Ferron watched admiringly. ‘I’ve met her several times. A remarkable mix of courage, piety, and sheer glamour! In her way, you know, she is as valuable to the cause of Christendom as ten thousand knights, for the men love her in a way they will never love Fernando, though they admire his cunning and leadership. And she is competent too. Since the fall of Ronda she has already rededicated the main mosque, and ordered cart-loads of sacred books and crosses to be shipped in from Cordoba and Seville, along with good Christian settlers to occupy the abandoned properties. Thus she has completed the city’s conquest by her cleansing.’

James asked pointedly, ‘And the Jews and conversos? Are they to be cleansed too?’

Ferron smiled thinly at him. ‘Torquemada is here himself.’ Torquemada was now the Grand Inquisitor for all of Spain. ‘Even with Brother Torquemada’s famed efficiency, the courts have yet to process more than a handful of cases. But we are making progress.’

James’s soul turned at this brusque summary. Since he had last visited Spain he had found out more about Ferron, who, as it turned out, was from a converso family himself - and Grace, of course, likely had her veins polluted by Saracen blood. Was this why they were so enthusiastic about the Inquisition’s dreadful cleansing? For no matter how hard they scrubbed, they could not remove the impurities from their own bodies.

Ferron went on, ‘In the meantime, lady, we have business to discuss. I told you the Inquisition has ears and eyes everywhere. We are almost as ubiquitous as God Himself, our admirers say - and our enemies. I believe we may have found your Dove. Come, we must talk.’ He offered his arm, and they walked off, without looking back to see if James and Abdul followed.

XIII

XIII

Friar Ferron escorted them to the palace of the Moorish governor of Ronda, called the Mondragon, which had been given over to officers of the Inquisition. The palace was only a short walk along the road that followed the cliff top. They walked through light-filled rooms to a colonnaded courtyard, and then passed on through a horseshoe arch into a small garden that overlooked the cliff itself, with a remarkable view of the flood plain below.

The mudejar Abdul brought out a tray of tea.

Grace glanced at Abdul. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to talk of these matters in front of him?’

‘The mudejar? Of course. He is an ambassador to one defeated Moorish city from another which soon will be defeated. What harm can he do? We will speak freely, and forget he even exists.’

Grace leaned forward eagerly. ‘Tell me of this Dove, then.’