Navigator

But James banished his doubts and fears by pouring his energy and imagination into mastering his man-bird. He couldn't believe that the sheer beauty of the flying machine could be sinful, no matter for what purpose men intended to use it.

So he flew high over Santa Fe, making a circle over that shining heap of weapons. He saw a few faces turned up towards him, pale dots lifted to the sky. He was so high they would surely believe him an eagle or a buzzard, for you didn't expect to see men suspended in the air. The shock would be tremendous when James came dipping down out of the sky and all could see it was a man, not a bird, suspended by the ingenuity of the human mind, and that the cross of Christ burned on his wings. He grinned at the thought of it, and made a mental note to admit his sin of pride to his confessor.

Then he tugged at the cables that controlled his wings and ducked away, soaring over the Alhambra and heading for his landing site.

XXIV

On the ground, at the heart of Santa Fe, Harry Wooler peered up at the hovering bird – if it was a bird. He hadn't forgotten what he had seen over Derbyshire, on that dramatic day of destruction three years ago. He said to Geoffrey, 'If he drops any of those eggs of fire this city of wood and cloth will burn like a hundred-year-old timber pile.'

Geoffrey Cotesford peered up, uninterested. 'One toy machine in the air won't make much difference. The boy flying that thing is a Franciscan, you know. James of Buxton, a bright lad according to his abbot. Now his head has been turned by these gadgets, by all this talk of war. As I've researched these prophecies I've discovered they have a peculiarly corrupting effect on scholars and holy men who should know better. A priest called Sihtric, who lived through the Conquest. A scholar from Oxford called Peter, who was burned to death during the siege of Seville. And now this James. A waste of good brains, a steady seducing of souls away from God's true purpose…'

They were walking down a broad street of trampled earth. This was a military camp, and in the low buildings around them the soldiers did what soldiers always did: ate, slept, wrestled, picked their feet, and complained about the food. There was a surprising number of Muslims here, talking to Christian officers in tight, tense groups. Even while the siege of Granada continued, Boabdil's court was in negotiation with the Christian monarchs about the terms of his almost inevitable capitulation.

And Geoffrey spoke of Cristobal Colon.

'Since the destruction of the manufactory, that day when Bartolomeo Colon was driven away from England with the stink of smoke in his nostrils, we have been winning the argument. Now we are approaching the culmination of years of work, Harry. Cristobal Colon has a thorough and well-worked-out case for his journey to the west.'

Harry said gloomily, 'But Colon has plenty of enemies at court, who think he's an obsessive buffoon, and sometimes it's hard not to agree with them. And after all these years he's growing sick of Spain. He thinks he's being strung along. It's said he's planning to approach the King of France next.'

'Have faith, Harry,' Geoffrey said with good humour. 'Have patience! It has been a long haul, but just a little further. This chap de Santangel, who Colon is meeting today, is more businesslike than most courtiers.' A wealthy Aragonese, Luis de Santangel's family had served Fernando's ancestors for centuries as merchants and lawyers. Now de Santangel was treasurer of the Holy Brotherhood, the monarchs' religious police. Geoffrey said, 'De Santangel is a man of money, not of God. He will see Colon's plan as a good business proposition, and I am confident he will back our case. You'd get on with him, Harry.' He grinned. 'Two men of business together, carving up the future! I can see it now.'

Harry wasn't in the mood to be teased. 'But Grace Bigod is here at the court. Hovering around that monster Ferron, damn his cold heart. Ferron longs for war, you know, and so does she. I think they've both gone mad.'

Geoffrey shrugged. 'Grace must continue. She has invested her whole life in this project, even passing up her chance of children and grandchildren. But whatever Grace and Ferron do or say, it is a critical time.

'The monarchs' heads are full of fantasies. Isabel dreams of exploration. And on the other hand Fernando really believes, I think, that he is the Hidden One, the new King David who will return the Ark of the Covenant to the City of David, thus heralding the Second Coming of Christ, and the kingdom of God upon the earth. And so on! Thus the monarchs are predisposed to be swayed either way – west with Colon to find a new world, or east with the Engines of God to continue the logic of their Reconquest.

'This is the time. The war against the Muslims is almost won. Soon, for a brief moment, the souls of the monarchs will be fluid, their purposes fulfilled, their dreams unlocked. And in this moment the future must be fixed. It is now or never for Colon, and the rest of us – perhaps the whole world.'

Harry felt he had already burned up too many years of his working life on this extraordinary project. 'Let's hope that we really are reaching the end of this long game, Geoffrey, one way or another.'

The friar nodded. 'Yes. But, remember, Harry, the true game of the future is only about to begin.'

And at that moment Harry saw Abdul Ibn Ibrahim walking towards them. He was carrying a small wooden box.

Geoffrey rushed to him and clasped his arms. 'Abdul! I didn't know you were here. I haven't seen you since that terrible day in Seville. What became of you?'

Abdul's face was stony. 'I was forced to leave Seville, of course. I returned to Granada, where I went back to the emir's court. Now I find myself working on the finer points of our capitulation treaty.'

Harry was as glad to see Abdul as Geoffrey was. But he could see how grim his mood was. 'What's wrong, Abdul? You know I'll always be grateful to you for having saved Agnes from Ferron.'

Abdul sighed. 'But it is Ferron who has sent me here today.'

'Ferron did?'

'He sought me out. And he gave me this, to present to you.' He handed Harry the box.

Harry took it. It was finely made of cedarwood, an expensive gift.

Abdul said, 'Ferron's message is this. You must not support your champion any more, Harry. When Colon presents his case you must speak out against the arguments you have helped him develop. Otherwise you must stay as silent as your sister.'

Harry was confused, but frightened. 'My sister's safe in England. And she's never been silent.'

Abdul said nothing.

Geoffrey touched Harry's shoulder. 'Open the box, Harry.'

The lid lifted easily, on oiled hinges. Inside was a glass vial, which contained a slab of meat, pickled in some preserving liquid. It took Harry long heartbeats to recognise what it was, from the bloody stump, the shape of the tip. It was a human tongue, severed at the root. In the lid of the box a note was tucked. Harry took this and unfolded it, and read: 'AGNES WOOLER.'

'He took her back,' Geoffrey raged. 'He took her back!'

XXV

In the monarchs' audience chamber expensive tapestries hung from the walls, showing such scenes as the Virgin Mary hovering, ethereal, over crusaders who stormed the walls of Jerusalem. And the wooden floor was covered with rich Persian carpets, a gift from Boabdil in Granada to his effective masters. This chamber, at the heart of Santa Fe, was grander than any room Harry had ever been in, even if it was just a mock-up of wood and waxed cloth. And it was full of courtiers. They reminded Harry of exotic birds, preening and gossiping, curious about the latest trial of a favourite of the Queen.