‘I should hope you have or there’d be little point you coming all this way, would there? Look, young man, I’m afraid I don’t have time for you just now. We have something of a family crisis going on.’ She waved a hand at the men behind her. ‘Look at this lot. All my relatives, nephews, cousins, even a few uncles. All flocking around me, the way they came huddling around my husband when he was alive, may he rest in the peace of Allah. I won’t bother introducing you because they’re not worth a clipped crown, the lot of them. All save this one, perhaps. Peter of Toledo, meet my son, Ibrahim.’

Ibrahim was about Peter’s age, perhaps a bit younger. He wore a tunic and leggings of a severe black cloth. He bowed to Peter. He was handsome, but his eyes, startling blue, were cold. ‘What are you, Peter of Toledo? French?’

‘English.’

Ibrahim grunted, uninterested. ‘All Christians are the same.’ He turned away.

‘Ibrahim is as strong as his father,’ Subh said, ‘but ten times as difficult. Follows the teaching of the Almohads. Allah be thanked for sending me such a devout son.’

‘Your mockery is inappropriate,’ Ibrahim said sternly.

‘Yes, yes. Well, we don’t have time for this. Come.’ And without another word she swept out of the courtyard and into the street beyond. The relatives followed her like baby geese.

Peter stood for a heartbeat. Then he dropped his pack in a shady corner and ran after the little mob, for he had no idea what else to do.

He found himself striding alongside Ibrahim. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the mosque. Zawi is in trouble with the Christians.’

‘Who is Zawi?’

‘A cousin. Another one of the hapless flock who huddle under my mother’s wing, and look for her protection when their foolishness and impiety leads them into trouble.’

He sounded stern and contemptuous, as only a very young man can be, Peter thought, aware of his own youth. ‘You don’t sound as if you have much respect for your family.’

‘When the Christian armies came, my cousins did not fight for Cordoba as men. Now they cluster around a woman for protection. They are less than men.’

‘And,’ Peter asked carefully, ‘did you fight?’

‘I was too young,’ Ibrahim said quickly.

Which Peter, versed in interpretation, understood to mean that his formidable mother had not let him fight. ‘I would be interested to learn of your culture,’ he said now. ‘The principles of the Almohads, who see the whole world as a unity “plunged in God”. A fascinating concept.’

Ibrahim glared at him with stony contempt. ‘You know nothing of our culture. No Christian does.’