‘You are an angry man, Christoforo Colombo.’

‘I should be less angry if I were alone.’

The visitor rose abruptly and left him.

Christoforo sat down at the table and stared ahead of him. Little Diego crept down and stood watching him.

Diego longed to run to his father and comfort him, but he was afraid. He could understand and share the terrible disappointment.

Then Christoforo saw the small figure standing there, and he smiled slowly. He beckoned, and the boy ran to him. Christoforo took him into his arms, and for a while neither spoke.

Then Christoforo said: ‘Diego, let us start packing the charts and a few things that we shall need for a journey.’

‘A long journey, Father?’

‘A very long journey. We are leaving Lisbon. Lisbon has cheated us. I shall not rest until I have shaken its dust from off my feet.’

‘Where shall we go, Father?’

‘We have little money. We shall go on foot, my son. There is only one place we can make for.’

Diego looked expectantly into his father’s face. Then he saw the disappointment fade; he saw the rebirth of hope.

‘They say Isabella, the Queen of Castile, is a wise woman. My son, let us prepare with all speed. We shall go to Spain and there attempt to interest Isabella in our new world.’

The journey was long and arduous. They were often hungry, always footsore. But their spirits never flagged. Christoforo knew with absolute certainty that one day he would interest some wealthy and influential person in his schemes; as for eight-year-old Diego, he had been brought up with the dream and he too never doubted.

In his scrip Christoforo carried his charts; he also wore a dagger, for the way through the Alemtejo district was wild and infested with robbers.

It was late afternoon; they had left the province of Huelva behind them and were approaching the estuary of the Rio Tinto.

The month was January, and a cold wind was blowing in from the Atlantic.

‘Diego, my son,’ said Christoforo, ‘you are weary.’

‘I am weary, Father,’ the boy admitted.

They had left the small town of Palos two or three miles behind, and Diego had wondered why they did not stop there and ask for shelter. Christoforo, however, had walked purposefully on.

‘Soon we shall have a roof over our heads, my son. Can you keep up your spirits for another mile?’

‘Why, yes, Father.’

Diego threw back his shoulders and walked on beside his father. Then, as they trudged on in the direction of Cadiz and Gibraltar, and the wind caught the sand and flung it among the pine trees which grew sparsely here and there, he understood, for in the distance he saw the walls of a monastery and he knew that this was the place to which his father was taking him.

‘There we will ask for food and shelter for the night,’ said Christoforo. He did not add that he hoped for more. He was now inside Spain; and in the monasteries were learned men who might listen to his talk of an undiscovered world.

If, however, he could interest no one at the Franciscan Monastery of Santa Maria de la Rabida he must pass hopefully on.

They approached the gate, and Christoforo addressed the lay brother whose duty it was to guard it.

‘I come to beg food and shelter for myself and my child,’ he said. ‘We have come far; we are poor, weary and hungry. I believe you will not deny us charity.’

The lay brother looked at them – the travel-stained man and the weary little boy. He said: ‘You are right, traveller, to expect charity from us. It is our boast that we never turn the weary and hungry from our gates. Enter.’

Christoforo took Diego by the hand and they entered the monastery of Santa Maria de la Rabida.

They were taken to wash off the travel stains in the great trough, and when this was done they were led to the kitchens and set at a table where hot soup and bread were given them.

They fed ravenously; and while they ate, a young monk who was passing paused to look with curiosity at the man and boy and said: ‘Good day to you, travellers. Have you come far?’

‘From Lisbon,’ answered Christoforo.

‘And you have a long journey ahead of you?’

‘We travel hopefully,’ answered Christoforo, ‘and it may be, if we are fortunate, to the Court of Isabella, the Queen.’

The monk was interested. Occasionally travellers stopped at the monastery, but never before had he encountered a man with that almost fanatical light in his eyes; never had he seen such a shabby traveller on his way to visit the Queen.

Christoforo was determined to exploit the interest of the monk. It was not by chance that he had come to this monastery. He was aware that the Prior, Fray Juan Perez de Marchena, was a man of wide interests and a friend of Fernando de Talavera, who was confessor to, and in high favour with, the Queen herself.

So he talked to the monk of his ambitions; he patted his scrip and told him: ‘In here I have plans, I have charts . . . If I could find the means to equip an expedition, I would find a New World.’

It was fascinating talk to the monk who lived life within the quiet walls of the monastery, and he listened entranced while Christoforo entertained him with tales of his adventures off the coast of Guinea and Iceland.

Diego had finished his soup, and his father’s was growing cold. The boy anxiously tugged his father’s sleeve and nodded at the soup, whereupon Christoforo smiled and finished it.

The monk said: ‘And the child, he is to go with you to this New World?’

‘There are hazards, and he is young,’ said Christoforo. ‘But if other provision cannot be made for him . . .’

‘You are a man of dreams,’ said the monk.

‘Many of us are, and those who are not, should be. All that is accomplished on earth must begin as a dream.’

The monk rose and hurried away to his duties, but he could not forget the strange talk of the traveller; he sought out the Prior and told him of the unusual guests who had sought comfort within their walls.

Diego lay on a pallet in a small cell. He was so tired that he was soon fast asleep.

Meanwhile the Prior of Santa Maria de la Rabida had sent for Christoforo.

In the small room with bare walls apart from a large crucifix, and by the light of two candles, Christoforo spread his charts on the table and talked to the Prior of his ambitions.

Fray Juan believed he understood men. He looked at that weather-beaten face with the bright seaman’s eyes and he said to himself: This man has genius.

Fray Juan was fascinated. It was late, but he could not release the traveller. He must hear more.

And when they had talked for many hours he said suddenly: ‘Christoforo Colombo, I believe in you. I believe in your New World.’

Then Christoforo covered his face with his hands and there were tears in his eyes. He was ashamed of himself, but so intense was his relief that he could not hide his emotion.

‘You will help me to obtain an audience with the Queen?’ he asked.

‘I will do all in my power,’ answered Fray Juan. ‘You know it is not easy. She has little time. There has been trouble in Navarre, and it is the great wish of the Queen to see a Christian Spain. The war with Granada is imminent . . . in fact it has already begun. It may be that the Queen, with so much to occupy her thoughts, will have little patience with. . . a dream.’

‘You hold out little hope, Fray Juan.’

‘I implore you to have patience,’ was the answer. ‘But listen. I have a plan. I will not approach Fernando de Talavera. He is a good man, the Queen’s confessor, and I know him well, but he is so anxious to make war on the Infidel that he might be impatient of your schemes. I will, however, give you an introduction to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, who is rich and powerful and could bring your case to the notice of the Court.’