Little Rendezvous

“Vamos, vamos! La jota todos!” Queen Ines gleefully announced as the court minstrels began to play their instruments.

Everyone joined and danced to their hearts' content. Every twirl of the ladies was like those santilmos of the forest. As all faces are adorned in masks, their smiles went beyond cloud nine, spreading a favorable aura throughout the ballroom. The Moors, too, went along with the lively jig, having to find a hospitable dance partner.

They went clapping, twirling, and cackling as the baile continued. However, Princess Primarosa could only sham a cheeky grin at her betrothed while he lowly whispered to her unfavorable compliments, “Well, my sweetheart, when you become my wife—it will be a bonanza worth parading and for sure will make other females bow down to you.”

How the princess deeply loathed him. Oh, how she longed to tell her papa not to pursue the alliance, but she felt trapped. Her thoughts lingered in a haze without noticing that she was now dancing with someone new—a very complete stranger. Well, in reality, it was only the eavesdropping Moor prince.

“What was with those deep thoughts, señorita?”

“Huh?” Short-lived her daydreaming minute when an unfamiliar person conveyed. “Sorry, señor. I—nothing.” She stuttered.

“I see. I would like to extend my good wishes to you, señorita, for your natal day and most especially to your engagement.” The masked Azlan said.

“Muchas gracias.” Primarosa replied.

Looking closer at her face, there was a downhearted look painted on those features. But behind those feelings of blue, the Christian princess was truly a beauty. An angel on earth, dubbed by some—the epitome of Venus. With hair of fiery gold like the afternoon heavens, skin white like the ivory statues with hints of blush signifying life, and her concealed dreamy soul. And there were her lips, plumping in red as it matches those eyes of hers which certainly could make anyone lose its quintessence of life. Those lilac hues—those Alexandrian romances which he thought only belonged to those buried fables.

Even if they wanted to, their feet could not find pause as they danced. While the music went on–beating as if Bacchus had arrived from Olympus–the laughter, the cheers, and every click-clack of the shoes became a dreadful noise to Princess Primarosa. Her soft palms had gone sweaty, her eyes became shadowy, and her dear heart could not stop pounding strangely. Cool air also became a bit in recession at that second.

“Excuse me señor.” She dozily told him, clearly struggling to catch some breath.

To the garden the princess went, a haven in times of struggle. Tears promptly rolled down her cheeks, her mind slowly losing sight of reality—light and dark fought profusely while she sat on a little bench to at least have her lungs take those sweet fresh air. It was supposed to be a happy night, yet tongues only curled because of the engagement her papa imparted–the betrothal she dreaded and pleaded not to happen.

Duke Gervasio was indeed a handsome fellow. Admired and no doubt everyone’s favor, but behind those smoldering and charming words he uttered, it was a very ambitious and cold man that Primarosa saw. Even recalling murmurs of him being a rake with the troubles and the scandals, shadowed by those blessed features. Somehow, despite her begging not to be married to him, King Joaquin only sees what he saw in the duke—a noble one, the perfect fit for his daughter. The night when he called her and told her that he had already made up his decision on the engagement—was the night her heart sank. She tried hard to object, but the king refused such an order and only saw the princess’ action as disrespectful and spiteful. He reprimanded her. Hurtful words that cut deep were said, and the damsel in distress did not leap to say more to her papa. If dreams exist, so thus nightmares… And hers was coming to alight in becoming the prideful Gervasio’s bride

“Oh, why must I marry him?” The poor princess cried.

“Dry those eyes, señorita.” Prince Azlan softly offered, as well as handling his

Pañuelo.

Primarosa was flabbergasted to see him. The Moor prince almost laughed when he saw her adorable surprised look. Remembering the disguise he was in, he then composed himself. “I… I did not mean to follow you. It is just that you seem so lonely. I hope you are alright.” He excused.

The princess paused, looking at him with more surprise. The crimson hue slowly appeared on her cheeks since it was the first time a stranger dared to ask her how she felt. Not like a soldier on guard duty, yet truly how charming it was of him to have a sincere concern for her. Strangers never usually blurt out some good compliments. Most of the time, it is only to move away from the fiddly apprehension.

“No worries señor. I… Well, thank you for your concern.” She said as she offered him a seat beside her—which he accepted. “I do not mean to pry, my dear gentleman, but you are still a stranger to me. May I know how is señor to be addressed?”

“No!” Azlan snapped, alarmed by her question.

The princess felt guilty, thinking that she had offended him. Awkwardly, she implored him for forgiveness and let silence aid her in her inconvenience.

Yet guilt did not only blanket her. Azlan also felt the same culpable feeling as he cautiously gazed at her. To compromise, the prince took off his mask and collectedly introduced himself with a false moniker. “Do not fret, dear señorita. I am called Jorge.”

“Jorge…” Familiarizing little note and tone as she repeated his name. “Please to meet you, Jorge!” Gladly beaming a smile at him.

The two then went on conversing throughout the night. Azlan was learning more about the princess, especially what she loves and why she loves it. A jewel-like as what he thought. But not one word was outdated about the hearsay of their attack. Carefully trying to purge a little information from her—Primarosa only shared with him more about her dreams and her love for music and gardening.

Oh, how he loved to listen to more of her tales and her little giggles whenever he said something quite silly, yet his mind reminded him of the pledge he vowed to avenge his father. Even so, like every other zealous gentleman that flushed whenever an eligible maiden expressed some tenderness at them, for sure one’s motivation hazed in fervent pleasure. A toast of pity for Princess Primarosa, knowing well that he is a man of the opposite end who wanted her father gone—the thought panged Prince Azlan.

Forbidding to be deeply haunted by that thought, he shook off the loads in his head and pushed to pursue what needed to be done.

The night had already deepened as stars twinkled in haste. The Moor prince did not get what he needed but only knew, somehow, of the loveliest things. Who could have thought that among the ruthless adversaries he had fought, there rose a delicate sweetheart?

After their walk, the princess and the prince paused inside the garden’s pavilion. Primarosa continued to talk and talk, sharing with him some of the stories her grandparents used to tell her and her sisters. As her head spun in her colorful world, she did not realize that Azlan’s attention was already enthralled by her cheeky smile—muddling everything around him. He was already losing on his track–a weakling once becoming Eros’ victim.

His eyes lingered on hers with every feature pinned to his mind. Those eyes, face, and all that was there were stuck deep in his thoughts. That scent of sweet roses she had may now be a beguiling nuisance, perhaps to visit him with rapture on its hands. Cursed to her and her beauty, for the stouthearted man of hours before now struggling to keep one’s knees as inch by inch their distance was closing.

“Get away now, Azlan!” He silently bawled. Yet when crickets made a presence and, hearing his men approaching with their concerns and worries ringing on the little scene. In leaps and bounds, he gave in and planted a kiss in her cherry-tinted mouth.

Astounded and jumbled, Primarosa could not even comprehend for a moment what happened. “Dios mio!” Her mind could only tell.

“Meet me tomorrow, outside the gates, in the meadows where a lone algarroba tree stood. I want to see you again when the clock strikes noon.” Azlan told her as he kissed her again and left, only to see her numb as she waved goodbye. He could not believe what he had done. What a fool he was to have kissed someone he should have scorned and made to bend on one’s knees for pity—a namby-pamby he had become.