brethren of the Faith. There is no warrior with more daring and cunning than the Marinid soldier. He uses tactics of attack and withdrawal. When you think you have him on the run, cavalry and mounted bowmen surround you. This Doñ Alonso Perez de Guzman shall discover what Marinid resolve can do against this citadel soon enough.”
“You speak thusly of the Marinids, yet earlier you accused them of wavering and changing sides too often.”
“I can only hope for better on this battlefield. In warfare, the enemy is the enemy and an ally is an ally, until fate alters all circumstances and exchanges friend for foe. In the long history of Castilla-Leon and Gharnatah, the boundaries between adversaries and allies have changed often. Today we meet them on opposing sides. Tomorrow, we may form an alliance with King Sancho and be at odds with the Marinids. That possibility does not alter my resolve today.”
“It would seem you have no difficulty recognizing your allies among former adversaries.”
When Muhammad offered him a lazy smile, Faraj inclined his head and returned the gesture. He was about to speak again, when a lone rider emerged from the midst of the encampment.
The Castillan Prince Juan wore the blackened iron mail and heraldry of a Christian knight over most of his body. His brilliant silk garments bore the red lion of Castilla-Leon on the tunic and mantle at the center in four yellow squares. His helmet, flat at the top, concealed most of his face except for the dark brown eyes, which stared resolutely ahead. He hefted a heavy mace in one hand and held aloft a spear affixed with a white flag in the other. His steed, caparisoned in the same colors that he wore, snorted as Prince Juan’s silver spurs dug into his sides.
The horse clopped across the white sand and bore him steadily toward the citadel. Faraj shook his head at the Castillan prince’s vain ornamentation of the animal. Surely, such rich finery would only encumber a horse in the coming battle.
Muhammad sputtered in confusion, “I don’t understand how this is possible. Here comes Prince Juan, but why is he carrying the white flag of peace tied to his spear?”
His voice trailed off as Faraj pointed. “Look behind him. Look at the boy.”
“Bah! A boy, likely his page…” before Muhammad’s voice faltered.
Faraj’s gaze narrowed, trained on the figure behind the prince’s mount.
A small child stumbled across the sand. The warhorse’s momentum dragged him forward. Someone had tied the boy’s hands with rope and attached the length of it around the horse’s neck. With his long arms stretched before him and waves of yellow hair clinging to his brow, the child kept pace. Even the distance could not obscure the wetness clinging to his cheeks or the ugly slice across his face encrusted with congealed blood.
Faraj clutched his throat at the sight of him. The boy could hardly be older than his second son was, a child who bore his grandfather the Sultan’s cherished name.
Faraj cuffed Muhammad’s arm. “What man do you know ties his own page to his horse?”
Prince Juan halted at the midpoint between the encampment and the citadel. He thrust his spear through the thick air. The white flag fluttered on a crisp breeze.
Movement and shouts echoed from the battlements. Soon, a dark-haired figure appeared on the wall in a cuirass of leather scales. His leathery, sunburned complexion drained of all emotion and color. The veins underneath his skin stood out in livid ridges. Bands of perspiration glistened on his forehead. Deep wrinkles gouged lines across his brow beneath a fringe of black hair, which almost covered his eyes.
Then a woman appeared beside him. She laid her slim fingers on his shoulder. Her companion covered her hand with his own. Wind whipped the folds of her sky blue mantle, ripping thick tresses like molten gold from the confines of her hood. She stared in stark silence before she fainted. The man caught her up in his arms