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

"I shall pray," Isabella said. "And my champion Garallosco de la Vega will answer Yarfe for Hernando."

As calmly as if she were in her own chapel at Córdoba, Isabella kneeled on the roof of the little house and gestured that her daughters should do the same. Sulkily, Catalina's older sister, Juana, dropped to her knees, the princesses Isabel and María, her other two older sisters, followed suit. Catalina saw, peeping through her clasped hands as she kneeled in prayer, that María was shaking with fear and that Isabel, in her widow's gown, was white with terror.

"Heavenly Father, we pray for the safety of ourselves, of our cause, and of our army." Queen Isabella looked up at the brilliantly blue sky. "We pray for the victory of Your champion, Garallosco de la Vega, at this time of his trial."

"Amen," the girls said promptly, and then followed the direction of their mother's gaze to where the ranks of the Spanish guard were drawn up, watchful and silent.

"If God is protecting him -- " Catalina started.

"Silence," her mother said gently. "Let him do his work, let God do His, and let me do mine." She closed her eyes in prayer.

Catalina turned to her eldest sister and pulled at her sleeve. "Isabel, if God is protecting him, then how can he be in danger?"

Isabel looked down at her little sister. "God does not make the way smooth for those He loves," she said in a harsh whisper. "He sends hardships to try them. Those that God loves the best are those who suffer the worst. I know that. I, who lost the only man that I will ever love. You know that. Think about Job, Catalina."

"Then how shall we win?" the little girl demanded. "Since God loves Madre, won't He send her the worst hardships? And so how shall we ever win?"

"Hush," their mother said. "Watch. Watch and pray with faith."

Their small guard and the Moorish raiding party were drawn up opposite each other, ready for battle. Then Yarfe rode forwards on his great black charger. Something white bobbed at the ground, tied to the horse's glossy black tail. There was a gasp as the soldiers in the front rank recognized what he had. It was the Ave Maria that Hernando had left speared to the floor of the mosque. The Moor had tied it to the tail of his horse as a calculated insult, and now rode the great creature forwards and back before the Christian ranks and smiled when he heard their roar of rage.

"Heretic," Queen Isabella whispered. "A man damned to hell. God strike him dead and scourge his sin."

The queen's champion, de la Vega, turned his horse and rode towards the little house where the royal guards ringed the courtyard, the tiny olive tree, the doorway. He pulled up his horse beside the olive tree and doffed his helmet, looking up at his queen and the princesses on the roof. His dark hair was curly and sparkling with sweat from the heat, his dark eyes sparkled with anger. "Your Grace, do I have your leave to answer his challenge?"

"Yes," the queen said, never shrinking for a moment. "Go with God, Garallosco de la Vega."

"That big man will kill him," Catalina said, pulling at her mother's long sleeve. "Tell him he must not go. Yarfe is so much bigger. He will murder de la Vega!"

Copyright © 2005 by Philippa Gregory Limited. Reproduced by permission of Simon & Schuster Publishing.