The Sacred Symbol: Torcal Trilogy, #2

By Paula Wynne

July 1492, Palos de la Frontera, Spain

Disguised as a man, Ana-María de Carbonela is on the run from the queen's soldiers who tortured and killed her mother. She overhears Columbus' sailors preparing a mutiny, but before she can warn him, and convince him to write a journal detailing his privileges from Queen Isabella, she is captured.

When her Jewish tutor is caught and punished for rescuing her, she has a terrible decision to make: Save him ... but risk the death penalty for dressing as a man.

Meanwhile, in present time, Giovanni Armellini is on a hunt for one of the world's most precious and priceless artefacts: Columbus' original Book of Privileges. A codex hidden inside will forever change the rumours about the famous admiral. Giovanni will go to deadly lengths to claim it.

In rural Andalucía Nina Monterossa finds her world is turned upside down after her father dies of a sudden heart attack, their farm manager is killed in a barn fire and her sister held to ransom for Columbus' original Book of Privileges.

Nina locates an expert on works by Columbus and rushes to Genoa to ask for help in finding the mysterious book. But Nina has walked into a trap. Now she must escape and find her sister.

The race is on. From Genoa to a remote island off Scotland, she must find the original Book of Privileges in time to save her sister. In doing so, will she discover the secrets Columbus kept hidden from the world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paula Wynne
• Release date: Dec 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386979111

Book preview

The

Sacred Symbol

Paula Wynne

Prado Press

London, United Kingdom

Author Copyright

Copyright © 2018 by Paula Wynne.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, via the web address below.

Paula Wynne, Prado Press: http://paulawynne.com/contact

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental.

Editors: Ian Harper, Ken Sheridan and Margarita Martinez

Book Designer: Slavisa Zivkovic

Cover Designer: Travis Miles

Author Contact

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It All Starts With Elixa

If you’d like to read the prequel to The Torcal Trilogy, grab it before you read this book: http://getbook.at/elixa

Also by Paula Wynne

The Torcal Trilogy

Elixa

The Grotto’s Secret

The Sacred Symbol

The Luna Legacy

Coming Soon

Flying Without Wings

Cold Feet

Readers’ Praise for The Grotto’s Secret

Past and present blend masterfully together in this page-turning thriller; guaranteed to leave readers wanting more. Angela Crouch

"The Grotto’s Secret is a fast-paced, exhilarating thriller that left me panting for more." Ros Brookman   

"A good read. I was hooked very early in the story and kept hooked throughout. The Grotto’s Secret is for fans of Kate Mosse and Dan Brown." Graham Bird

Readers’ Praise for

The Sacred Symbol

I was hooked by the first chapter of The Sacred Symbol. A page-turner right to the end. Another masterpiece from Paula Wynne!

Richard Butler

I have just started The Sacred Symbol and I'm enchanted! I don't want to stop reading.

DeeAnn Murphy

"Recommended for fans of Dan Brown,

a brilliant read"

Sue Brown

"Reminiscent of Dan Brown, the Sacred Symbol combines history, mystery, and thriller to

capture you from the first chapter and eagerly

keep you turning pages."

Jane Geiger

The Sacred Symbol is full of suspense to the end.

Corinne Lehmann

The Sacred Symbol is an intriguing story.  Wow!  I can't put it down.  So many little plots all intertwined to make up a bigger picture.

Irene Adam

Amazing how Paula Wynne is able to go back and forth between centuries and not lose the reader.  When I started The Grotto's Secret, I was concerned about following the plot, but it held me enthralled.  The Sacred Symbol is no less mesmerizing.  Really glad I discovered this author and her talents.

Linda Frank

The Sacred Symbol gets you hooked at once and is hard to put down.  Looks like I'm going to lose some sleep before I finish it!

Michael Murphy

For my husband Ken Sheridan

If I had to do it all over again,

I would find you sooner … so I could love you longer.

"You can never cross the ocean unless you have

the courage to lose sight of the shore."

Christopher Columbus

Ana-María De Carbonela

July 1492, Convento de la Rábida, Spain

Ana-María de Carbonela plunged through the pine trees, too scared to scream. Hot breath rasped in her chest, burning a path up to her parched lips.

The gravelly voices still followed close behind.

She squinted through the silver moonlit woods. Blood pumped in her ears as a tapestry of shadows swayed towards her.

Were they bandits? Or the inquisition men?

María shivered. Her stomach churned. She couldn’t face any more soldiers. They would put a stop to her quest. Worse than that, if they discovered her true identity, they would dispatch her back to Queen Isabella.

She swung back, but a branch slammed into her face, punching the air out of her lungs. As she stumbled blindly for a moment, her boot caught in a gnarled root. She tripped and plummeted down the knoll.

Breathing hard, she spat out a mouthful of dirt and lay on the pine-scented needles. Yesterday’s heat still warmed the ground.

The voices charged between the trees.

María slithered on her stomach and crawled behind a wide tree trunk. She peered through the eerie woodland, watching for movement. Listening for the voices.

A twig snapped behind her.

Her head snapped back as she peered into the darkness.

A wild boar scuttled through the brush and disappeared over the hill she had just tumbled down.

María lay still. Her eyes and ears were on full alert.

With a racing heart, she clutched the smooth, shiny stone hidden under her tunic. Although she had made a promise to Madre to always carry Papá’s piedra sagrada, she had no idea if his sacred stone from Abadía del Torcal would protect her.

Even without this new trouble, her mission was marred with challenges: on the run from the queen’s soldiers who had burnt her home, disguised as a man, using a false name and attempting to get passage aboard a ship full of men.

The stone would need to be miraculous to protect her from all of that.

Earlier in the night, just after the full moon had risen in the sky and loomed its swollen yellow face down at her, the stone had started to release a comforting warmth. Now, in the pre-dawn gloom, it chafed her leg through its leather pouch.

A strange howl pierced the night. Up above, the air moved around her with the scent of animals on the prowl.

She had always enjoyed the solitude of walking in the crisp night air, not afraid to be alone, nor alarmed by the sounds of night. The only dangerous beasts she would ever encounter in the woods were men. But here, in this unknown wilderness, so far from home, she feared armed bandoleros who preyed on traders carrying produce to the coast. She knew they also roamed the countryside looking for people to rob.

More sounds plummeted through the stillness. A heavy clunk of metal. Thumping of boots on the parched earth. Horse hooves clattering on the dirt track leading up to La Rábida Monastery.

Her breath caught in her throat. Horse hooves reminded María of the soldiers who had tortured and killed Madre. Half of her wanted to hide, but the other half had to find out who was following her.

At that moment, the moonlight broke through a cloud and illuminated the woods.

Daring to find out, María clambered up the knoll and peered over the top. A short distance ahead, two men stood near a horse hitched to a wagon. The horse panted and snorted as though he had just stopped after a long, hard gallop.

As the men ambled off, away from the horse, the beast raised his head and peered up at her.

Silence invaded the woods, with only the splash of liquid against a tree as the men relieved themselves. So occupied, they didn’t notice a squirrel racing up the tree beside them and leaping from branch to branch over their heads.

María grimaced.

A froth of foam and spittle spewed from between the horse’s teeth where the bridle pulled up the corners of his mouth. He strained against the taut leather strap that was too tight, pulling the metal bit over his teeth. The deep, hoarse sound of his neigh showed his discomfort, yet his riders ignored it.

María hesitated. Her primal instinct was to help him. To loosen his bridle and give him more comfort. But what if the men saw her?

As they disappeared out of sight, María leapt up and crept down the bank, skidding at the bottom. The horse snorted at her.

‘Shh, I will not harm you.’

Long shaggy wisps of his mane draped over his face. His huge almond eyes peered at her. Up close, he was a strong cart horse with a round belly, unlike the chargers she had seen carrying their riders to the port.

She reached out her arm to pat the horse’s nose, but he tossed his head away. Instead, she stroked his back and cooed to calm him. She pulled out her water costrel and poured a little into her cupped hand.

The horse’s huge rubbery tongue slurped and sucked at the water.

She smiled at the hairy tickle of his lips and poured the last of her water into her palm. As he lapped it up, the water slopped over her hands and dripped onto her boots.

María jumped as he stomped his hooves, almost trampling her feet. She ran her hands along his warm and dusty flank, up to the leather straps and found the buckle.

Quickly, she loosened the piece of leather over his cheeks so it hung properly in his mouth.

Now calm, the stallion’s rhythmic breathing puffed softly beside her. Only her heartbeat competed with his muffled breathing.

She leaned against him, breathing in the smell of sweat on his hide and straw on his breath. It reminded her of home. After a few inquisitive nuzzles at her chemise, he swept the bristles under his muzzle along her arm.

The horse seemed to ooze stamina and strength back into her, giving her the will to continue her travels.

On her journey from her home in Sierra del Torcal, she had imagined herself to be the goddess of wild animals. As she walked beneath the moon in the wilderness, her ears were always open for the sounds of an animal in distress. She had not thought it would be the animal that brought the soldiers to her home.

Just then the voices splintered the silence.

The riders were stamping their way towards her.

María bolted up the bank and rolled down the other side. She fled between the trees. With each step, Padre’s satchel bumped on her back.

After a moment of hard running she glimpsed the circle of lantern light surrounding the monastery.

At last.

Her tunic, already damp from the summer heat, now clung to her clammy body.

The clattering of metal chains and thumping of footsteps pierced the dark as the riders led the horse and wagon towards the convent’s fortress. She had to get out of their path. They must not see her. She couldn’t risk that at this hour.

María ran faster, weaving between the trees and keeping her head low. Then, the sanctuary of the walled monastery came into view. But she could not seek refuge inside. Her shelter would be the surrounding trees and bushes, until she could find a way to gain an audience with the admiral.

Up ahead, La Rábida Monastery stood proud against the bruised sky. It loomed out of the early morning, with high towers, domed roofs and solid walls, built to ward off attackers. The air, rich with the aroma of baking bread and the fumes of burning wood, skulked around the monks’ residence in a smoky mist.

Suddenly, the voices were near. And louder.

María raced the last stretch and pressed herself against the boundary wall surrounding the monastery.

Panting, she peered through the gate. Inside, bountiful gardens and a large orange grove were clustered around the chapel.

Every part of her wanted to slip through the gate and hide inside the cloister. But she could not take the risk of being caught. That would put her mission in jeopardy.

Instead, she took refuge between the trailing branches of an Arabian jasmine bush just inside the convent walls.

With a sweet floral scent all around her, María held her breath and listened as the voices burst out of the nearby woods.

From around the corner of the tall, imposing watchtower, the men appeared. Leading the horse she had helped into the walled garden, they moved under a lantern. Only now she saw them clearly enough to see they were sailors.

Not soldiers. Not bandits.

Their long shadows leapt out at her and for a moment she thought they had spotted her.

The first one startled María. For a terrible moment, she was back in her cottage kitchen where a soldier, clad in a leather jerkin, had tortured Madre. Just as quickly, the memory faded.

The horse clattered along the cobbles as they led it over to the meadow.

The clanking of metal rang out as one of them removed the metal bridle from the horse.

‘Here, Anton.’ He leaned over and dropped the bridle into his compatriot’s hands.

Anton led the horse to a nearby fount. Rough and dirty, Anton wore a leather jerkin, but unlike the soldier who killed Madre, he had a cloth pulled tightly around his head and tied in a knot at the back of his neck. His leather jerkin buckled a baggy tunic.

‘Finally, you can drink,’ María whispered as she watched the horse bury his nose under the water. He snorted and raised his head. For a moment, he gazed in her direction and then he went back to drinking.

Anton lifted a bale of hay from the back of the wagon and dropped it beside the horse. Together, the men unloaded large wooden barrels from the wagon.

The sailor grunted as he strained to lift one of them. ‘What’s in here?’

Anton answered in a hushed voice. ‘The Pinzón brothers are giving the friars gifts for allowing them to meet the admiral here. Our captain needs a private place to hold talks about the journey ahead.’ He unloaded the last barrel and grumbled, ‘I must eat, Pedro. Captain Pinzón will only be ready to leave here at midday.’

‘I think not. The Jew will keep our captain talking for many days,’ Pedro scoffed. ‘I will find a place to sleep away the time in the shade.’

Anton snorted. ‘He is not a Jew. He is Portuguese.’

‘No, no, no! He is a converso from Catalán. A Spanish Jew who converted to the Christian faith only to fool the monarchy into funding his journey. I think he is still a Jew in secret.’

‘Why do you believe such foolishness, Pedro?’

‘He has been careful to conceal himself. I have heard the Pinzón brothers say that Colón writes in Spanish.’

María’s pulse skipped a beat.

Cristóbal Colón.

The Admiral of the Oceans. The man she had come to find. Her mission was to convince him to take her on his journey. If he agreed and she set sail with him, the soldiers hunting her would never find her.

Pedro pressed the side of his nose and exhaled the contents of the other side. ‘But the Jew also writes Hebrew in his journals.’

‘Bah! That means nothing.’

‘Yes, it does! Colón is eager to find a place for his fellow Jews.’ Pedro stuck his finger up his other nostril. ‘Captain Pinzón said that Colón’s wish to sail west and reach the Indies is more about a safe country for the Jews than finding a new trade route to the Indies.’

‘That does not mean he’s from Catalán. I know for sure he is a secret spy sent by King João of Portugal to work against our king and queen.’

María gasped and clutched her mouth.

‘Never!’ Pedro scoffed. ‘Their king is stupid if he has sent the Jew here to conspire against our monarchy.’ Pedro flicked the bits from his nose off the tip of his finger.

‘Ah, but that is where Colón is a clever man.’ Anton picked at his hideously scarred cheek as though it pained him. After a moment, he said, ‘He has planned a grand ruse to deny the Spanish the trade routes around Africa and the Indies. He will ensure the best trade routes belong to Portugal.’

‘You think Colón will cheat us out of what is rightfully ours?’ Pedro looked aghast.

‘He is not one of us, Pedro. No Spaniard would agree with you. He’s a foreigner, living amongst our kin as if he has the right to be in Spain. But he will have us believe he is Italian. Bah!’ Anton’s anger became evident as he tugged at the scar, causing it to turn pink.

‘What proof do you have of this?’ Pedro snorted.

‘I know this because Pinzón asked me to spy for him.’

As she heard the words, María’s head flinched back. Anton was spying on Cristóbal Colón. She planned to do the same—after seeking out the admiral to convince him that she would be a good cabin boy—but Anton’s purpose sounded sinister.

After journeying for weeks throughout the summer, María had arrived at Palos de la Frontera looking for Cristóbal Colón. There she had spent many days watching the port and listening to its people. Then she had found out that the admiral had just arrived from Granada and was staying at La Rábida.

Without a second thought, María had walked from Palos, up the commanding hill beside the mouth of the Río Tinto and the Río Odiel. At the top, the Franciscan monastery looked out upon the sea that the admiral was so anxious to cross. Here she would find the admiral, show him her writing and convince him that she would write a journal of the voyage.

After she had been told about the great sailor who wanted to discover a new route to the Indies, she had followed him to Palos so she could journey with him. She did not know if the admiral was Jewish or not. Nor did it matter.

What did matter was the sailor accusing the admiral of being a spy for the Portuguese king.

For many years there had been rumblings that los Judeos—the Jews—would be banished from Al-Andalus. When it had happened, María had been shocked at the monarchy’s Alhambra Decree, ordering all Jews to convert to Catholicism or be executed.

A doleful bell chimed.

A few yards in front of María’s hiding place in the bushes, Pedro wiped his large hand through long, dirty, knotted hair. ‘Go steal some bread. The old friar will be baking at this ungodly hour. He bakes so many loaves, he won’t notice one go missing when he turns his back,’ Pedro shouted over his shoulder, as he led the horse into the meadow to feed on the long grass.

In silence, María watched Anton amble towards the monastery’s church. He didn’t appear to be the kind of man that would pray for guidance.

Despite the stifling heat already clinging to her at this early hour, a shiver ran through María, partly from the beads of sweat tickling down the back of her neck, but mostly from wondering if she would achieve her goal today.

La Rábida’s high walls and imposing watchtower had been built by the Moors as a safe haven while under attack. Now, they sheltered the man who would take her on his journey to discover the new world. Whatever happened, she had to gain an audience with Cristóbal Colón.

In minutes, her mission had changed from finding the admiral for her own gain, to warning him of danger on his journey.

Still puzzled about what she had heard, María gripped the sacred stone. She shifted to stop her right foot falling asleep in its jammed position between a fork in the mangled jasmine branches.

Anton ambled a few feet past her.

María slunk into the shadows. Stepping back, she wobbled sideways and lost her balance.

The sacred stone dropped.

It crashed onto the rock wall surrounding the flowerbed where she hid. María gasped as the stone skipped over the rocks and landed in the middle of the cobbled path.

Suddenly Anton stopped dead in his tracks. He swung around and stared in her direction.

María’s heart banged against her ribs as Anton slowly retraced his steps. Up alongside the rock wall, Anton peered at the profusion of brambles and scrub. As he leaned in, peering into the shrubs, his hair hung over his shoulders in long, dirty, knotted ropes. He pulled a dagger out of his black, scuffed boots.

She shuddered, trying not to remember what the leather jerkin soldier had done to Madre’s hair with his dagger.

By snatching the soldier’s blade out of the glowing embers of her burning home months ago, she had made a blood oath to avenge Madre’s death. The light, easy-to-carry dagger had become a constant companion on her journey to Palos. Its short yet sharp blade had only supplied her with food so far, but at the first sign of danger she wouldn’t hesitate to thrust it. The sacred stone and the dagger were her protection.

Even though Anton wasn’t a soldier, María had no doubt he was capable of untold violence with his weapon.

Suddenly, María glimpsed his face.

Thick black eyebrows knitted together over dark glaring eyes. A raw strip of puckered flesh, toughened by wind and sea salt, ran from the corner of his mouth up across his cheek to just under the corner of his eye.

An abrupt image of a badger came into her mind. The fierce, dirty warrior who stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. The white stripe running from the animal’s strong jaw to its nose looked like Anton’s scar. Even though the badgers in the mountains near her home were honey hunters, she had come across a few that were ferocious if cornered.

Like the badger in her mind, Anton was stocky, yet muscular and powerful. His chest was matted with a mixture of grey and brown bristles.

The scar-faced sailor thrust aside a jasmine branch.

María’s breath trapped in her chest.

Anton had discovered her.

For a long moment, Anton peered into the bush.

María’s heart beat wildly in her chest. The silvery moon faded as the first rays of sun split the night, shooting shards of scarlet across the sky as another smothering day dawned. In the orange glow, Anton’s scar seemed to leap off his face, turning him into a scary, cruel sailor. Anyone seeing him at this hour would tremble at the sight of him, but María had so much more to fear than just the sailor.

After a few moments of silent glowering, Anton grunted. Turning back to the monastery, he stopped and bent over. He picked up the stone and ran a finger along it. He tossed it in the air and caught it in his other hand.

With a frown deepening his forehead, he held the stone up. The stone glinted in the lantern light. Shafts of light shone out of the honeycomb of embedded crystals.

Anton chuckled under his breath, slipped the stone into his breeches and ambled off.

Bereft and breathing hard, María wanted to race up to him and grab the sacred stone. But she knew that would be certain death.

What should she do now?

Exhaling the pent-up air, she clenched her scarred hands into fists. She had just broken her promise to Madre about always keeping the stone with her.

Worse than that, she knew deep down that the stone somehow protected the bearer. It had saved Padre from many rock falls and walls caving in. But on the only day he had left it at home, he had been crushed to death.

The nausea in her stomach rose into her throat. Going after the stone would deter her quest, but she had to get it back. Without it, she would not achieve all she had set out to do. More than that, she could never break another promise to Madre.

The wafting aroma of baking bread made Maria’s mouth water and sent a pang of heartache through her as she remembered Madre waking at this early hour to bake bread.

At first, she had come to secure passage aboard Colón’s ships, but now a more urgent task was placed upon her. She had to warn the admiral and find her sacred stone.

Her pained stare followed the sailor as he disappeared into the monastery.

María crept out of her hiding place and darted after Anton. As she entered the monastery, she glanced both ways. Where had he gone?

A large arched door stood ajar. María listened for a moment. Only the muffled chanting of prayers. She slipped inside and crept along the hallway.

She sniffed deeply. Anton would follow the smell of baking bread, but here the baking aroma had been taken over by the scented lanterns

Thick wooden beams arched up into a point, giving the hall the impression of inside a cathedral. Early morning sun streamed in the window, turning the dark gloomy passage into an amber glow of orange and yellow stripes.

Inside the monastery, a covered walkway housed a cobbled courtyard. Holding her breath, María tiptoed along the empty Moorish cloister. The soft chanting of continuous prayers hung in the air. A huge church arch welcomed her with open doors.

María poked her head inside and her eyes immediately lifted to the high, vaulted ceiling. Several archways led in from side alcoves. One huge arch in the centre showed a sculpture of Christ hanging on a wooden cross, looking down on a group of friars in prayer.

No sign of Anton.

María tiptoed out and into a long hallway with another row of high, pointed arches that converged into a peak just above the wooden-beamed ceiling.

Then she heard voices.

A window was thrown open. Inside, two friars, in white outer robes with black hoods, greeted a man in a red, skirted tunic top.

‘Cristóbal! Welcome back to La Rábida,’ the friar exclaimed. ‘Ah, but now I should call you Admiral Don Cristóbal Colón.’

María’s jaw dropped.

The man she had journeyed for weeks to find.

For a moment, she forgot the stone. As the admiral stood in front of her, all she could do was spy on his conversation with the monks. From her hiding place, María stared directly at the admiral. Silver hair curled over his high forehead. He had a long nose, but a steady gaze with intelligent, soft eyes.

‘Thank you, Friar Juan Pérez. Your good words to Ferdinand and Isabella have succeeded in persuading them to give their acceptance of my journey.’ Colón turned to the other monk and clasped both his hands. ‘Brother Antonio de Marchena, you, too, my friend, helped to quell the doubts.’

Friar Pérez smiled. ‘It was not an easy time. Many learned men, even the monarchs, thought you had lost all sense.’

‘Yes, most learned men believe the world is round. Yet I have the belief that many people still believe the world is flat.’ The admiral chuckled. ‘Perchance they believe our ships will tumble off the edge of the world and all the king’s money and all his men will be lost.’

From her spot in the cloister, María glimpsed a ceiling with thick wooden beams. Below it, a few chairs huddled around a table which held candles and writing materials.

‘It seemed as if my great enterprise must be given up. But I never lost hope. I never stopped trying. I was always certain that at some time I would succeed.’

‘I beseech you, Cristóbal, be more modest. Do not ask for more, or you will get nothing.’

‘With Brother Pérez being a confessor to the queen, we will take it upon ourselves to act as your merchant banking advisors.’

Colón nodded at Friar Juan. ‘I thank you for your plea to Queen Isabella.’

Friar Juan walked around the table and sat in one of the chairs. ‘I did not expect it, but I am pleased the queen will award you titles in any new lands you find. And, of course, a percentage of any fortune that you find.’

‘Yes,’ Colón agreed. ‘At last, she has granted my wish. To which I pray she keeps the promise.’

Under a row of stone arches, the admiral’s red top stood out like old blood against the bland stone wall.

Friar Juan said, ‘We have found a silversmith who will journey with you, for the day you find gold and silver and precious stones.’

The admiral was pleased. ‘I too have an educated man who can speak many languages. He will translate the conversations with the natives.’ He turned to the other friar. ‘I will go to Palos, where they are preparing three vessels well-suited for my enterprise. Right now, they are being furnished with provisions.’

Brother Antonio said, ‘You will have a difficult time hiring sailors. Many of the seasoned mariners look questionably at you.’

‘Because I am Genoese.’

The admiral’s tone was light, yet María sensed it saddened him.

He sighed. ‘I too believe the Pinzóns will not give me the time of day.’

Friar Juan nodded. ‘Yes, I am afraid not, but you will do well to work alongside the Pinzón brothers.’

The admiral exclaimed, ‘Martin Pinzón is a man of energy and honour.’ He added, ‘Martin will captain the Niña and his brother Vicente will captain the Pinta, with me aboard the flagship Santa María.’

Friar Juan leaned over the writing materials and tapped his finger on the table. ‘They have already recruited relatives, friends and former sailors. The expedition will carry a few important families from Palos, such as the Niños, Quinteros and of course, the Pinzóns. And the Pinzón brothers have provided a crew of seafaring men.’

To María, it sounded as though the friars aimed to convince Colón of these captains.

A shuffle behind her startled María. She spun around to see a monk ambling along the stone path leading around the courtyard. Thankfully, with his nose in a prayer book, he had not seen her.

She ducked down out of sight and listened for the admiral’s response.

‘To carry out my orders, I have in mind to set down each day full details of everything I do and see and experience on this voyage.’

Brother Antonio said, ‘That is a good agenda.’

Colón continued. ‘I will convey this to my sovereign lord and lady, as well as describing every night the events of the day and recording each day the distance run in the night.’

Brother Antonio asked, ‘Are you in possession of a chart of the sea and land you will encounter?’

The admiral answered, ‘I intend to draw a nautical chart which shall contain the several parts of the ocean and land in their true positions and courses. On it I shall mark the coasts and islands where a landing may be effected.’

María bit her lip. There, right in front of her, was her chance to gain passage aboard the ships. She would offer to help him with those charts. Her neck stretched as she strained to see inside, but she kept down in case they saw her.

Friar Juan rose and adjusted his robe. ‘All of which will be no small task.’

‘Yes.’ The admiral nodded, deep in thought. ‘Above all, I must have no regard for sleep, but must concentrate on the demands of navigation.’

María raised her head in time to see Friar Juan Pérez place his hand on the admiral’s shoulder.

‘We will finalize the details of the expedition today with Martín and other expert navigators from Palos. He awaits you.’

Brother Antonio said, ‘Come, my friend, you have an important role to play in finding new trade routes. Before you spend the day with your new captains, let us pray for your safe passage.’

Now María was more determined than ever to speak with the admiral and convince him that she was the right person to write his journals and charts. Even more, she had to explain what his crew were planning. But now wasn’t the time.

Getting him alone was the best chance she had. She had to keep watching and waiting.

First, she had to find Anton to get back Padre’s piedra.

After sneaking around the monastery grounds in search of Anton, María spotted him lying in the woods.

Still in his stained tunic, he lay beside the wagon, surrounded by dried bread crusts. His grunting snores didn’t bother the horse María had helped earlier. He was strapped and ready.

Unsure what the wagon would hold, or when it would leave, she hid in a bush waiting to see if Anton moved. For what seemed like ages, she watched his chest rise and fall. In the distance, another bell tolled. Each time one rang friars scurried from one part of the monastery to another. Most of them carried prayer books and didn’t seem to bother to even look up, never mind take any notice of her.

She tucked Padre’s satchel deep into the jasmine bush near the entrance of the convent and sat in wait for the right moment.

When she was convinced the sailor wouldn’t wake, no matter the noises around him, María crept up to his sleeping hulk. With his nose snarling each time he snored, he looked cruel and vicious. Keeping her eyes fixed on the scar, María held her breath. She glanced inside the wagon and searched it. Straw lined the wooden planks. A few bundles of hay drooped to one side, while a pile of ropes slid off the back of the wagon like snakes fleeing their den.

María tiptoed back to the snoring sailor. She slipped her hand inside a satchel that lay beside him.

Her fingers crawled around like a spider searching for prey. Nothing smooth and small and rounded like the stone. She knelt beside him and shuddered. She dared not touch him, but she had to claim Padre’s stone. Even though she examined his clothing with her eyes, the stench of sweat and unwashed clothes hung in the air. The only place he could possibly hide the stone was inside his breeches.

Anton moved.

María froze.

He rolled onto his side and curled his booted legs up into a foetal position. His breeches protruded, hanging to one side.

The stone.

It had to be. The pouch was small and light, but heavier than the breeches. They gaped open where the stone tugged at the cotton lining.

María leaned over, her hand inching closer and closer. She laid her palm on his hip and rested it there for a moment, only a feather touch.

Anton snored on.

María’s fingers crept down into the gaping breeches.

Just then, a hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

María froze and stared at the scar right up close to her nose.

Anton pushed his face into hers and bellowed, ‘What are you doing, boy?’ His dark eyes bored into hers. The stench of putrefied meat oozed out with his words.

For a moment, María choked on the stink, unable to speak.

Anton leapt to his feet, dragging her up with him.

Face to face with the scar-faced sailor, María thought of Padre’s piedra and her quest. And how nothing would stop her.

‘You have my stone. I want it back.’

‘Your stone!’ he scoffed.

As spittle dripped onto her face, she pulled her head back. ‘Yes, I dropped it earlier this morning and you picked it up.’

Anton leaned in, so close to her face she squinted to focus her eyes. ‘So it was you spying on me.’

‘I wasn’t spying.’

‘Shut up, boy. I have no time for thieves.’ He grabbed her tunic and almost tore it as he dragged her over to the wagon.

Behind them, the horse whinnied and stomped his hooves.

Anton forced María up against the splintered wood on the side of the wagon and pulled the stone out of his breeches.

His eyes narrowed as he stared at it and then at her. ‘What does it do?’

‘Nothing. It was my father’s stone.