaida said. ‘All is in hand. More homing pigeons are on their way, they should arrive soon.’
Sama’s expression cleared. ‘That is a relief. I know it’s crucial that the three of you remain in touch.’
Sama left the chamber and Zorahaida gave a pensive sigh.
The links between her father’s Emirate and the Kingdom of Castile, though tenuous, went back a long way. The Princesses’ mother had been Spanish. Lady Juana of Baeza. Lady Juana had been captured by the Sultan’s troops and when she’d been brought before Sultan Tariq, he had fallen in love with her on sight. He’d forced her to stay and had made her his Queen. She’d never been permitted to return to Baeza.
Sadly, the Queen had died so early in the Princesses’ childhood that Zorahaida had virtually no memories of her. Her sisters Leonor and Alba had been her world. That was why losing them had been so devastating.
Zorahaida often wondered what life would have been like if she’d gone with her sisters. The Princesses’ Spanish duenna Inés had painted Castile in the rosiest colours, she’d tempted them all with the thought of the freedom that might be found outside the enclosed world of the palace. Like Leonor and Alba, Zorahaida had dreamed about seeing her mother’s homeland. Language wouldn’t have been a problem. Thanks to Inés, the three Princesses grew up speaking Spanish fluently. None the less, they’d known adapting to life in Castile would be tricky after the confined world of their father’s palace. They had known there would be obstacles.
As her sisters had been drawn to the men who were now their husbands, Zorahaida had initially been drawn to a third Spanish knight—Sir Enrique de Murcia. She shrugged. In the end, putting Sir Enrique out of her mind had been easy, he wasn’t the hero she’d believed him to be. Parting with her sisters, on the other hand—to this day, Zorahaida felt as though she’d lost part of herself.
On the night of her sisters’ escape with their Castilian noblemen, Zorahaida had been ignorant about Sir Enrique’s true character. The idea of marrying a Spanish knight had been enticing, for surely no man would be as domineering and unforgiving as their father. Notwithstanding, Zorahaida had been torn.
What about their father? That rigid, complicated man who ruled his daughters with an iron hand, whilst at the same time showering them with gifts. She had actually felt sorry for him. Sultan Tariq had lost his beloved Queen and Zorahaida sensed he was terrified of losing his daughters too. The Sultan had no other children. How would he go on alone? He would have felt abandoned, and abandonment, she was sure, was what her father dreaded most.
Zorahaida’s stomach clenched, as it usually did when she thought about the Sultan and she began to pace about the chamber. The various windows gave snatches of differing viewpoints. On one side lay the palace gardens with their fishponds, orderly orange groves and thyme-scented courtyards. On the other, she could see the wilderness beyond the palace walls and the deep crevasse, clear now of rocks. The scrubby trees on the other side of the dip climbed ever higher, drawing her gaze to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada.
She stared at the snow-tipped mountain. She felt trapped in the palace. Suffocated. What would her life have been if she had run away with her sisters? These thoughts weren’t new and, as she had done many times, she thrust them aside.
Regret was pointless. She had chosen to stay, and she had spent three years working to ensure that loyal servants and guards escaped the worst of her father’s wrath. It felt good to be useful even if the sense of being shut in was insufferable.
Sama reappeared. ‘Excuse me, Princess, I forgot to ask. Will the homing pigeons be delivered to the market as usual?’
‘I believe so.’
Sama bowed her head. ‘With your permission then, I shall inform Imad.’
‘Thank you. Sama?’
‘Princess?’
‘Would you also inform Imad that I am of a mind to accompany him when he goes to collect my sisters’ birds.’
‘Princess, are you certain? If Sultan Tariq, long may he reign, discovers you have gone into the city...’ Sama’s voice trailed off.
Zorahaida needed no reminder of the dangers. Every time she broke her father’s rules, she risked disturbing the harmony she worked so hard to create. She also knew that most of the palace
