Moraima grabbed Robert’s arm. ‘You must help him.’

Cursing, he kicked off his boots for the second time that day. Then he jumped, feet first, his arms tucked in at his sides, and plummeted down into the water.

XIV

XIV

Weary from the heat and light, Orm and Sihtric sat in the shade of an awning and sipped water laced with lemon juice. They looked out over the scaffolding that encased the arbalest.

Sihtric said, ‘The principles are simple, but the devil is in the detail, Orm. Our ambition constantly outruns our capabilities. On the arbalest, for instance, I’ve lost count of the number of spring shafts we’ve stripped, the bow arms we’ve fractured. We learn, step by step.’ He riffled through the much-thumbed sketches of Aethelmaer’s designs, with elaborations and annotations added by Moorish scholars. ‘It is as if the wretched Aethelred was given a glimpse of the future. And we poor fools labour to build the machines of another century with the tools and materials of this.

‘But there remains the central mystery of the Incendium Dei, which will give the punch to these weapons. Look, here is the scrap of cipher Aethelmaer left.’ He pointed to a line of spidery lettering, headed simply Incendium Dei:

BMQVK XESEF EBZKM BMHSM BGNSD DYEED OSMEM HPTVZ HESZS ZHVH

‘I saw this before, at Westminster,’ Orm said. ‘It meant nothing to me then, nor does it now.’

‘Nor me, and that’s the problem. Well, nobody said it would be easy.’

‘And you’ve devoted your life to this stuff ever since Hastings?’

Sihtric shrugged. ‘After Harold fell, after my Menologium lost its value, I had no purpose. I needed a new goal.’

‘You could,’ Orm pointed out, ‘have found some parish to serve. There has been plenty of suffering among the English these last twenty years.’

Sihtric smiled, almost sadly. ‘Me, a humble parish priest? After I was nearly a king-maker? I don’t think so. I wanted power - that’s the truth and I don’t deny it. I had no other purpose in mind. And I saw Aethelmaer’s designs as a way to achieving that power.’

‘So you found a way to live here.’

‘It took time. You may remember I had a contact in Ibn Sharaf of Toledo, the noted astronomer, who corresponded with me in London. He gave me a start. After that I found a place in a monastery. I quickly learned Arabic, which is the language of government here. I made some money translating the Bible into Arabic, for other Mozarabs. There are Christians here who have grown up reading only Arabic. Imagine that!’

‘And you too are a Mozarab,’ Orm said. ‘A “nearly Arab”. You are defined by what you are not. Tolerated or not, I don’t think I would like to live with such a label.’