The building drum of hooves made her look up, and with a sinking heart she saw the plumes of dust herald the arrival of two riders, her brothers coming in from their final recce of the fields for the night. Everyone turned and watched as they pulled back from a canter into a trot, the wide brims of their Cordobes hats throwing their faces into shade but their nobility and prowess revealed by their upright seats and thrust chins.

The peasants lapsed into a sudden hush as the riders drew up, surveying the unusual scene with growing suspicion and displeasure.

‘What is going on here?’ Vale demanded, effortlessly dismounting the horse and throwing over the reins to a groom who had hitherto been hiding in the stable block. As the eldest and the heir apparent, he carried the full weight of his father’s authority and the pack of labourers took a step back as he walked provocatively between them and Señor Martin.

He looked back at his father’s conocedor for an explanation.

‘These men are demanding that you give them your fields.’ The wry tone in his voice intimated how ludicrous this proposal really was.

‘Are they indeed?’ Vale asked, his head tipping to the side. ‘And when you say demanding, you mean to tell me, they are not even asking politely for such a gift? They simply expect it?’

‘I’m afraid so, Don Vale. As you can see, they have brought weapons with them in an attempt to threaten and intimidate us.’

Vale looked back to them again, his eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, I can see that is very intimidating,’ he agreed. ‘There are just the three of us here and we are vastly outnumbered by – how many men would you say? Fifty? Sixty?’

‘Sixty at least, Don Vale,’ Señor Martin agreed.

‘It looks like sixty to me,’ Montez said from his elevated perch. He was still on his horse, his arms crossed languidly at the wrists, the reins slack in his hands.

The peasants took another step back and Nene felt a deep stirring of unease in the pit of her stomach. She too retreated further into the shadows. Threat carried on the air like salt in the sea wind and she willed the men to give up their fight, to turn around and go back to their families.

Instead, one of them stepped forward: old Juan Esperanza, Santi’s father.

She stiffened, gripping the post harder. What was he doing?

‘What we are humbly requesting is not unreasonable, Señor Mendoza. We are hard workers. Many of us come from families that have worked your land for generations. But we are dying here, the drought is killing us, we cannot afford to eat, much less pay these new rents. Already, many of our menfolk have left for the north, where there is rain and where they can work around the year.’

‘Is that so?’ Vale asked. ‘So then why do you not go with them?’

‘I’m an old man, señor, too old to travel so far. And anyway, my heart is here. This is my home.’