Welcoming my 24th book baby – Queen of Shadows is here!

There are benefits to ushering book babies into the world vs real babies – like it doesn’t hurt quite as much. The labour behind a book baby is, however, in many ways as significant as that behind delivering a child. Hours and hours of research; days, weeks, months writing and honing your text; moments when you realise those three last chapters are utter crap and delete them, only to regret it more or less immediately . . . Both events—book and baby—are accompanied by euphoria, albeit that NOTHING compares to the feeling of looking into the eyes of your newborn and drown in waves of fierce, protective love.

I love my book babies as well—or rather, I love my characters. I can often become quite annoyed with them, especially when they bluntly refuse to follow my original plotline because “I would never do that!” It’s strange, just how quickly characters grow into complex creatures with quirks and qualities—and sometimes totally different to what I initially wanted them to be.

Today, my Queen of Shadows sees the light. (Ha!) In actual fact, I would say that the theme of shadows and light is central to this story of a medieval king, his wife and his mistress. That a medieval king had mistresses was no biggie. That he so openly preferred his mistress, brought her out into the light of day rather than keeping her in the shadows, was very unusual. Especially as he (bar mandatory visits to sire a legitimate heir) remained faithful to her, his lover.

Queen of Shadows is based on what little we know of the true story of Alfonso XI, Maria of Portugal and Leonor de Guzmán. But the central characters are, as always, my creations.

I first met my Alma as she stood hovering in the background as her mother acted the midwife at a birth. A tall, slender girl with eyes the colour of amber and an olive tone to her skin that hinted at Moorish ancestry. “Perfect!” I thought. A girl who listens more than speaks, who excels at sinking into the background—imagine just how much she would see and hear, especially once she joined Leonor’s household.

Rodrigo de Altamar y Hierro bounced into my head, accompanied by his father, Alonso, whom I immediately recognised because of his beak of a nose. I peered closer at Rodrigo: yup, the same nose.
“Well, well, well,” I said to Alonso d’Outremer, “how did you end up in Castile?”
He grinned, explained that he saw little future in England and instead rode south to capitalise on his mother’s royal connections. (His mother is the female protagonist in The Castilian Saga) Given his ancestry, I was predisposed to like Rodrigo, this (very) young man who grows into himself as the story spins along. He screws up majorly at one point, but all of us do that, right?

One of the things I really enjoyed when writing Queen of Shadows was to submerge myself in Andalucian heat and light, in buildings of golden stone, in whitewashed walls and shadowed patios. I hope my love for this part of the world comes through in my writing!

Below, an excerpt from Queen of Shadows – I give you Leonor and Alfonso, on the eve they first met.

***

Leonor closed her eyes, recalling that day with perfect clarity. She’d been seventeen, recently widowed. Not that she was overly distraught over Juan’s death. He’d been an adequate husband, but there had never been anything beyond respect between them. Their marital bed had been one of duty, not lust, with her spreading her legs, him fiddling with himself before mounting her.

So it was not as a mourning widow she arrived at her sister’s home that long gone September day, but rather as a woman who, for the first time in her life, had an element of freedom. She was rich and, as a widow, entitled to a say in her future.

She recalled dressing with care—it irked her that while her parents had arranged a good enough marriage for her, they’d negotiated an excellent marriage for Juana, her younger sister. Not for her a mere, if rich, adelantado. No, Juana had been wed to Enrique Enriquez, grandson of the great Infante Enrique the Senator, and a close relative to their young king. Where her Juan had been stiff and formal—and far too old—Enrique was charming and handsome, as comfortable leading his lady wife through the complex turns of an estampida or a carol on the dance floor as accompanying his royal cousin on a hunt.

“I was jealous,” she murmured to her son. “So, so jealous.” Sancho opened an eye at the sound of her voice before going back to the arduous task of nursing.

Enrique Enriquez always offered splendid entertainment. While his primary residence was elsewhere, he kept an elegant home in Sevilla, close enough to the alcázar to be on hand should the king require his services. That particular day, Leonor had been rowed up the Guadalquivir from her own residence, walking the last stretch accompanied by four of her guards and a maidservant. It had been uncomfortably warm for the season, and the dark red skirts she’d chosen to wear might have been magnificent but were far too hot, the fine wool dampening with the humidity.

It had been dusk when she arrived.

From inside came the sounds of voices, laughter and music, and no one noticed when she entered. On the gallery above, musicians played one lively tune after the other, while an entire troupe of acrobats entertained the guests with daredevil jumps and tumbles. People were standing in small groups, wine flowed freely and servants moved about, offering the guests all sorts of delicacies.

Leonor shook her head at the offered miniature skewers and found herself a corner. For the first time since Juan died, she felt his absence—not because she missed him, but because his presence would have commanded attention. Instead, here she was, invisible to everyone, even her own sister, who was hanging on to her husband’s arm and laughing at whatever it was he was saying.

She chose to slip outside into the garden. It was testament to Enrique’s wealth that his house not only had a large traditional patio, complete with a lion spouting water in the Moorish style, but also, beyond the building forming the fourth side round the patio, an extensive decorative garden. Leonor dismissed her maid with a wave of her hand. “I want to be alone.”

The evening darkened, but small lanterns glowed here and there among the greenery, and over by the wall stood a huge peach tree, full with blushing golden fruit. Leonor sauntered over and stood on her toes to pick one. She bit into it, and it was so perfectly ripe, sweet, sticky juice coating her fingers, running down her wrist.

“Ahhh.” She closed her eyes and took another bite, licking her lips clean of all that sweetness. Delicious. One more bite, another. She finished the peach and was just about to lob the pit over the wall when she heard the swishing sound of approaching footsteps.

A man. He came closer, and the light from one of Enrique’s many lanterns gilded him. Leonor froze. By every saint, was he lovely! He moved closer, and the angel converted into a man she’d seen before—but only at a distance.

“My king.” She inclined her head.

“Leonor, is it not?” King Alfonso was close enough to touch. He was not a particularly tall man, but she was a short woman—short and round, her mother always said—so she had to tip her head back to see his face.

“It is, my lord.”

“Alfonso,” he said, flashing her a smile that made him look more like a boy than a man. Come to think of it, he was a boy, her age. He extended his hand. She stiffened, all too aware of how sticky her fingers were. Had he not come, she’d have lifted her skirts and wiped her hand clean on her linen shift, but that was impossible now.

“Was it a good peach?” he murmured, taking hold of her wrist. His thumb stroked her skin, and her pulse leapt.

“It was,” she managed.

“It looked good,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I think I must check how sweet it was.”

“Do you want me to pick you one?” she asked, seeing as she was standing closest to the tree.

“No.” He lifted her hand, and to her shock, he sucked one of her fingers into his mouth. “Mmm,” he said, and heat coiled in Leonor’s belly. He sucked the next finger, and the heat converted into a throbbing ache.

Holy Mother! She had to bite back a moan when he cleaned off her middle finger, his gaze never leaving hers. This is how it is supposed to feel, she thought, shivering despite burning up from within.

“Almost done,” he said when he’d finished with her fingers. And then that soft, generous mouth came down on hers, and God help her, but she leaned into him, tasting him as thoroughly as he was tasting her.

***

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