Isabella looked back into the tent, where Ferdinand, worn out with his recent exertions, was fast asleep.

‘The King is asleep,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to waken him.

He was quite exhausted. This man’s story can wait. Take him into the next tent. There let him remain until the King awakes, when I will immediately tell him what has happened.’

She indicated the tent next to her own, in which Beatriz de Bobadilla sat with Don Alvaro, a Portuguese nobleman, and son of the Duke of Braganza, who had joined the Holy War, as so many foreigners had, since they looked upon it as a crusade.

They were discussing the siege and, when Beatriz heard the Queen’s words, she went to Isabella.

‘I wish this man to be detained until the King awakes,’ said Isabella. ‘He says that he has news for us.’

‘We will detain him until it is your pleasure to receive him,’ said Beatriz; and when the guards, after having brought the Moor to her tent, stationed themselves outside, she continued her conversation with the Duke.

The Moor watched them. She was a very handsome woman and far more magnificently dressed than Isabella had been. He had glimpsed the sleeping Ferdinand, his doublet lying beside his pallet, and he had not thought for one moment that this could be the great King of whom he had heard so much.

But here was a courtly man in garments of scarlet and gold; and here was a lady, queenly in her bearing, with jewels at her throat and on her hands, her gown stiff with silken embroidery.

The Moor remained motionless, watching them slyly as they continued to talk together as though he were not there. He believed they were discussing how they would treat him, what questions they would ask.

He began to make soft moaning noises, and when they looked at him he gazed towards a jar of water with pleading eyes.

‘The man is thirsty,’ said Beatriz. ‘Let us give him a draught of water.’

The Duke poured water into a cup and handed it to the Moor, who drank it eagerly. As the Duke turned away, to put the cup by the jar, the Moor knew that the moment he had been waiting for had come.

He knew that death would doubtless be his reward, but he did not care. This day he was going to perform a deed which would make his name glorious in Arab history for evermore. There were two whose names struck terror into every citizen within the walls of Malaga – and of Granada also: Ferdinand, the great soldier, Isabella, the dedicated Queen.

He slipped his hand beneath his albornoz and his fingers closed round the dagger which he had secreted there.

The man should be first because, when he was dead, it would be easy to deal with the woman. He lifted the dagger as he sprang, and in a few seconds Don Alvaro, bleeding profusely from the head, sank to the floor. Beatriz screamed for help as the Moor then turned to her. Again he lifted the dagger, but Beatrix’s arm shot up and the blow he struck at her breast was diverted.

‘Help!’ Beatriz shouted. ‘We are being murdered.’

Again the Moor lifted the dagger, but Beatriz was ready for him. She slipped aside and the blow glanced off the encrusted embroidery of her gown. She was calling for help at the top of her voice. There was an answering shout and the guards entered the tent.

Again the Moor sought to strike at the woman whom he believed to be Isabella. But he was too late. He was caught by the guards, who seized him and dragged him from the tent.

Beatriz followed them shouting: ‘Send help at once. Don Alvaro has been badly wounded.’

Then she turned back and knelt by the wounded man seeking to stem his bleeding.

Isabella came into the tent.

‘Beatriz, what is this?’ she asked; and she gasped with horror as she looked at the wounded man.

‘He is not dead,’ said Beatriz. ‘With God’s help we shall save him. It was the Moor, who said he had news for you.’

‘And I sent him to your tent!’

‘Thank God you did.’

Ferdinand had now appeared in the tent; he was pulling on his doublet as he came.

‘An attempt, Highness,’ said Beatriz, ‘on the life of the Queen and yourself.’

Ferdinand stared down at the wounded man.

‘You see,’ said Beatriz later, ‘you are in danger here, Highness. You should not be in camp. It is no place for you.’

‘It is the only place for me,’ answered Isabella.

‘That might have been the end of your lives. If you had taken that man into your tent he could have killed the King while he slept.’

‘And what should I have been doing to allow that?’ asked Isabella with a smile. ‘Do you not think that I should have given as good an account of myself as you did?’

‘I was fortunate. I am wearing this dress. I think his knife would have pierced me but for the heavy embroidery. You, Highness, are less vain of your personal appearance than I am. The knife might have penetrated your gown.’

‘God would have watched over me,’ said Isabella.

‘But, Highness, will you not consider the danger, and return to safety?’

‘Not long ago,’ said Isabella, ‘the King was reproved by his soldiers because he took great risks in battle and endangered his life. He told them he could not stop to consider the risk to himself while his subjects were putting their lives in peril for his cause, which was a holy one. That is the answer I make to you now, Beatriz.’

Beatriz shivered. ‘I shall never cease to thank God that you sent that murderer into my tent.’

Isabella smiled at her friend and, taking her hand, pressed it affectionately.

‘We must take care of the Infanta,’ she said. ‘We must remember the dangers all about us.’

All over the camp there was talk of the miraculous escape of the King and Queen, and the incident did much to lift the spirits of the soldiers. They believed that Divine power was guarding their Sovereigns, and this, they told themselves, was because the war they were prosecuting was a Holy War.

The Moor had been done to violent death by those guards who had dragged him from the tent, and there were cheers of derision as his mutilated body was taken to the cannon.

A great shout went up as the corpse was propelled by catapult over the walls and into the city.

Inside the city, faces were grim. Hunger was the lot of everyone and the once prosperous city was desolate.

From the mosques came the chant of voices appealing to Allah, but despair was apparent in those chants.

Some cursed Boabdil, who had been the friend of the Christians; some murmured against El Zagal, the valiant one, who waged war on Boabdil and the Christians. Some whispered that peace should be the aim of their leaders . . . peace for which they would be prepared to pay a price. Others shouted: ‘Death to the Christians! No surrender!’

And as they lifted the mangled remains of the intrepid Moor, an angry murmur arose.

One of their Christian prisoners was brought out. They slew him most cruelly; they tied his mutilated body astride a mule, which they drove out from Malaga into the Christian camp.

Inside the city the heat was intense. There was little to eat now. There were few dogs and cats left; they had long ago eaten their horses. They existed on vine leaves; they were emaciated, and in the streets men and women were dying of exhaustion or unspecified diseases. And outside the walls of the city the Christians still waited.

Several of the town’s important men formed themselves into a band and presented themselves before Hamet Zeli.

‘We cannot much longer endure this suffering,’ they told him.

He shook his head. ‘In time, help will come to us.’

‘When it comes, Hamet Zeli, it will be too late.’