Ferdinand had gone into Alhama with members of the Church and there had taken place a ceremony of purification. The mosques were turned into Christian churches, and bells, altar-cloths and such articles which were so much a part of the Christian Church were pouring into the town.

There was great rejoicing throughout Castile; there was great wailing throughout Granada.

‘What treatment must we expect at the hands of these Christians?’ the Moors asked themselves; for when they had ridden to the defence of Alhama they had found the bodies of the conquered Moors of that town, lying outside the walls, where they had been thrown by the conquerors; and those bodies lay rotting and naked, half devoured by vultures and hungry dogs.

‘Is there to be no decent burial for an honourable enemy?’ demanded the Moors.

The Christian answer was: ‘But these are Infidels. What should honourable burial mean to them?’

Furious with rage and humiliation, the Moors had again gone savagely to the attack, but by this time more Christian troops had appeared, and their efforts were futile.

Thus the victory of Alhama was complete, and Moors as well as Christians believed that this might well be a turning point in the centuries-long war.

To the church of Santa Maria de la Encarnacion Isabella sent an altar-cloth which she herself had embroidered; and she announced her regret that she could not go barefoot in person to give thanks for this victory. She dared not risk danger to her child, even in such a cause.

June had come and Isabella lay in childbed.

Beatriz de Bobadilla had come to be with her at this time. ‘For,’ said Beatriz, ‘I trust no other to care for you.’

Isabella could always smile at her forthright friend, and only to Beatriz could she speak of her innermost thoughts.

‘I long to be up and active again,’ she told Beatriz; ‘there is so much of importance to be done.’

‘You are a woman, not a soldier,’ grumbled Beatriz.

‘A queen must often be both.’

‘Kings are fortunate,’ said Beatriz. ‘They may give themselves to the governing of their kingdom. A queen must bear children while she performs the same tasks as a king.’

‘But I have Ferdinand to help me,’ Isabella reminded her. ‘He is always there . . . ready to take over my duties when I am indisposed.’

‘When this one is born you will have four,’ said Beatriz. ‘Perhaps that is enough to ensure the succession.’

‘I would I had another boy. I feel there should be more boys. Ferdinand wishes for boys.’

‘The conceit of the male!’ snorted Beatriz. ‘Our present Queen shows us that women make as good rulers as men – nay, better.’

‘Yet I think the people feel happier under a king.’

‘Clearly they do not, since they will not have the Salic law here.’

‘Never mind, Beatriz. The next ruler of Castile and Aragon – and perhaps all Spain – will be my Juan.’

‘That,’ answered Beatriz, ‘is years away.’

‘Beatrix . . .’ Isabella spoke quietly. ‘Have you noticed anything . . . unusual about my little Juana?’

‘She’s a lively little baggage. That’s what I have noticed.’

‘Nothing more, Beatriz?’

Beatriz looked puzzled. ‘What should I have noticed, Highness?’

‘A certain wildness . . . a tendency to be hysterical.’

‘A spirited little girl with a brother who is a year older, and a sister who is several years older! She would need to be spirited, I think. I should say she is exhibiting normal tendencies.’

‘Beatriz . . . are you telling me the truth?’

Beatriz threw herself onto her knees beside her mistress. ‘Pregnant women are notorious for their fancies,’ she said. ‘I am learning that queens are no exception.’

‘You are my comforter, Beatriz.’

Beatriz kissed her hand. ‘Always at your service . . . ready to die there,’ she answered brusquely.

‘Let us not talk of death, but of birth. I do not think it will be long now. Pray for a boy, please, Beatriz. That would delight Ferdinand. We have two girls and but one boy. Families such as ours grow nervous. Our children must be more than children; and they do not belong entirely to us but to the state. So . . . pray for a boy.’

‘I will,’ said Beatriz fervently.

A few days later, Isabella’s fourth child was born. It was a girl: Maria.

In a convent in the town of Seville a young woman was on her knees in her cell. She listened to the tolling bells and thought: I shall go mad if I stay here.

There was no way of forgetting in this quiet place. Every time she heard the bells, she thought of a grim procession passing through the streets; she could hear the voice of the preacher in the Cathedral; she could see, among the yellow-clad figures, the face of one whom she had loved and betrayed, she could smell the hideous odour which she had smelt for the first time in the meadows of Tablada.

Assuredly, she told herself a thousand times, I shall go mad if I stay here.

But where should she go? There was nowhere. The house which had been her father’s had been confiscated. All that he had possessed had passed into the hands of the Inquisition; they had taken his goods when they had taken his life; and they had taken his daughter’s peace of mind.

If she had her child . . . But what could a nun in a convent do with a child? She had lost her child. She had lost her father; she was losing her freedom.

How can I forget? she asked herself. Perhaps there was a way. She thought of fine glittering garments to replace the coarse serge of the nun’s habit. She thought of a soft bed shared with a lover, to take the place of a hard pallet in a cell.

Perhaps in a life of gaiety she could forget her un-happiness.

I must escape, she told herself, for I shall go mad if I stay here.

She was passing out of her novitiate. Soon she must take the veil, and that would be the end of her hopes. Her days would be passed in silent solitude. A nun’s life for la hermosa hembra, a life of solitude for one who had been the most beautiful woman in Seville?

She ran her hand through her short curls. They would grow again in all their beauty. But she must act quickly, before it was too late.

It was dusk as she slipped out of the convent.

On an errand of mercy, it was believed. They did not know her secret thoughts.

And when she was outside those grey walls she made her way to her father’s house.

It was a foolish thing to do. There was no one belonging to him there.

She stood looking at the house and, as she looked, a man passed by. He stared at her. Her hood had fallen back, showing her short, glistening curls; and her face was no less beautiful than it had been in the days when she had sat on her father’s balcony and fanned herself.

‘Forgive me,’ said the man. His voice and manner told her he was of the nobility. ‘You are in distress?’

‘I have escaped from a convent,’ she told him. ‘I have nowhere to go.’

‘But why did you escape? Do you mean you have simply walked out and decided not to go back again?’

‘I escaped because the life of a nun is not the life for me.’

Then he looked at her face, at the slumbrous dark eyes, at the sensual lips.

He said: ‘You are very beautiful.’

‘It is long since I was told so,’ she answered.

‘If you come with me I will give you shelter,’ he told her. ‘Then you can tell me your story and make your plans. Will you come?’

She hesitated for a moment. His eyes, though courteous, were bold. She knew she was taking a step along a certain path. She must make up her mind now whether she would continue on that road to which he was beckoning her.

Her hesitation was brief.

It was for this that she had left her convent. This man pleased her; and he was offering to be her protector.