Chapter 7

I stood before my men, though there was no fire to warm them, and I was still caked in mud from earlier today. In that moment, I was no different from them—just another soldier bearing the weight of past tribulations. The exhaustion, the hardships, the uncertainty of what lay ahead—all of it clung to me as it did to them. And yet, as I spoke, I saw their eyes burn with renewed vigor, their fists tightening around the hilts of their shields and spears. Whatever doubts had festered before, my words had doused them in fervor. This battle would be ours. Victory Will be ours. 

As I moved from in front of the army, now rallied before me, I heard someone call my name. I turned my head, and there he was—Ruby, locked in a cage. His gaze was fixed on me, stunned. The fragile captive with a wound in his leg; I suppose he had taken me for a lier. A brilliant, deceptive lier. He had been played, as had every man who had underestimated me. I hesitated for just a moment before striding toward my tent, my command over the camp absolute. As my spymaster followed right behind me. 

Justine!!

I stopped. Remarkably, I heard Ruby amidst the bustling of soldiers and the preparations for war. Our eyes met, and I studied him with the same keen intelligence I wielded like a blade. Then, to my astonishment, I found myself walking toward him, my steps measured, deliberate. Even now I do not know why I chose those steps in that moment in time. I had so many things to worry about, the least I needed to consider was the ramblings of some prisoner.. 

Thoughts of my late betrothed Sir Garfield flew in my head and my wish of seeing him, and his comrade hoisted up and mutilated cross my mind; I most admit. But I knew better, as my father always told me to act from a state of anger is stupidity.

When I stood before him, he lifted his chin, meeting my gaze unflinchingly. "The offer still stands."

My brow arched. "And what offer is that?"

"I will serve you loyally. Justine"

Mind your tongue! This is the Duchess of Saraqustah your addressing, Sir Luke said loudly and proudly.

I took a slow breath, intrigue flickering within me. Then, skepticism. "Why should I trust you? A bandit? I don't even know what you are. Catholic? Jewish? No.No.No you are my enemy... Ruby."

 no.. not Ruby, Rubin my name is Rubin Al Gaziz.

He rolled up his left sleeve, revealing intricate Arabic script inked into his forearm. I let my gaze flicker over the markings, recognition dawning.

"I am no bandit. I am a slave trader… and a spy. I was sent months in advance to gather intelligence on the movements and vulnerabilities of Iberia." His voice was steady, controlled. "I can be quite valuable to you."

My spymaster, a wiry man cloaked in the anonymity of the shadows, leaned close to whisper in my ear. "This man could be of great use to us. The fact that he reveals this now means he's willing to deal honestly."

I tilted my head slightly, responding under my breath, "And how can you be so sure?"

"I know the sacred order to which he belongs," the spymaster replied. "We should hear him out and decide his fate ."

For a long moment, I regarded Rubin, noting the steadiness of his posture, the quiet confidence in his voice. But more than that, I noticed the way my spymaster spoke of him—not just as an asset, but with something else. A hint of something deeper. A familiarity, perhaps admiration.

At last, I straightened, making my decision.

"Wash him down," I commanded. "Dress him properly. I will see him in my tent in one hour." Sir Luke bowing before me, I will see to it my Duchess; guards you heard your Leigh.

With that, I turned on my heel and strode back toward my tent.

Inside, Raymon paced, his frustration manifest in every sharp step. Before I could address him, a woman came from right out of my periphery to hug me a woman I know all too well. 

My word, Justine, you have grown. Come give your aunt Lysa a hug." Lysa, the formidable ruler of the Barony of Barcelona stood before me with the same regal presence she had always carried. Her sharp blue eyes, so like my father's, assessed me with both pride and concern. Her golden hair, streaked with silver from the burdens of leadership, was pinned in an intricate braid, and her attire bore the marks of a long journey. She must have come with Raymond as soon as she heard that my father—her brother—had... 

Lady Lysa embraced me warmly, her grip firm and reassuring. "My word, Justine I always knew Afentis to be quite thorough in the art of war and his studies. I am sure you are no different."

Raymon, still fuming from my earlier speech to the men, scoffed. "It was unseemly. Loud and direct—unlike a woman."

Lysa's sharp blue eyes flicked to him, her voice carrying the same weight of authority as my father once did. "Nonsense. She is Afentis's only daughter after all."

I nodded, assuring her, "My lord father, the late Duke, taught me everything he knew."

I, however, quickly shifted the conversation. "Did you bring reinforcements?"

I exhaled as she shook her head. "Unfortunately, I could not. The entire peninsula is being invaded, and I could not leave my home unprotected."

My jaw tightened. "Then why are you here?"

She hesitated for only a moment before answering, "I came when I heard the news of your father's death. Raymon and I hoped to assist in the leadership—so all hope is not lost."

Despite her words, a thought crept into my mind. Did they come to help or to stake their claim in my father's absence?

They didn't know when I would return after all.

Shoving my suspicions aside, I spoke with measured grace. "Apologies, The road to this camp was arduous, and as you can see, I am in need of refreshment and a bath. We can speak more later."

Lysa and Raymon exchanged a glance before nodding. Without another word, they left my tent, leaving me alone with my maids to do their work.

Lysa left the tent first and just before Raymon fully exited he turned.

"You can't be serious Justine. You're leading the army into battle? I can do that for you."

I met his glare, unyielding. "You've done enough, I said.

You roused the men; you played your part."Raymon protested. "You are a woman! You belong in command, yes, but not on the field."

"My lord father raised me no differently than my brother," I said coolly. "I know battle plans. Strategy. Tactics. The men need me there."

Raymon's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head. "This is madness."

My expression hardened. "You will stay with me and hold you tongue. That is my command. If you wish to serve, you will do so as my bodyguard."

The words struck him like a slap. Raymond's face darkened, but this time, he said nothing. Instead, he remembered his place bowed and exited the tent into the night.

I exhaled slowly, but there was no time to dwell on his bruised pride. An hour passed swiftly. With the aid of my maids, I was washed and clad in an attire befitting my status—military garb, finely tailored yet practical; the improvision of my tailor. My red hair caked in mud was cleaned and brushed the sheen of its beauty was finally there under my Brooding demeanor and armor.. By the time Rubin was brought before me, he too had been cleaned, dressed in garments neither lavish nor lowly; dress like the rest of my men. 

He knelt before me as I stepped around the table, scrutinizing him in silence; guards position on either side of him, his chained to a pole. while Sir Luke came walking in soon after.

At last, I spoke. "You say you are valuable to me."

His dark eyes met mine. "Yes."

I studied him, weighing his words, his presence. I asked, "Then prove it."

Ruben rose to his feet, still uncomfortably chained to a pole. He gestured to the table with his chin, where a map of the entire Mediterranean lay spread out. Justine, seeing his intent, gestured to the guards with a halting motion of her hand, allowing him to proceed by releasing his chains.

He approached the map with me just on the other side of the table watching him point out locations as he spoke.

"The Caliph Al-Walid has sent 18,000 troops on horseback to seize all of Spain."

Sir Luke frowned, arms crossed over his chest. "Our reports say only 15,000."

Ruben shook his head, unwavering. "It is 18,000, and it will only be 18,000. The Caliph is bogged down in Egypt, waging war against a rebellion with 68,000 men. He cannot afford to send more, not yet. But make no mistake—this is a calculated strike. He does not wish to halt his Jihad, so he has entrusted one of his finest generals with this campaign." Ruben's gaze swept across the room, landing on my own. "A man named Tariq ibn Ziyad."

"What is this Jihad you speak of?" I asked.

"Allah has charged our mighty Caliph with the conquering of the Iberian Peninsula. To that end, Al-Walid has invoked a holy war."

An uneasiness came across me and everyone else in the room, excluding Ruben.

"He is an honorable man," Ruben continued, "devout, a scholar of Islamic scripture. But do not mistake his piety for weakness. He is ruthless when it comes to battle."

Justine, seated at the head of the table, leaned forward, her brow furrowed. "Why send only cavalry?" she asked.

"The Caliph has been infiltrating Spain for years," Ruben explained. "He knows of your greatest weakness—your shortage of horses. That is why he has chosen to deploy an entirely mounted force. With speed, they will strike where you are most vulnerable. They seek to cripple your defenses and burn your keeps to the ground. And if these 18,000 men cannot conquer you, rest assured, the other 68,000 will follow."

A heavy silence settled over the tent.

Luke exhaled sharply. "This is dire news indeed."

Justine met Ruben's gaze, her voice steady. "How does this help me?"

"The Caliph has sent one of his best generals, a man named Tariq ibn Ziyad."

"If you can force a truce with General Ziyad, he will honor it," Ruben answered. "He is not a man to break his word. That would buy you time—to strengthen your defenses, to forge alliances. But first, you must defeat him. That will not be easy."

She considered his words carefully. "And if we destroy his army outright?"

Ruben hesitated before responding. "That would not be in your best interest. The Caliph will not take kindly to the loss of one of his most trusted generals. Retaliation would be swift and merciless. No, you must aim for a white peace—a truce that leaves both sides intact."

Justine looked at her spymaster's face, and Sir Luke nodded in agreement. Ruben continued,

"The cavalry force will arrive by tomorrow at the latest. At best, you have two days to prepare, but more likely a day and a half. This fortified encampment gives you an advantage, but General Ziyad is well aware of your father's strategies."

Justine's fingers curled into fists. "Does he know of my father's death?"

Ruben hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I cannot say for certain. If he did, he would have doubled his pace to take advantage of the upheaval. That knowledge may yet work in our favor."

In that moment, a guard burst into the tent, breathless, a piece of parchment clenched in his hand. He rushed forward, presenting it to Sir Luke, who took it swiftly and unfolded the message. His eyes scanned the words, his expression darkening with each passing second.

Sir Luke turned to Justine, his voice firm. "My duchess, he speaks the truth. This report speaks of a large horse army heading this way; they should be here in a day. We must act."

Justine fell into the chair behind her and sat back, lost in thought, weighing the fate of her men against the brutal reality of war.

"We must prepare ourselves."