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XX

Seville was cold that February morning, and the wind that funnelled along the Guadalquivir was biting. It was a disappointment for Geoffrey, who had at least expected to be able to warm his English blood as a reward for undertaking this hellish trip.

It was a relief to get out of the open air and duck into the great cathedral, where he was supposed to meet Abdul.

In the still, incense-laden calm, he genuflected and crossed himself. The cathedral was a cavern of sandstone and marble. His gaze was drawn upwards to a vaulting roof that was filled with a golden light cast from huge stained-glass windows, a hint of heaven. There was nothing on this scale in England. The cathedral was a sink of wealth; it was expensive, tacky, uplifting, crushing; and it was certainly a monument to the untrammelled power of the Church in Spain.

Abdul Ibn Ibrahim met him just inside the doorway. His turban and long Moorish cloak looked thoroughly out of place in this Christian space.

Geoffrey greeted him. 'I'm surprised they let you in.'

The Moor shrugged. 'We Muslims are not barred. Perhaps the priests hope that I will be converted by the sheer stony mass of this place.' He grinned, comfortable in himself. 'So you arrived safely. What do you think of Spain, of Seville?'

'Overwhelming. Like this cathedral.'

Abdul glanced around. 'I think it's all a bit tasteless myself. However the cathedral's not meant for me, is it? Come,' he said cheerfully. 'Let me show you what is said to be the finest Moorish monument in Christian Spain.'

It turned out he meant the old mosque's muezzin tower, called by Christians the Giralda, which still stood. There was a doorway to it from the cathedral interior, and Abdul led Geoffrey up a series of broad ramps. Geoffrey had been expecting a staircase, but Abdul said the ramps had been designed this way so that guards on horseback could climb the tower. The ascent was easy but long, and Geoffrey, not a young man, was wheezing when he reached the top.

Here, huddling in his cloak against the wind, Geoffrey looked out over the roof of the cathedral, crowded with buttresses and pinnacles. It was as if he stood on the back of some huge stone beast. The city beyond was a patchwork of patios and domes that looked very Moorish to his untrained eye. But when he looked to the west, across the busy river with its pontoon bridge, he made out the hateful pile of Triana.

Abdul followed his gaze. 'You may not be able to help her,' he murmured. 'Agnes Wooler. The Inquisition is nothing if not relentless.'

'I can try. I was present at the destruction of the engines, but Ferron has no reason to suspect I had any involvement in that catastrophe – indeed, I didn't, not directly. And I am a Franciscan, quite senior in the order; I have letters from the church authorities in England. Ferron cannot deny me access to her hearing. At least I may learn what Agnes is forced to say to her interrogators. Then we may be forewarned for the battle to come over Colon.'

The Moor studied him. 'I don't believe you have come all this way just for the lofty purposes of prophecies. I know you by now, Geoffrey Cotesford. You care for people more than for ideas. You are here to save Agnes, an English girl who has fallen into the hands of the Spanish Inquisition.'

Geoffrey felt his anger mount, as it had so often whenever he reflected on that dreadful day in Derbyshire when Diego Ferron had effectively kidnapped Agnes Wooler. 'England is not Spain. In England we have a common-law writ known as habeas corpus. It dates back centuries, to the day the barons tempered King John's powers with the Magna Carta. Ever since it has served to preserve individual liberty by testing the legality of detentions. If she had not been removed from England, Agnes Wooler would be protected by such traditions, such laws. But not here, not here! Not in this country poisoned by war, and by the fear of the other.'

Abdul laid a calming hand on his arm. 'I'm afraid you can be sure that the Inquisition will extract everything she knows from poor Agnes before they are done. As for us, your name will surely be protected, but mine may not. And if I am implicated, I won't be able to help you further with the matter of Colon.'

'You must think of yourself, then,' Geoffrey said.

Abdul shook his head. 'No. We serve a greater cause, you and I.'

'Yes, we do, by God – by Allah! Thank you, my friend. But it comes to something when my most robust ally, here in this most ardently Christian of cities, is a Moor!'

The morning was advancing, and Abdul suggested they descend and return to the city for lunch. Geoffrey glanced once more over the cathedral's sprawling bulk. Far below he glimpsed a patio with orange trees, a relic of the Moorish origins of this huge church, where a boy sat on a low wall plucking at a guitar, and a girl danced before him, her arms raised, her feet clattering on the ground, her movements sensuous despite the February cold. The music drifted up to him through the rustle of the wind, a liquid sound. But the boy's song sounded almost like a muezzin's wail. In this city the Moorish face was only ever poorly disguised by the Christian mask, Geoffrey thought.

He followed Abdul down the ramps, where once the hooves of horses had clattered.