voices drifted from another hall. Not wanting to find out if they belonged to servants or guests, she hurried down the corridor, gesturing for Enrique to follow.
She stopped at a hidden door. Colorful mosaics matched the rest of the wall, concealing this entrance, the same as the one she’d fled through last night. Before she pressed the seam to open the door, she removed two candles from their holders, lit the wicks, and handed the spare to Enrique.
The scant light turned the darkness a dismal brown as they descended a stairway cut into the earth. Here, packed dirt pressed close, smelling dank, cooling the air.
At the bottom of the steps, she pointed. “This way.”
He grabbed her hand, mindful of the linen strips he’d wrapped around her fingers. “Take care not to hurt yourself again.”
His concern was so genuine and unnecessary, she wanted to throw her arms around him, giving her all.
She nodded instead, leading him through a narrow passageway, the oppressive quiet broken by skittering sounds. Mice she had yet to catch. The creatures had served her well in the past, even though Isabella found any vermin appalling.
She’d argued against Sancha using this space for her books, thinking it too grim. Nonsense. The area was perfect, hidden from prying eyes. Even if something happened to her, the volumes would always be safe.
She stopped in a surprisingly large room, guessing the Moor who’d owned this castle had kept prisoners here. Rusted chairs rested on the floor. Bolts studded the walls at intervals sufficiently high to hold a man’s arms above his head, low enough to shackle his feet.
Enrique bypassed those items, stopping at the lone chair and long table, her volumes stacked on top. She had so many the wood was no longer visible beneath her books.
He put his candle in a holder, picked up the first volume, and turned page after page, his handsome features slackening with shock. “This is in Arabic.”
“Some are in Latin. I can read both languages.”
“This volume is on Islamic medicine.”
She put her candle into a holder. “All of them are.”
He stared as if seeing her for the first time with the image not pleasing him. “This is heresy.”
Her spirits fell. Although she hadn’t expected him to understand fully or to grin in delight, she didn’t want him to be so intolerant.
She joined him and stroked her books as she would a beloved child. “This is knowledge.”
He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Sancha, listen to me. What you have here are from Spain’s enemies.”
“No.” She pushed his hands off her. “Physicians penned these books centuries before our birth. How can they threaten you, me, or anyone else in this country?”
“I concede those men pose no menace now. However, their ancestors did and the generations that follow still do.”
“Then hate them, not those who wrote the books. What they discovered is beyond compare and saved Fernando’s life, arm, and leg. When his wounds infected, I learned how to treat them as I had Maria’s in order to save both of them. Not because of Spain’s physicians, the Church, religion, or custom. Because of Zakariya Razi. Rhazes to those who honor him.”
She gestured to the great man’s book. “Reading his work opened my eyes to so many possibilities. Men need not go lame, blind, or die needlessly if someone knows how to treat them. Rhazes’s people established medicine far surpassing what we know. A famous tale relates how he determined where to build a hospital for the community. He had meat hung in various locations around Baghdad. The spot where the carcasses rotted the least was the one he chose, because he knew what caused illness.”
She circled the table and lifted a cage with mice inside. Three fat ones eyed her, noses twitching. “I experiment on these creatures wherever I am, testing what my books claim. Thus far, all holds true. The potions and treatments these men discovered centuries ago help us now. How
She stopped at a hidden door. Colorful mosaics matched the rest of the wall, concealing this entrance, the same as the one she’d fled through last night. Before she pressed the seam to open the door, she removed two candles from their holders, lit the wicks, and handed the spare to Enrique.
The scant light turned the darkness a dismal brown as they descended a stairway cut into the earth. Here, packed dirt pressed close, smelling dank, cooling the air.
At the bottom of the steps, she pointed. “This way.”
He grabbed her hand, mindful of the linen strips he’d wrapped around her fingers. “Take care not to hurt yourself again.”
His concern was so genuine and unnecessary, she wanted to throw her arms around him, giving her all.
She nodded instead, leading him through a narrow passageway, the oppressive quiet broken by skittering sounds. Mice she had yet to catch. The creatures had served her well in the past, even though Isabella found any vermin appalling.
She’d argued against Sancha using this space for her books, thinking it too grim. Nonsense. The area was perfect, hidden from prying eyes. Even if something happened to her, the volumes would always be safe.
She stopped in a surprisingly large room, guessing the Moor who’d owned this castle had kept prisoners here. Rusted chairs rested on the floor. Bolts studded the walls at intervals sufficiently high to hold a man’s arms above his head, low enough to shackle his feet.
Enrique bypassed those items, stopping at the lone chair and long table, her volumes stacked on top. She had so many the wood was no longer visible beneath her books.
He put his candle in a holder, picked up the first volume, and turned page after page, his handsome features slackening with shock. “This is in Arabic.”
“Some are in Latin. I can read both languages.”
“This volume is on Islamic medicine.”
She put her candle into a holder. “All of them are.”
He stared as if seeing her for the first time with the image not pleasing him. “This is heresy.”
Her spirits fell. Although she hadn’t expected him to understand fully or to grin in delight, she didn’t want him to be so intolerant.
She joined him and stroked her books as she would a beloved child. “This is knowledge.”
He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Sancha, listen to me. What you have here are from Spain’s enemies.”
“No.” She pushed his hands off her. “Physicians penned these books centuries before our birth. How can they threaten you, me, or anyone else in this country?”
“I concede those men pose no menace now. However, their ancestors did and the generations that follow still do.”
“Then hate them, not those who wrote the books. What they discovered is beyond compare and saved Fernando’s life, arm, and leg. When his wounds infected, I learned how to treat them as I had Maria’s in order to save both of them. Not because of Spain’s physicians, the Church, religion, or custom. Because of Zakariya Razi. Rhazes to those who honor him.”
She gestured to the great man’s book. “Reading his work opened my eyes to so many possibilities. Men need not go lame, blind, or die needlessly if someone knows how to treat them. Rhazes’s people established medicine far surpassing what we know. A famous tale relates how he determined where to build a hospital for the community. He had meat hung in various locations around Baghdad. The spot where the carcasses rotted the least was the one he chose, because he knew what caused illness.”
She circled the table and lifted a cage with mice inside. Three fat ones eyed her, noses twitching. “I experiment on these creatures wherever I am, testing what my books claim. Thus far, all holds true. The potions and treatments these men discovered centuries ago help us now. How
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