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The concubine bit her lip. ‘My lady, I doubt the Sultan, may he live for ever, would sanction your visiting Prince Ghalib’s harem.’
Alba held the girl’s gaze. ‘I shall say nothing of coming here.’
Her uncle’s concubine let out a trembling sigh. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
The baby had stopped crying, her eyes were fastened on Alba’s lantern. Gently setting it on a ledge, Alba held out her hands.
‘May I hold her?’
The girl hesitated and smiled. ‘Of course. Here, my lady. Yamina is usually very good, I don’t know what has got into her this morning.’
A warm bundle was thrust into Alba’s arms and she was transfixed by a painful emotion she could not name. Holding her cousin gave her a sense of belonging. Of completion.
‘Yamina is a lovely name.’
Alba could feel Yamina’s warmth creeping into her heart. Indeed, it seemed to fill every part of her, warming her in ways that the summer sun could never warm. She’d never felt like this before, such pain—yearning, she supposed. Such joy. Yamina was a sweetheart. Alba’s unconfessed miseries coalesced into a piercing spear of longing. A baby. This was what was missing from her life. A baby. For months Alba had felt restless and ill at ease, now she knew why. Deprived of love herself, she yearned for someone to love. She yearned for a baby.
Eyes misting, Alba cradled Yamina. She stroked her face, marvelling at the softness of her skin. Yamina was so trusting. So dear. Aching inside, Alba swallowed down a lump in her throat. ‘My cousin,’ she murmured.
Dark eyes watched her. ‘My lady, her life will be very different to yours. You are a princess. My daughter will be fortunate if she can remain in the palace. It is lucky she is a girl.’
‘Oh?’
The concubine shrugged. ‘Who can say what the fate of a male child of Prince Ghalib’s might be? However, since I have a daughter, I am hopeful she will be permitted to stay. Perhaps she will attend you, my lady, when she is grown.’
Alba stared. This child was her cousin and she might well become a lady-in-waiting. On the other hand, life was precarious and if something untoward happened to Prince Ghalib—what then? Yamina could be forced into servitude, she could be ill treated. Alba had never seen a servant beaten, but such things were commonplace, her father the Sultan was a hard taskmaster. As for his temper, it was as black as sin. Alba had witnessed his temper first-hand...
When she and the other Princesses had been riding from their old home in Salobreña Castle to their newly built tower in the Alhambra Palace, their father had almost killed three prisoners they had come across on the road. Spanish knights, they were being held for ransom. The knights didn’t speak Arabic and were ignorant of local custom, so they hadn’t understood they weren’t permitted to look at the Princesses.
Sultan Tariq had been so enraged by what he saw as the knights’ insolence, that he’d been prepared to execute them on the spot. If Alba and her sisters hadn’t begged for clemency, those Spanish noblemen would surely be dead.
There was no question but that the Sultan was inflexible and capricious. However, surely even he wouldn’t allow his niece to be beaten? Whatever happened to Prince Ghalib, she prayed her father wouldn’t force Yamina into servitude.
‘Will your daughter have a say in how she lives her life?’
‘No, my lady. Prince Ghalib, long may he prosper, will decide.’
Alba held the concubine’s gaze. ‘Then her life is little different to mine. I, too, must obey my father.’
When her uncle’s concubine looked at her, face suddenly blank, Alba knew a moment of shame. It was true that the three Princesses lived according to their father’s dictates, but their mother had been the Queen. The women living here were simply Prince Ghalib’s concubines. The life of such a woman, even one who had borne a child, was infinitely more precarious than that of a princess.
‘Men can be callous.’ Alba shook her head. ‘All they care about is their own pleasure. And war and conquest, of course.’
The concubine threw a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘My lady, you must not speak in this manner.’ Her fingers crept to a silver bangle. ‘Prince Ghalib, may blessings rain upon him, is generous. He gives me gifts. He allows me to dress my daughter in the finest linens.’
Alba didn’t reply. The Sultan showered the Princesses with gifts too, although Alba had long suspected that the gifts were a means of their father displaying his range of influence. Frankincense and myrrh from the east, silk from Byzantium, silver from Arabia—all these and more had been given to his daughters. Not for a moment did Alba think the gifts were given out of love, Sultan Tariq didn’t know the meaning of the word. No, Alba was coming to suspect that the Sultan used gifts as a means of ensuring his daughters’ obedience. He wanted to keep them sweet. He wanted them to know how powerful he was. The question was why?
