The Knight’s Forbidden Princess. Carol Townend

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      Rodrigo wrestled with his fetters, caught Inigo’s arm and kept him steady. Already Enrique, distracted by something on the ramparts of the tyrant’s castle, had let go of him. Surely even Enrique could see that Inigo was on the point of losing consciousness?

      ‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, show some gratitude, lend Inigo a hand.’ Rodrigo’s voice was brusque, he couldn’t help it. Grief and anger were taking their toll; it was hard to think of anything save the awful truth.

      Diego was dead. His brother was dead.

      Rodrigo’s guts rolled. He was having a hard time accepting it, but his brother—no more than a boy—had been killed over a few yards of thistles on a patch of barren borderland. He narrowed his gaze on Enrique and tried not to think about the fact that it had been Enrique’s foolhardiness that had got them into the mess in the first place. Recriminations wouldn’t help. If they were to get out of this in one piece, they must stick together. Pointedly, Rodrigo rattled the chain that linked prisoner to prisoner. ‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, think. If Inigo stumbles again, that whip will fall on us all.’

      Enrique threw a surly look in his direction and grasped Inigo’s other arm. ‘Inigo should have stayed at home. You all should have done. I would have been all right.’

      Rodrigo’s chest ached. That almost sounded like an apology. Certainly, it was the closest Enrique had come to admitting that if he hadn’t filled young Diego’s head with dreams of glory, Diego would be here today. It was too late. Whatever Enrique said, it was too late for Diego.

      Enrique was responsible for Diego’s death and their party’s capture. Fool that he was, he’d hurled himself into battle early and Diego—too green to know better—had followed. Rodrigo had flung himself into the fray in a vain attempt to save his brother; Inigo had joined him, and shortly afterwards they’d all been captured.

      However, there was nothing to be gained by raking over old coals. They were the tyrant’s prisoners, they needed each other. Who knew what Sultan Tariq might do? Until they were free, they had little choice but to stick together.

      Rodrigo and Enrique half-dragged, half-carried Inigo along the quay.

      Shadows were short, the port of Salobreña was hotter than an oven. As the captives were herded along, then made to stand next to a pile of fishing nets, Rodrigo suppressed a sigh. The sun was almost directly overhead. His scalp itched and his red tunic was dark with sweat. He swallowed painfully, his throat dry as parchment. ‘I’d sell my soul for a drink,’ he muttered.

      Inigo mumbled something that might or might not have been agreement and sagged a little. Rodrigo propped him up.

      ‘What will they do to us, do you suppose?’ Enrique murmured, a slight crease in his brow.

      ‘The Sultan’s treasury is empty,’ Rodrigo reminded him. ‘He is desperate for money so he can pay his tribute. I’m confident we will be taken into honourable captivity until our ransom is paid.’

      Enrique’s brow cleared. ‘Negotiations shouldn’t take long. Mother won’t allow Father to sit on his hands. I reckon I should be free in a couple of weeks.’

      Speechless at Enrique’s self-interest, Rodrigo shook his head and drew in a steadying breath. Enrique was his cousin, but if it weren’t for the family connection, Rodrigo would have nothing to do with him. Particularly now Diego was gone.

      Enrique glowered. ‘What?’

      ‘I was thinking about Diego.’

      Enrique flinched and Rodrigo was taken by a powerful urge to hit something. Preferably his cousin. Grief. Fury. Telling himself that starting a family brawl on the quayside would get them nowhere, Rodrigo turned his attention to their surroundings.

      Diego would want him to keep his wits about him. His brother would want them—yes, even Enrique—to get away from Al-Andalus in one piece. If a chance to escape presented itself, he’d take it.

      Methodically, Rodrigo studied the port. He was looking for weakness, for anything he might turn to their advantage. There hadn’t been many guards on the ship, but chained men weren’t hard to control. It might be different here.

      He swore under his breath. Hell burn it, even if they were presented with the chance to escape, they couldn’t take it. Not until Inigo’s leg healed. Not with Enrique proving so unreliable.

      After their capture by the Sultan’s forces—Rodrigo sent Enrique another dark look—the three of them had taken pains to stress their noble lineage. The grim reality was that they’d been caught fighting to win back land on the tyrant’s borders, and to avoid summary execution they’d told the Moorish commander that they’d pay handsomely for their release.

      Salobreña Castle loured over the port, solid and imposing. It looked impregnable, not that Rodrigo wanted to break in. If they were to be lodged in honourable captivity in the castle whilst they waited for their ransoms to be paid, he would be looking for a way out. Inigo might heal quickly.

      A flag hung limply from a flagpole, the colours—red and gold—those of the Nasrid dynasty. Rodrigo ran his gaze along the length of the curtain wall as it wound down the cliffs. There were several watchtowers, the nearest of which was close to the port. Interesting. If they were to be lodged in the castle and if they did make their escape, the location of that tower might be useful.

      ‘Dios mío.’ Enrique gave a low whistle, he had followed Rodrigo’s gaze and was staring at the nearest watchtower. ‘There are women up there. Look, a shutter is open.’

      Something fluttered up at the top of the tower. For once, Enrique was right. A latticed shutter was indeed open and three women were leaning out of the embrasure, watching the harbour. Two of them were wearing veils, the other—Lord, if Rodrigo’s imagination wasn’t playing tricks with him and at this distance he couldn’t be sure—the one without a veil was a beauty.

      Rodrigo caught the flash of dark eyes, of a jewelled bracelet and a shining black twist of hair. A low murmur reached him. He’d probably imagined the murmur—the tower was surely too far away for him to hear anything over the lap of the water and the clanking of prisoners’ irons. The dark-eyed woman seemed to be watching him. Her friends too were looking their way.

      ‘Who the devil are they?’ Enrique asked.

      Rodrigo 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.’

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