There was a pulse of inactivity – a moment which hovered between defiance and acceptance. Were they going to take it? Several of the men looked across at her with a black hatred, as though her betrayal had been the greatest of all, before four of them gathered round the body and taking a limb each, lifted Juan Esperanza from the ground like a hunted hind, his head hanging down. Silently, they beat a retreat, their feet shuffling on the ground, heads dipped low as they headed back on the three-mile journey home.

Tears streamed down Nene’s face as she watched them go, her body still trembling from the violence she had just witnessed and which supposedly had been done in her name. She had betrayed them to save them but she knew the tale of her treachery would hit even harder perhaps than her brother’s brutality, for better had been expected of her.

Santi would never forgive her, she knew that absolutely. She had seen the hatred settle on the men’s faces as she switched sides and she was their enemy now – condemned by birth, constrained by a name that spoke for her even when it went against her.

‘Get these horses untacked and washed down. Then get that mess cleaned up,’ Vale commanded the terrified-looking groom who was still holding his horse. ‘It’s making this place look untidy.’

The poor groom nodded mutely, as Montez dismounted too and handed over his steed wordlessly. There was still a cartridge in the barrel and he lifted the muzzle into the air, waving it in figures of eight, scanning for a passing bird. He caught sight of a pigeon heading home to roost and took aim and fired, quite unable to help himself, the gunshot ringing out mockingly and no doubt making the campesinos run. Nene watched as the bird spun and tumbled to the ground, landing heavily a few yards away.

‘Nene?’ Vale enquired, but it was really a command. She was to return to the house with them.

Dumbfounded and in shock, she stared down at the twitching bird, its wings flapping desperately in its death throes; she looked at the dropped, abandoned implements – spades and hoes and spindly-fingered rakes that would have been all but useless in a battle – at the pool of arterial blood already blackening on the ground, seeping like tar into the hard-baked earth. The scene was like an old master’s still life, telling a story: a bird that had been shot for no other reason than to use up a wasted cartridge; a man killed because he dared to speak up.

And she understood then that the sanctity of life meant nothing to her family, only money and power and influence. And God help anyone who tried to stand in their way.

Chapter Six

Charlotte stared into the fridge. Carton of almond milk. Jar of pimiento olives. Slab of gouda. Pack of serrano. Two avocados. Bottle of Mirabeau rosé. She grabbed the wine and closed the door again. On the counter was a bag of sourdough and a bunch of asparagus.