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name?’
    ‘Ana-María de Carbonela.’

16
    Fuente Prado, Castile de Granada, March 1492
    Ana-María de Carbonela stood on the rocky ledge beside the waterfall inside the cave. She loved how the sun glinted on the surface of the pool below. A fine spray from the plunging water drifted over her body, cooling her and drenching her skin.
    Even though the cave smelt damp, and the acrid stench of mould clung to the back of her throat, María loved this secret place.
    Her grotto thrummed with life.
    The constant drip of water. Insects scuttling from one hiding place to another. Underground passages that breathed out odours of damp earth with crevices to explore. In her living cueva , with its strange setting, she considered herself a passing visitor.
    From her perch high in the hollowed out cave, she could see the sea mist clawing its way into the valle. Around her the day sparkled with life. Yet in a few hours the mist would wrap itself around everything in its path making it impossible to see the pond below.
    She loved being alone in the wild countryside. Ever since Madre had drawn a map to show her how to find the grotto, she had spent many days lying by the pond and dreaming. Whenever she came to collect the estraño herb from the rocks, she took her time exploring the cueva.
    She had been unable to tell Madre that cleaning the house and cooking bored her. Or that she preferred to live in another world inside her head.
    On the clearest days, the distant mountains called to her. One day she would journey to the sea. Maybe even hide on a boat and write a story about a girl who sailed to new lands.
    Like La Reina Isabel , the queen María admired so much, she wanted to journey to new places. Unlike the queen, she didn’t have the means to see new towns and learn about the people. And like the monarch, María had blue eyes and chestnut hair. But she kept her clothes simple. The looser the garment the easier it was to run through the fields and woods. When at home with only Madre around, she didn’t worry about her appearance. Her mother sewed gowns with trailing sleeves that hooked onto branches when María collected wood. Or dipped into the water buckets at the well and became drenched in the washing tub. But even Madre had not given in to the scandalous fashions of tighter-fitting garments with lower necklines and lace to create a form-fitting shape that girdled at the waist or hips.
    María usually preferred to wear a smock and hose, and refused to wear a girdle and a bonnet or hair caul, but she had no choice when they went to church. Otherwise the town people would frown on Madre’s unruly daughter.
    Delighted she could discard her woolen garments in place of a lighter linen for the coming warmer months, she had thrown her tunic beside the pond. One day she would write a story about a girl who fashioned easier garments for women to wear, much like those men wore. For a moment she imagined how Queen Isabella would look dressed as the king.
    A shiver tickled María’s spine. Her uncle had taught her about a French martyr, Jeanne d’Arc, who had been burnt at the stake because they couldn’t understand why she dressed as a man, even though she helped the French defeat the English invaders.
    María didn’t want to reject the gender roles; she simply wanted to dress in a manner that gave her more freedom for country life. Girl’s garments didn’t suit that.
    Annoyed, María shook herself to stop her thoughts running away with nonsense. Dressing in men’s clothing carried a death sentence.She wasn’t about to be caught for such a foolhardy perversio. Besides, she had to start gathering the sticky herbs for Madre.
    She leapt to her feet. The only way to cross the grotto was to swim. As she stepped to the edge, she focused on the blue iridescent gleam right in the middle where she dived in. A slimy surface covered the water’s edge, where it escaped through the cave and over the grass verge into the pool below.
    A distant