‘Gibberish,’ she said. ‘Meaningless. I care nothing for prophecies. All I care about is acquiring the power to achieve my goals. All I care about is getting hold of those designs, and building the weapons, and turning them on Muslim flesh.’

Saladin heard screams, and the angry shouts of the men. Subh was putting up a fight. ‘And what of your cousin?’

‘She deserves what’s coming to her,’ Joan spat. ‘I hope they split her open.’

Saladin decided in that moment that he would not follow his mother, not any more, not after this. He would fight for the Holy Land, yes. But he would do it the honourable way, the Pope’s way. He would take the Cross again, and join King Louis’s crusade in Egypt.

And he would not forget the prophecy of the Dove as long as he lived, and he would pass it on to his own children, and instruct them to pass it on to theirs, so that in the unimaginable future they might make their own judgements about the Engines of God.

They reached the fire. Thomas was rubbing podgy hands. ‘Perfect, perfect. All we have to do is retrieve the designs, ship them back to England, and let Roger Bacon get to work.’

Joan, her blood leaking between her fingers, snapped, ‘Must we clear this fire first?’

‘No need. In fact the fire will help us. Perhaps it was sent by God for that very purpose.’ And from his sleeve he drew a packet.

‘What’s that?’

‘A present from Bacon. Black powder.’

Joan grinned, and held out her hand. ‘Let me.’

There were howls from the soldiers with Subh. ‘Ow!’ Saladin heard Michael call. ‘The old witch has bitten through my cheek! . . . By God’s wounds. She’s dead! Now, how did she manage that? Poison under her tongue? I think she’s defeated us, lads . . .’

Joan sprinkled the powder on the floor, on the spot Subh had indicated. Thomas took an ember from the fire and threw it. Fire blossomed, its noise echoing like thunder beneath the mosque’s low ceiling, and the floor broke open.

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I

I

In the last days / To the tail of the peacock / He will come: / The spider’s spawn, the Christ-bearer / The Dove . . .

Long before he had ever heard of the Testament of Eadgyth, James grew up believing, or at least fearing, that the world’s last days were indeed near. Legends of the last days had rattled around the house in Buxton since James had been taken in as a boy, and had listened wide-eyed to the lurid speculations of the older brothers.