And so she was taken in chains to Granada, into the mighty fortress which was to be her home. And there, she stood before Muley Abul Hassan, as proud as a visiting queen.

This amused him. He had taken her to his harem. She should be one of his wives. It was clearly an honour due to a high-born lady of such dignity.

Then she became his Star of the Morning and she bore him Boabdil; and from that time she determined that the next Sultan of Granada should be her son.

She had no fear that this would not be so. But the Greek had come, and the Greek was full of wiles. She also had a son.

Boabdil stood before his mother. He had the face of a dreamer. He wished that life would run more peacefully.

‘Boabdil, my son,’ said Zoraya, ‘you seem unmoved. Do you not understand that that woman plots against us?’

‘She will not succeed, oh my mother,’ said Boabdil. ‘For I am the eldest son of my father.’

‘You do not know how women will fight for their children.’

Boabdil smiled at her. ‘But do I not see you, my mother, fighting for yours?’

‘I will find a means of removing her from the palace. We will trick her. We will lure her into a situation from which she cannot escape. She shall be slain in the manner of an unfaithful woman. Boabdil, where is your manhood? Why do you not wish to fight for what is yours?’

‘When Allah decides, I shall be Sultan of Granada, my mother. If Allah wished me to be Sultan at this time, he would make me so.’

‘You accept your fate. That is your Moorish blood, my son. My people take what they want.’

‘Yet it was they who were taken,’ said Boabdil gently.

‘You anger me,’ said Zoraya. She came closer to him: ‘Boabdil, my son, there are men in Granada who would take up arms for you if you set yourself in opposition to your father.’

‘You would ask me to take up arms against my father?’

‘There is your uncle, El Zagal, whose plan it is to take the crown from you. Your father is weak. But you would have your supporters. You do not ask me how I know this, but I will tell you. I have my spies in the streets. Messages are brought to me. I know what we could do.’

‘You endanger your life by such action, my mother.’

She stamped her foot and threw back her still handsome head. Boabdil looked at her with affection, admiration and exasperation. He had never known a woman like his mother.

She narrowed her eyes and whispered: ‘If I thought that any might succeed in taking the throne from you, I would put you at the head of an army . . . this very day.’

‘My mother, you talk treason.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I owe loyalty to none. I was taken from my home against my will. I was brought here in chains. I was forced to lead the life of an Arab slave. I . . . the daughter of a proud Castilian. I owe no loyalty to any. Others ruled my life; now I say my reward is a crown for my son. You shall be Sultan of Granada even if we must make war on your father to put the crown on your head.’

‘But why should we fight for that which must, when Allah wills it, be ours?’

‘My foolish son,’ answered Zoraya, ‘do you not understand that others intrigue to take the crown of Granada instead of you? The Greek wants it for her son. She is sly. How can we know what promises she wrings from a besotted old man? Your uncle looks covetously towards the crown. He wants it for himself. Allah helps those who help themselves. Have you not yet learned that, Boabdil?’

‘I hear voices.’

‘Go then and see who listens to us.’

‘I beg of you, my mother, do not speak treasonably in case any should hear.’

But even as he spoke guards had entered the apartment.

Zoraya was shocked. She demanded: ‘What do you here? Do you not know what the punishment is for forcing your way into the apartments of the Sultana?’

The guards bowed low. They spoke to Boabdil. ‘My lord, we come on the command of Muley Abul Hassan, Sultan of Granada. We must humbly request you to allow us to put these chains upon you, for it is our unhappy duty to conduct you and the Sultana to the prison in the palace.’

Zoraya cried: ‘You shall put no chains on me.’

But it was useless; the guards had seized her. Her eyes flashed with contempt when she saw her son Boabdil meekly hold out his hands to receive the chains.

In her prison Zoraya did not cease to intrigue. As Sultana and mother of Boabdil, recognised heir to the crown of Granada, there were many to work for her. The rule of Muley Abul Hassan was not popular. It was well known throughout the kingdom that the Christian armies were gathering against Mussulmans and that the Castile of today was a formidable province – no less so because, through the marriage of Isabella with Ferdinand, it was allied with Aragon.

‘The Sultan is old. He is finished. Can an old man defend Granada against the growing danger?’ That was the message which Zoraya had caused to be circulated through Granada. And in the streets the people whispered: ‘We are a kingdom in peril and a kingdom divided against itself. Old men are set in old ways. Our future is in the hands of our youth.’

Zoraya and her son, although prisoners, did not suffer any privations. They were surrounded by servants and attendants. Thus Muley Abul Hassan had made it easy for Zoraya to continue to work for his dethronement and the succession of her son, Boabdil.

She sent her spies into the streets to spread abroad the scandals of the palace, to whisper of the bravery of Zoraya and Boabdil whom others sought to rob of their inheritance. Here was a brave mother fighting for the rights of her son; they could depend upon it that Allah would not turn his back upon her.

News was brought to her that the people in the streets were no longer whispering but saying aloud: ‘Have done with the old Sultan. Give us the new!’ And Zoraya judged the moment had come. She summoned all her servants and attendants to her. She made the women take off their veils, the eunuchs their haiks.

Then she, with Boabdil and a very few of her most trusted servants, tied these end to end, making a long rope, which they secured and hung from a window.

First she descended the rope, followed by Boabdil.

She had arranged that they should be expected. No sooner had Boabdil reached the ground than several of their supporters were on the spot greeting Boabdil as their Sultan, honouring Zoraya as the great Sultana and mother, a woman whose name, they believed, would be a legend in the history of the Mussulmans, because she, in her maternal love, by her bravery and resource, had delivered their new Sultan from the tyranny of the old one.

There was war in Granada. Thousands rallied to the cause of Boabdil.

In the streets of the beautiful city of Granada, Moor fought Moor and the battle was fierce.

Muley Abul Hassan was taken by surprise, first by the treachery of his family, then by the force of their supporters. And although the fortress of the Alhambra itself remained faithful to him, the city was against him. Chivalry turned the men of Granada to the brave Sultana and her young son.

Prudence weighed the matter and decided that Muley Abul Hassan had had his day and that the times needed the vigour of a young Sultan; and Muley Abul Hassan was driven from Granada, whence he fled to the city of Malaga, which had declared itself for him.

Thus while the Christian armies were gathering against them there was civil strife in the kingdom of Granada.

Isabella was thoughtful as she sat at her needlework. This was one of the rare occasions when she could find a brief hour’s escape from state duties; and it was pleasant to have Beatriz with her at such a time.