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The glow of first light appeared behind the craggy hills to the east.

It illuminated the towers and crenellations of the castle's strong walls, casting dim

shadows across the masonry.

The thin, dawn light did nothing to break the chill.

Here in the mountains of Granada, high above the Mediterranean to the south, even the spring

months offered strong chills.

The men out on this morning stayed moving to keep warm.

These were artillery men, their breath visible in the cold morning air as they heaved cannon

into position.

Powder went down the bronze barrels, followed by a large iron ball, and then a reed

taper went into the breach, ready for lighting and fire.

An experienced gunner, an Englishman and a veteran of the wars of the roses, called out

adjustments in badly accented castellan.

Burly nights and old mercenaries with scarred faces strapped on armor and laughed about

what they'd do when they took the castle.

Amongst all these soldiers, one woman sat on a white horse.

She'd walked the horse up slow, making little noise as the men prepared for that.

She watched them with deep-set hooded eyes.

A thick wool cloak kept her warm in the chilly morning air, and shielded her silk dress

from the mud of the coming battlefield.

...