Reluctantly he turned, and immersed himself once more in the affairs of men.

A procession was approaching, advancing along the broad road that lined the cliff: gilded people, merchants and courtiers, senior military men dressed up like peacocks, a splash of Christian colour in this conquered Moorish town. Many of them had crusaders’ crosses exquisitely stitched to their shoulders or breasts. There were some Moors in the group, grandly dressed themselves with their jewelled turbans glinting: the rich and powerful under the old regime, he supposed, now hoping to keep their wealth and influence under the town’s change of ownership.

At the head of the procession, walking slowly, was a black knot of prelates, somehow sinister in their darkness. And at the heart of this group, shining in a gown of bright colourful silks, was a tall, imposing woman, her features strong, her eyes chips of aquamarine. Her chestnut brown hair was tied back under a small, delicate turban, for when she entered a conquered town she had a custom of dressing respectfully, with a nod to the Moorish style.

It was the Queen, of course, Isabel of Castile. As she passed her soldiers cheered.

‘Magnificent, isn’t she?’

Diego Ferron had joined them. The Dominican friar, tall and wire-thin, wore a robe so black it seemed to suck the daylight out of the air.

With him was a Moor, a portly man of about fifty with an expressionless, weather-beaten face. He carried a sheaf of documents under one arm, and he waited, eyes empty, at Ferron’s side.

Grace took Ferron’s hand and kissed it. ‘My good friar. You found me, I’m so glad.’

Ferron nodded. He glanced at James and made a curt sign of the cross to him with two upraised fingers. ‘And I’m glad you are here at this moment of triumph, madam. Even now King Fernando is composing his letter of jubilation to the Pope, I’m told. Oh, I should introduce my mudejar.’

The Moor smiled. ‘I am Abdul Ibn Ibrahim. By profession I am an astronomer. Today I serve the friar.’ He said this without apparent bitterness.

Ferron said, ‘Actually he is attached to the staff of the emir in Granada. The emir has sent a delegation to Ronda to witness the enactment of the treaty of capitulation. We do try to be civilised about these things. And so I am shadowed by this mudejar. Well, he is useful; his Latin is quite good.’

James introduced himself. ‘And this is the lady Grace Bigod, of Buxton - we are from England.’

The Moor’s eyes glinted. ‘I know who you are.’

It was a remark that puzzled James. But Abdul said no more.

Ferron said, ‘Ah, the Queen is nearing us . . .’

They applauded as Isabel with her retinue continued her progress down the road.