Математический анализ. Вещественные числа и последовательности. Учебное пособие для СПО. Татьяна Николаевна Фоменко
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my cousin, I’ll deal with him. Rest assured, no one will be hurt.’
Alba recognised the second knight as Count Rodrigo. Leonor had managed to speak to him in private once, and she’d told Alba his name some days ago.
In the distance, dogs were barking. Alba’s heart jumped. Had her father released his hunting dogs? Filled with fear, she tried to see through the trees. It was impossible.
With a start, she realised that Count Rodrigo was standing next to Leonor and he too must have heard the dogs, for he cocked his head to listen, took command of Leonor’s torch and put it out.
The dark intensified. One of the other knights approached and bowed over Alba’s hand. He was touching her.
Alba froze. Save for her father, in her whole life no man had presumed to touch her. She willed herself not to react. This knight was her means of escape. He was not a palace guard, he was Spanish like her mother, and Inés had explained that a Spanish knight would not think it odd or shameful in any way to touch a woman. In the Kingdom of Castile, men often greeted women by bowing over their hands in this manner. For a princess who’d been shielded from men, it was disquieting.
‘My lady, I believe you can ride?’ the knight said.
Please, sir, be kind.
Alba found her voice. ‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘This way, if you please. You must ride astride, I’m afraid.’
Alba peered through her veil, but with the torch extinguished she could hardly see. Even so, she knew him. It was the knight her father’s men had wounded, the one who had hobbled off the captives’ galley when it had made port at Salobreña. He had spent weeks as Sultan Tariq’s prisoner and she had no idea how he would treat her.
Would he seek revenge for his imprisonment? He was a nobleman, he was bound to have pride, pride her father’s treatment must have dented. At best, he was bound to resent the weeks spent away from Castile.
His tall masculine shape made a black silhouette against the night sky. He was waiting for her decision. Realising she must accept his assistance—and swiftly—if she was to win her freedom, Alba allowed him to help her on to his horse.
Her entire body quivered as he mounted behind her and took up the reins. She was sharing a horse with a Spanish nobleman. A nameless foreigner. Her father’s enemy. Yesterday, it would have been unthinkable.
‘Your name, sir?’ she whispered.
‘Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville,’ he murmured. Then, as a blood-curdling howl cut through the dark, he urged his horse on.
God be merciful.
They forged on through undergrowth that prickled and scratched. The stars and moon were gone, the darkness thickened. The air was close and muggy. Alba clung to the saddle, praying the horse didn’t stumble. The last thing they needed was a poor horse screaming in agony because it had broken its leg. Sounds were harsh—the thud of hoofs, the baying of the hounds, an ominous rumble of thunder.
Water splashed on the back of Alba’s hands. A storm. Months of drought was coming to an end.
Count Inigo reined in. Count Rodrigo drew up alongside, Leonor sat before him on the saddle.
Count Rodrigo gestured at the ground. Small rivulets were swirling around the horses’ hoofs, rainwater from a storm high in the mountains was rushing down the gully.
Alba swallowed a groan, it had been a hot, dry summer and a flood was inevitable.
‘The riverbed is prone to flash floods,’ Lord Rodrigo said. ‘We’ll use that in our favour. Get the river between us and the palace. With luck, it’ll confuse the dogs.’
‘Good idea,’ Count Inigo said. She felt his hand on her hip, settling her more securely before him.
Leonor touched her elbow. ‘Alba, is Constanza behind us?’
Alba twisted to look along the way they had come, her rain-sodden veil clinging to her neck. There was no sign of Constanza. Ominously, other than the two knights and their squires, she could see no one else.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen her.’
Leonor turned towards the squires. ‘And you, sirs, have you seen my other sister?’
‘No, my lady.’
Leonor looked at Count Rodrigo. ‘My lord?’
Lord Rodrigo held up his hand. ‘A moment, if you please. Inigo, our chances of escape will be better if we separate. I’ll head south-west. They won’t be expecting that.’
Count Inigo shifted. ‘Understood.’
‘God willing, I’ll be in Córdoba in a week.’
‘Very well, I’ll meet you there.’ Lord Inigo gave his horse the spur and they surged up the riverbank.
Drenched with rain, they pelted into the unknown with Lord Inigo’s squire keeping close as a shadow. Alba felt the drumming of the horse’s hooves in every bone and kept praying that they didn’t lose their footing. May God preserve us. Most of all, she focused on keeping her seat. Panic was a breath away. She had no wish to end up alone in this storm-soaked wilderness so close to the palace. The Sultan’s troops might catch them. This time Father’s punishment would be...
Her mind refused to go down that road. They had done the right thing. They would get away. But what had happened to Constanza?
Lord Inigo’s chest pressed against her back. His arms were locked firmly around her.
Was he a kind man? Did such a thing as a kind man even exist outside a fairy tale?
Lord Inigo was a warrior. He’d been caught fighting her father in the recent conflict on the border. He’d been wounded and imprisoned, and the Sultan had demanded a ransom payment, doubtless a large one, for his release from captivity. At best, Lord Inigo was bound to be resentful.
And this was the man she was reliant on to make good her escape?
If only she knew more about him.
However, as the sodden landscape wheeled past—stubby trees, dark bushes whose leaves slapped wetly at her—Alba realised that she wasn’t entirely ignorant as to Lord Inigo’s nature. Lord Inigo was clearly close to Count Rodrigo whom Leonor trusted. Leonor had only met Lord Rodrigo the once, and he’d made a good impression. Why else would she have been so eager to escape?
What do I know about Lord Inigo?
He’d been wounded by her father’s men. He’d come to her rescue. Why? Behind her sodden veil, Alba grimaced. Could she trust him?
Inigo was cursing the day he had set foot in Al-Andalus. The going was appalling, the sudden downpour had turned what had lately been dust into mud, yet he had no choice but to urge his stallion to greater speed. Soldier slipped, found his footing and charged on.
Riding hard at night was a risky business when visibility was good and now, with moon and stars lost behind a curtain of rain and cloud, not to mention the poor terrain, it was downright foolhardy. Inigo prayed his luck was in. Soldier was the best of horses, he had no desire to lose him.
This race to freedom was, Inigo realised, even more dangerous than when he had dashed into battle to save Rodrigo’s foolhardy cousin, Enrique.
As for the slight, feminine form Inigo was wrestling to keep safely in front of him—he couldn’t in all honour blame her for his predicament. He hadn’t been forced to get involved. The trouble was that as soon as Inigo had got wind of Enrique’s plans, Inigo’s fate had been sealed. He couldn’t stand by while Enrique avenged himself on the Princesses. They weren’t responsible for Sultan Tariq’s misdeeds.
Thunder