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mosque are silenced; there is to be no call to prayer in my mother’s hearing. And anyone who disagrees can either leave for Africa at once, convert at once, or face the fires of the Inquisition. We do not soften under the spoils of war; we never forget that we are victors and that we won our victory by force of arms and by the will of God. We made a solemn promise to poor King Boabdil, that his people, the Moslems, should be as safe under our rule as the Christians were safe under his. We promise the convivencia —a way of living together—and they believe that we will make a Spain where anyone, Moor or Christian or Jew, can live quietly and with self-respect since all of us are “People of the Book.” Their mistake is that they meant that truce, and they trusted that truce, and we—as it turns out—do not.
    We betray our word in three months, expelling the Jews and threatening the Moslems. Everyone must convert to the True Faith, and then, if there is any shadow of doubt, or any suspicion against them, their faith will be tested by the Holy Inquisition. It is the only way to make one nation: through one faith. It is the only way to make one people out of the great varied diversity which had been al Andalus. My mother builds a chapel in the council chamber, and where it had once said “Enter and ask. Do not be afraid to seek justice for here you will find it,” in the beautiful shapes of Arabic, she prays to a sterner, more intolerant God than Allah, and no one comes for justice anymore.
    But nothing can change the nature of the palace. Not even the stamp of our soldiers’ feet on the marble floors can shake the centuries-old sense of peace. I make Madilla teach me what the flowing inscriptions mean in every room, and my favorite is not the promises of justice, but the question written in the Courtyard of the Two Sisters, which says: “Have you ever seen such a beautiful garden?” and then answers itself: “We have never seen a garden with greater abundance of fruit, nor sweeter, nor more perfumed.”
    It is not truly a palace, not even as those we had known at Córdoba or Toledo. It is not a castle, nor a fort. It was built first and foremost as a garden, with rooms of exquisite luxury so that one could live outside. It is a series of courtyards designed for flowers and people alike. It is a dream of beauty: walls, tiles, pillars melting into flowers, climbers, fruit, and herbs. The Moors believe that a garden is a paradise on earth, and they have spent fortunes over the centuries to make this “al-Yanna”: the word that means garden, secret place, and paradise.
    I know that I love it. Even as a little child I know that this is an exceptional place, that I will never find anywhere more lovely. And even as a child I know that I cannot stay here. It is God’s will and my mother’s will that I must leave al-Yanna, my secret place, my garden, my paradise. It is to be my destiny that I should find the most beautiful place in all the world when I am just six years old, and then leave it when I am fifteen, as homesick as Boabdil, as if happiness and peace for me will only ever be short-lived.

Dogmersfield Palace, Hampshire, Autumn 1501
    “I SAY, YOU CANNOT COME IN ! If you were the King of England himself—you could not come in.”
    “I am the King of England,” Henry Tudor said without a flicker of amusement. “And she can either come out right now or I damned well will come in and my son will follow me.”
    “The Infanta has already sent word to the king that she cannot see him,” the duenna said witheringly. “The noblemen of her court rode out to explain to him that she is in seclusion, as a lady of Spain. Do you think the King of England would come riding down the road when the Infanta has refused to receive him? What sort of a man do you think he is?”
    “Exactly like this one,” he said and thrust his fist with the great gold ring towards her face. The Count de Cabra came into the hall in a rush