Amid a flurry of bowing and murmured obsequies Queen Isabel walked in. Flanked by soldiers of the Holy Brotherhood and trailed by bishops, nobles and other courtiers, she was dressed for the field in a practical-looking gown of crushed velvet, and her famous chestnut hair was pulled back from a still-beautiful face. She had a quality of light about her that changed the very room, Harry thought.

She smiled almost fondly at Colon, who bowed with a flourish.

Isabel took the seat de Santangel had vacated. She murmured to the financier that she was sorry to have missed Colon's presentation but looked forward to his judgement.

De Santangel, glorying, showed off. He walked back and forth, stroking his bearded chin. 'I'll tell you what I think of all this, good Colon. I can see you're a man of substance: of good bearing, of integrity, of faith, of belief – and of determination, which is what a man needs to get along in business.

'But I can also see that the case you've spouted is a lot of bilge. No, no,' and he held up a hand as Colon made to protest, 'I don't want to hear it all trotted out again. Once is enough, thanks! But what I will say is that it's bound to be a lot of bilge, because the truth is nobody can say what lies on the other side of the Ocean Sea until somebody goes out there to see for himself. Am I right? So that's the bare bones of the case.

'Now, I'm a man of business, and I'm used to estimating risk. And as I see it the risk to the monarchs is low. All we have to fund is the first voyage, for if you succeed subsequent voyages will be paid for out of the profits, and if you fail, for instance if you don't come back, we just won't go out again. All you want is three ships. You're asking for, what, five million maravedis? Why, I'd be prepared to put up my own house as collateral on that much if necessary.

'And why? Because the returns are potentially huge. The Portuguese are already sucking in profits from Madeira; we are already making money from the Canaries. Now, I'm no geographer and I don't know if you'll find a way to Asia or not. But it stands to reason that there's something out there, because God surely wouldn't make a world half-covered with an ocean good for nothing but fish!

'Our new kingdom of Spain has grown from nothing to cover the whole peninsula, in a few centuries. Now, it seems to me, we have the chance to build a new Spanish empire that could grow much further, beyond all imagination. Why, the monarchs could be compared in future to – to-'

Abdul said drily, 'Alexander the Great?'

'Exactly! And on the other hand if we don't take this chance some other petty king or grasping prince, from Portugal or England or France, will take it instead, and we'll be for ever in their shade.

'And I'll tell you something else. We need the money. For centuries we lived off a tithe of Moorish gold. Now we're funding the war with money confiscated from the Jews by the Inquisition. But the Moors are all but defeated. And if some have their way,' and he eyed the Inquisitors, 'we'll soon be driving the last Jew out of Spain, and half our merchant class and a good chunk of our wealth will go with them, and then we're going to need a new source of funds.

'Cristobal Colon, you may be a genius or as mad as a grasshopper in a hat, I'm not qualified to judge. But you offer a vision of virtually unlimited wealth, for a price that represents an affordable risk. And for that reason I'll be recommending strongly to their noble majesties,' and he bowed to Isabel, 'that they fund your mission. Let it not be said that such great and noble monarchs denied themselves a grand chance to probe the secrets of the very universe over a pittance.

'And as for the proposal that Colon should become a general in God's army,' he concluded, glancing at Ferron, 'God has many generals, but we have only one Cristobal Colon. He is meant for discovery, not war, friar!'

So, Harry realised, his and Geoffrey's years of work and scheming – and perhaps a manipulation of history centuries deep – were coming to fruition in this very room.

And Harry himself had to ruin it. He gazed at Ferron, who met his eyes calmly. Anger flared in Harry. Perhaps he would defy this monster even now.

But then Ferron turned to his serving girl, who had knelt, silent and still as a statue, throughout Colon's presentation. Ferron slid back the veil from the girl's face.

It was, of course, Agnes. Her chin was bruised, her nose a little bloody. Her eyes were empty, unfocused, and a little drool laced her lips. It was clear she was drugged.

Harry knew he had no choice. Reluctantly, he stood. The Queen, de Santangel, even Colon, turned to him curiously.

Geoffrey plucked at his sleeve. 'In God's name sit down. We have won! There's no more to be said.'

But Harry shook him off. 'I must speak.' He turned to de Santangel, his head full of devastating arguments against Colon – not least the fact that some of his evidence was simple fakery, planted by Geoffrey and himself. He prepared to speak.

And Ferron's other Moorish companion, the tall woman, leapt to her feet. From beneath her loose white robes she produced a blade, long and sharp and polished.

With a strangled cry she hurled herself at the Queen. Isabel stared, with no time to react.

But as the woman's arm descended, as the blade fell towards the Queen's breast, Abdul Ibn Ibrahim threw himself between the killer and her target. He took the first strike in his arm, but he stayed on his feet and spun around, trying to get hold of the killer. His reward was another stabbing, this time in the chest. Blood spurted from the wound, frothy with air, and Abdul gurgled, as if drowning.

But the blade was caught, perhaps on Abdul's ribs, and the killer could not draw it out. The Holy Brothers, had time to fall on the assassin and club her to the ground.

The audience erupted in screams and panic, as bishops and nobles scrambled to get out of the room. Colon stood beside the monarch fiercely, protecting her with his bulk.

Harry ran to Agnes, and scooped her up in his arms. She was as limp as a puppet, her eyes rolling in her head. But she was alive.

He turned to see the Holy Brothers holding down the would-be killer. He got a clear view of her face for the first time.

Her skin darkened, her hair blackened, it was Grace Bigod.

James saw the courtiers spilling out of the audience chamber. From his elevated viewpoint they boiled like ants over the ground. He grinned, and swept lower. If Grace and Ferron had arranged for the inquiry into Colon to come out into the open air to see his display in the sky, this was his cue.

But the crowd seemed disorderly. People were running away from the chamber – and likewise soldiers were running towards the mocked-up building. Even from up here he could hear screams. And now he saw a knot of the heavy-set brothers hustling out of the chamber, escorting a finely dressed woman who could only be the Queen. Something had gone wrong. Nobody was looking up. He would have to descend to see what was going on – and to make people look at him.

Tugging on his control lines he dipped his left wing, and banked that way. But then a gust of wind washed over the wing, and it pulled out of his grasp. He felt the machine slide further to the left, and the strengthening breeze made it impossible to pull the wing back. He fought with his control lines and kicked at his machine's tail. Struts snapped with sharp cracks.

And he slid into a tight spiral, spinning ever leftward, that drove him towards the ground. As the wind pushed back the skin of his face, as his speed rose and he spun like a leaf, he screamed in longing and fear: 'Grace, Grace!'