'All right,' Grace said. 'But so what? You say men have had this sort of dream before. What makes this "Dove" different?'

Ferron said, 'For one thing, the plausibility of his case. The seed of his dream may have been travellers' tales, but he has been trying, in his dogged, uneducated way, to assemble a rational case, based on the testimony of the ancients and other arcana. Second, he has added a gloss of a divine mission, which will appeal to our monarchs. You could even see it as fitting in with the greater project of the Hidden One to rule the whole world; after all you must discover a land before you can conquer it. Third, there is his sheer determination. Anybody who has met him says this of him. He is obsessed where those who went before him were not, and he may succeed in his dream of going west merely because of that.'

'Or perhaps,' James said, 'he just wants to get out from under the shadow of his father-in-law. That would be human.'

'Well, if he wants to impress his wife he's sadly too late,' Ferron said. 'She died last year, leaving our Dove with a chick, a son. Perhaps that death released our dreamer from the damp prison of Porto Santo. Within months he had travelled to Lisbon and petitioned the Portuguese court to fund his westward expedition. In return he wanted a share of the profits, a hereditary nobility and to be named governor of any lands he found.'

Grace smiled. 'This little man thinks big.'

'You can't blame him for that. Joao turned him down. He left Portugal – although that may not be unconnected to the fact that his wife's family were implicated in a murky little plot to assassinate the King. And so, early this year, our Dove came to Spain. He's here now, in a little port called Palos. And as I say we've learned that he intends to come to Cordoba to present his case to the monarchs.'

Grace nodded. 'And you do believe he is the figure predicted in Eadgyth's Testament?'

'Oh, yes.'

James said, 'His father was a clothier, you said, friar. What kind of clothier?'

'A weaver. This man is the son of a weaver. Just as your prophecy says.'

And James remembered the line: the spider's spawn. The weaver of a web.

Abdul asked, 'And if I may, what is his name?'

'His Italian mother called him Cristoforo, his Portuguese wife Cristovao. In his workaday commercial Latin he is Christophorus. We in Spain must, I suppose, call him Cristobal.'

'Christophorus. Christo ferens,' said Grace slowly. 'The Christ-bearer. And the surname?'

Ferron smiled, anticipating her reaction. 'He will be called Colon here – Colombo in Genoa and Portugal – Columbus in Latin.'

Grace clapped her hands, delighted as a child. 'Columbus-the Dove! Can it really be as simple as that? The spider-spawn, the Christ-bearer, the Dove – Christopher Columbus!'

But James, shocked, thought there was nothing simple about a four-hundred-year-old prophecy coming true.

Ferron said, 'Well, it seems that all hinges on this man. Spain is drained by war; the monarchs won't buy everything that is presented to them. If this man is funded to go west, they will not spend on your engines – as I am coming to believe they must, if the world's final war is to be won. What we must do, then, is recruit this Dove, this Colon, to our cause. We must make him forget the western Ocean. We must make him long for the engines, and the glorious war to come.'

'"And the Dove will fly east",' James breathed.

The mudejar Abdul was staring intently at Ferron, absorbing every word.

Abdul Ibn Ibrahim, a big, heavy-set man, his sailor's face leathery and creased, would have looked out of place in London, Harry thought, even if it hadn't been for the turban on his head. He had come to England to tell Harry and Geoffrey what he had learned of this man, this putative Dove, Cristobal Colon.

Colon had joined the court of the Spanish monarchs at Cordoba. 'The monarchs have turned the capital of the caliphate, a city of scholarship, into an armed camp, the headquarters of their war on the Moors,' Abdul said bleakly. 'It is full of weapons shops, everywhere soldiers drink and whore, and in the shadow of the mosque drums beat, horses parade and the armies of the nobles stage mock battles…'

When he had first landed at the small port called Palos, seeking somewhere safe for his child to stay, Colon had settled on a Franciscan priory called La Rabida, outside the town. It was a lucky stop, for he quickly found allies in the priory's father superior, Juan Perez, and in a visiting brother called Antonio de Marchena. These two had become stout supporters. And it was a letter from de Marchena of Palos that had served as an introduction to the Queen's confessor.

So Colon got his chance to present his petition to the monarchs' council. But this was quickly rejected.

'He was turned down for his sheer implausibility,' said Abdul. 'This Colon is not a scholar, and when he gets into debates about the shape of the world with sea captains and geographers, it shows.'

But Colon showed the qualities of iron determination of which the Testament hinted, 'heart stout, mind clear'. He found a way to make a direct appeal to the monarchs.

'And he immediately snagged the attention of Queen Isabel,' Abdul said. 'After all she has Portuguese ancestry. Colon's father-in-law went exploring in the Ocean Sea with Prince Henry, the Queen's own great-uncle. I think her blood was stirred at the thought of doing some exploring of her own.' He raised an eyebrow. 'He is a handsome man too, striking. And a lusty one. I'll say no more than that!

'The monarchs were interested, despite the implausibility of his case. I think it was Colon's wild promises of gold from Cathay that most attracted them. The monarchs need funds to fight their war against Islam.'

Geoffrey asked, 'Then they might support his case?'

'They have appointed a junta, a commission of geographers and navigators and sea captains, under the leadership of the Queen's confessor, to investigate his proposition.'

To Harry, all this was the stuff of a personal nightmare. He felt this figure, Colon, was emerging from a mist of chaos, from the Testament's obscure old language, from the ramblings of his dying ale-soaked father, into the cold light of actuality.

Geoffrey sensed his unease. 'Have courage, Harry.'

Harry tried to focus on the practical. 'Is there any sense in this talk of crossing the Ocean Sea in the first place, and of vast unknown empires? If not, we can dismiss it all as fancy.'

Geoffrey asked, 'What do you think?'

Harry shrugged. 'I'm no navigator. The journey I made from London to Malaga was my longest sea voyage. I only know what I've heard.'

'Which is?'

'That the world is a dangerous place. The Romans called the Ocean Sea the Mare Ignotum, the unknown, and not for nothing. They say that to the west is a Sea of Doom, a place of vast whirlpools that can crush a ship like a fly in a child's fist. If you go south towards the equator you sail into the Torrid Zone, where the sun's heat turns you black before the flesh boils off your bones. And the world is not a sphere, as the ancients believed, but a sort of pear-shape, with a great extension to the extreme east where the earthly paradise resides.' He felt uncomfortable, as Abdul listened to this in cold silence. 'This is what has been said by mariners to me.'

'All right,' Abdul said. 'But what mariners? Europeans, that's who, who have barely ventured out of the puddle that is the Mediterranean. But the Chinese have gone much further, and learned much more…'

And he spoke of his time on the treasure ships.

'You should have seen them, cousin. They were not like our little ships at all. Like floating cities, they were, with a great square bow at the front, topped by serpents' eyes. Nine masts bore huge red silk sails. The ships were built in compartments, so they could not be sunk. They had holds full of preserved food, and immense tanks of fresh water, and they grew soya beans on board, and they kept otters in their holds to catch fish – they could stay at sea for months! And the officers enjoyed banquets and dances, and the company of courtesans.