Harry held up his hands. 'Enough. I'm better at figuring accounts than the geometry of the stars.'
'My point is that the Chinese know how big the world is. And they would tell you that it would be a long journey if you were to try to sail west from Lisbon, say, to China. But on the other hand,' Abdul said thoughtfully, 'that big Ocean Sea has plenty of room for an unknown continent or two. The Chinese never sailed far enough to find out.'
Geoffrey thought this through. 'Then you're saying,' he said carefully, 'that the prophecy of the Dove, the invasion of Europe by people from the west, could have a basis in truth.'
'I'm saying it's not impossible.' Abdul looked at the two of them. 'All this will take years to come to fruition, one way or another. The monarchs have other matters to deal with before they fund Ocean crossings. And the Engines of God need development before they kill anyone save by accident. We have time yet to deflect history's course.'
Harry's heart sank at that thought. 'So we can't be rid of this any time soon.'
'Not yet,' said Geoffrey grimly. 'Be patient.'
XV
The Derbyshire country under its lid of low cloud was a dark green mouth, damp and enclosing, and the abandoned village was a field of worn-down hummocks. Though it was not long after noon, the light already seemed to be fading. As he followed James and Grace into the village, Friar Diego Ferron, tall, thin, almost spectral, held up the hem of his expensive robe, as if trying to avoid any contact with the English mud.
James couldn't help but see the murky, unsatisfactory English December day through Ferron's eyes. A greater contrast to the dry brilliance of southern Spain was hard to imagine. After all they were here to impress another man from the Mediterranean, Bartolomeo Colon, the brother of navigator Cristobal. Bartolomeo had come to England to seek support for Cristobal's adventure from King Henry, for after three years of fruitlessly pestering the Spanish monarchs Cristobal was casting his net wider. Grace and Ferron had seized the chance to impress one of the Colons with a demonstration of their Engines of God. If Ferron was instantly put off by the English weather, would Bartolomeo be too?
But then Diego Ferron was a uniquely unpleasant man, James told himself. Though they had worked together for seven years now on the continuing development of the Engines of God and on following the progress of Cristobal Colon, Ferron's stern, cruel piety appealed to James no more now than it ever had.
So James was spitefully glad when a hatch in the ground opened up under Ferron's feet, and the friar jumped back.
Grace said quickly, 'There's no need for alarm. Prepare to be impressed, brother. James?'
James led Grace and Ferron down muddy steps into a dark hall in the earth, leading off into the dark. Lamps burned in alcoves on the walls, and a greyer light diffused into the corridor from air vents.
A wagon was waiting at the bottom of the stair. A squat platform, it had a large crossbow-like mechanism mounted on its upper surface, and a fifth wheel attached to a rudder on a pivot at the back. With no horse or bullock in sight, there seemed no way it could be moved. James guided Grace and a bewildered Ferron to sit on two leather seats at the front of the vehicle. He himself took the rear seat, took hold of the rudder, and unclipped a latch on the crossbow.
The wagon moved off down the corridor, smoothly and silently. Ferron sat bolt upright, his large delicate hands white as they gripped the edge of his seat.
James, enjoying the moment, said nothing of the wagon, but described the background to work that had progressed in utter secrecy for more than two centuries since the time of Roger Bacon. 'We are working in a continuing tradition. In ancient times, thinkers like Archimedes applied their intellect to the design of weapons and defences. In more recent decades engineers like Taccola, Buonaccorso Ghiberti and Francesco di Giorgio Martini have developed military treatises. And we have had some fruitful correspondence with an artist and philosopher called Leonardo da Vinci, who is developing war engines for the Duke of Milan. But our engines are rather more advanced than his – of course we have had some centuries' start…'
Ferron had said nothing since the wagon began to move. Now he spoke at last, his voice tight. 'This cart of yours.'
'Yes?'
'It has no horses. No bullock. No slaves to pull it.'
'Of course not.'
'Yet it moves. What witchcraft is this?'
James grinned behind Ferron's back. 'No witchcraft. It propels itself. This mechanism – you see, it is rather like a crossbow – when wound back stores energy which, if released, is transmitted to gears that drive the wheels.
'Most of our designs are based on five simple machines studied since antiquity: I mean the winch, the lever, the pulley, the wedge and the screw. As to energy sources we use weights, heat – I mean trapped steam – human and animal muscle, wind or water power, and spring energy, as on this wagon. That, and Bacon's black powder. The principle of the wagon is simple. The engineering challenge was in designing differential gears so the wheels can move independently…'
Grace leaned back. 'Enough,' she whispered to James. 'We're here to impress the man, not to terrify him.'
James nodded. But he couldn't be bothered to suppress his grin. Thirty-three years old, he felt confident and in command – and he felt like taking a little petty revenge on these rather monstrous figures who had dominated his life.
The wagon slowed. James latched the spring drive, applied the brakes to the rear wheel, and the wagon came to a slightly juddering halt. Without much dignity Ferron scrambled off his seat to the dirt floor.
They passed through an arched doorway and walked down further steps to emerge into a large chamber, walled with rough stone blocks and lit up by more torches and oil lamps. It was a cave, but a vast one; from its cathedral-like roof stalactites dangled like icicles.
And in the shadows obscure engines loomed, their metal flanks gleaming with oil. Monks scurried around the machines. There was a low hum of conversation, the clank of hammers on metal – and a shriek of released steam, which made them all jump.
A shadow like a bat's rattled across the roof, and settled into a corner.
'Welcome,' James said, 'to our manufactory.'
'This is a cave,' Ferron said, wondering.
'Oh, yes,' Grace said. 'This shire is riddled with them. Limestone country, you see. And up above there's nobody around for miles; the country has yet to recover from the Great Mortality. In fact we moved here after the plague, decades ago; already nearly a century had passed since Bacon's first instructions, and we needed the room. In time the brothers have spread out through a whole complex of these caverns, quarrying out tunnels and passageways as they went. Like moles with tonsures!' She seemed to find the notion comical. 'An ideal place for work like this – heavy, noisy – if you want to keep it secret.'
They walked towards the machines. Ferron asked, 'Secret? From whom?'
Grace shrugged. 'The seventh King Henry isn't long on his throne. These brothers haven't toiled for centuries to put bombards in the hands of one pretender to the English crown or another.'
Ferron nodded. 'We have a higher purpose than the ambitions of kings, we are waging a war which transcends all others. You have chosen the right course – you and your forebears, for centuries.' He had recovered his composure, James noticed, amused.
Now they were walking among the engines. They passed wheeled platforms, and huge hulls like steel houses, and blunt cannons whose mouths gaped, and more exotic forms yet, complicated masses of machinery with no clear purpose. On one bench lay a huge skeletal wing, twice the length of a man's body. There was a stink of oil and hot metal, the air was dense with steam, and the labouring monks, wide-eyed in the gloom, scurried out of their way.