A temperate spring was giving way to the Meseta summer across the Castilian region. Torrential rainstorms had provided, to the farmers’ relief, the newly planted crops a chance to germinate. With pragmatic realism, this year they anticipated a healthy harvest. Albornoz and his friends congregated in the valley, as was their routine, but later in the afternoon when the sun’s ferocious heat had subsided. Mid-day saw the streets deserted and the shops closed: its inhabitants, young and old, remained indoors; the wise stray cats and dogs sheltered in shady corners and under benches. Cuenca was undeniably an attractive town, a tranquil, comfortable place at ease with itself. Sitting pretty on the steep rocky headland, it all but sneered at the poorer people of the valley and beyond. The prolife
