Excerpt from The Constant Princess by Philippa Gregory, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Well, He hasn't," Juana said smartly. "Allah has deserted the Alhambra, and Isabella has arrived. And if you Moors knew Isabella like we do, you would know that the greatest power is coming in and the lesser power going out."

"God save the queen," Madilla replied quickly. "I know Queen Isabella well enough."

As she spoke, the great doors before them, black wood studded with black nails, swung open on their black hammered hinges, and with another blast of trumpets the king and queen strode into the inner courtyard.

Like dancers rehearsed till they were step perfect, the Spanish guard peeled off to right and left inside the town walls, checking that the place was safe and no despairing soldiers were preparing a last ambush. The great fort of the Alcazaba, built like the prow of a ship jutting out over the plain of Granada, was to their left, and the men poured into it, running across the parade square, ringing the walls, running up and down the towers. Finally, Isabella the queen looked up to the sky, shaded her eyes with her hand clinking with Moorish gold bracelets, and laughed aloud to see the sacred banner of St. James and the silver cross of the crusade flying where the crescent had been.

Then she turned to see the domestic servants of the palace slowly approaching, their heads bowed. They were led by the grand vizier, his height emphasized by his flowing robes, his piercing black eyes meeting hers, scanning King Ferdinand at her side and the royal family behind them: the prince, and the four princesses. The king and the prince were dressed as richly as sultans, wearing rich, embroidered tunics over their trousers; the queen and the princesses were wearing the traditional kamiz tunics made from the finest silks, over white linen trousers, with veils falling from their heads held back by fillets of gold.

"Your Royal Highnesses, it is my honor and duty to welcome you to the Alhambra Palace," the grand vizier said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to hand over the most beautiful palace in Christendom to armed invaders.

The queen and her husband exchanged one brief glance. "You can take us in," she said.

The grand vizier bowed and led the way. The queen glanced back at her children. "Come along, girls," she said and went ahead of them, through the gardens surrounding the palace, down some steps, and into the discreet doorway.

"This is the main entrance?" She hesitated before the small door set in the unmarked wall.

The man bowed. "Your Highness, it is."

Isabella said nothing, but Catalina saw her raise her eyebrows as if she did not think much of it, and then they all went inside.
 

But the little doorway is like a keyhole to a treasure chest of boxes, the one opening out from another. The man leads us through them like a slave opening doors to a treasury. Their very names are a poem: the Golden Chamber, the Courtyard of the Myrtles, the Hall of the Ambassadors, the Courtyard of the Lions, or the Hall of the Two Sisters. It will take us weeks to find our way from one exquisitely tiled room to another. It will take us months to stop marveling at the pleasure of the sound of water running down the marble gulleys in the rooms, flowing to a white marble fountain that always spills over with the cleanest, freshest water of the mountains. And I will never tire of looking through the white stucco tracery to the view of the plain beyond, the mountains, the blue sky and golden hills. Every window is like a frame for a picture: they are designed to make you stop, look, and marvel. Every window frame is like whitework embroidery -- the stucco is so fine, so delicate, it is like sugar work by confectioners, not like anything real.