And she was smiling. For the first time since she had heard of it she was no longer disturbed by the thought of bright and beautiful Francis Phoebus, lying dead at the hand of a poisoner.
Chapter IX
THE DREAM OF CHRISTOFORO COLOMBO
In a small shop in one of the narrow streets of the town of Lisbon a man waited for customers, and on his face was an expression of frustration and sorrow.
‘Will it always be thus?’ he asked himself. ‘Will my plans never come to fruition?’
He had asked the question again and again of Filippa, his wife, and she had always replied in the same way: ‘Have courage, Christoforo. One day your dreams will be realised. One day you will find those who will believe you, who will make it possible for you to carry out your plan.’
And he had said in those days: ‘You are right, Filippa; one day I shall succeed.’
He had smiled at her because he had known that in her heart she was not displeased. When the great day came she would stand at the door of the shop, little Diego in her arms, waving to a husband who was going away on his great adventure, an adventure which would, more likely than not, end in death.
Yet she need not have feared on that account. She was the one who had gone to meet death – not on the high seas, but in the back room of this dark little shop which was crowded with charts and nautical instruments.
Little Diego came and stood beside him. Patient little Diego, who now had no mother to care for him, and tried so hard to understand the meaning of the dreams he saw in his father’s eyes.
Few people came into the shop to buy. Christoforo was not a good salesman, he feared. If they came, if they were interested in sailing the seas, he would invite them into the room beyond and there, over a bottle of wine, they would talk while Christoforo forgot the need to sell his goods that he might provide food for himself and his son.
It was nearly ten years since he had come to Lisbon from Genoa. He was even then nearly thirty years old. He often talked now to little Diego, who had been his chief companion since Filippa had died.
Diego would stand, his hands on his father’s knees, listening.
Diego thought his father the most handsome man in Lisbon, indeed in the world, for Diego knew nothing of the world beyond Lisbon. When his father talked his eyes would glow with a luminosity which Diego did not understand – and yet it thrilled his small body. His father talked as no others talked; and his talk was all of a land that lay somewhere across the oceans, a land which existed and yet about which no one on this side of the world knew anything.
Diego looked into the face of a man who saw visions. A tall man, a broad man, with long legs, blue eyes which seemed made for looking over long distances, and thick hair which had a touch of red and gold in it.
‘Father,’ Diego would say, ‘tell me about the great voyage of discovery.’
Then Christoforo would talk, and as he talked those light, luminous eyes swept across the past to the present and on into the future, and it was as though he saw clearly what had happened, what was happening and what the future held.
‘I came to Lisbon, my son,’ he would begin, ‘because I believed that here in this country I might find more sympathy for my schemes than was given me in Italy. In Italy . . . they laughed at me. My son, I think they begin to laugh at me here.’
Diego listened intently. They laughed at his father because they were fools. They did not believe in the existence of the great land across the water.
‘Fools! Fools!’ cried Diego, clenching his fists and bringing them down on his father’s knees.
Then Christoforo remembered the youthfulness of his son and he was unhappy again, for he thought: What if they listened to me with serious attention? What if they smiled on me? What would become of this small boy?
It had been different when Filippa was alive. He could no longer see himself setting out while Filippa waved farewell with their son in her arms.
He would take the boy on his knee and tell him of the journeys he had made. He would talk of voyages to the coast of Guinea and Iceland, to the Cape de Verd Islands. He talked of the time when he had first come to Lisbon. Filippa had come with him; and she had known what he planned; he had made no secret of his ambitions. She had understood. She was her father’s daughter and he had sailed the seas; he understood the desire of men to discover new lands. So Filippa Muñiiz de Palestrello understood also.
She had watched her husband and her father bending over the charts, growing excited, talking of what lay beyond the wastes of water so far unexplored by Europeans.
When her father died all his charts and all his instruments were left to Christoforo, who had by then married Filippa.
One day Christoforo, who had vainly been trying to interest influential men in his projects, heard that an adventurer was more likely to get a sympathetic understanding in the maritime port of Lisbon than anywhere else, for King John II of Portugal was interested in expeditions into the unknown world.
‘Pack up what we have, Filippa,’ he had said. ‘This day we leave for Lisbon.’
And so to Lisbon they had come, and found a home here among its seven hills. But Filippa had died, leaving him only Diego to remind him of her – Diego, that precious and beloved creature, who because of the dream must be an anxiety.
Wandering along the banks of the Tagus, walking disconsolately through the Alfama district, gazing up to the Castle of Sao Jorge set on the highest of the hills, he dreamed continually of the day when he would leave Lisbon; for his dream had become an obsession which tormented him, and had grown to such proportions that it obliterated even the love of his wife and child.
‘But one day, Diego, my son,’ said Christoforo, ‘they will not laugh. One day they will honour your father. Mayhap they will make him an Admiral and I shall ask a place at Court for you, my little son.’
Diego nodded; he had no idea what a place at Court would mean to him, but he was pleased that his father did not forget him; for young as he was, Diego understood the force of his father’s ambition.
‘Father,’ he said, ‘will it be soon that you sail away?’
‘Soon, my son. It must be soon. I have waited long. And while I am away, you will be good?’
‘I will be good,’ said the boy, ‘but I shall long for your return.’
Christoforo was smitten with remorse afresh. He lifted the boy in his arms and held him tightly. Little Diego had such confidence in his father who was preparing to leave him, and indeed longing to do so. He did not doubt that provision would be made for him during his father’s absence, and in the event of his father’s not returning at all.
And it shall be! Christoforo assured himself. Even if I have to take him with me.
Yet what sort of a father-was he, to expose a tender child to the hazards of the sea!
I am not a father, Christoforo told himself, any more than I was a husband. I am an explorer-adventurer – and there is little space in one lifetime to be more than that. Yet, I swear, Diego shall be cared for.
He set the boy on his knee and took out one of the charts which had been left to him by his father-in-law. He showed the boy where he believed the new land to lie, and as he talked he was railing against this fate which prevented him from making the voyage of his dreams. If he were but a rich man . . . But he was a poor adventurer who had to depend on the wealth of others to finance his venture; and in some ways he was a practical man; he knew that great wealth would have to be expended on an expedition such as he wished to lead. Only great nobles could help; only kings.
But nothing could be done without the approval of the Church; and the Church was inclined to laugh at his proposals.
The Bishops wanted verification of his assumptions. What were the chances of success? Could they put their trust in the dream of an adventurer? They did not believe in the existence of this great undiscovered land.
Yet they had allowed him to hope.
It was while he sat with his son that a visitor called
to see him. Christoforo’s heart leaped as the man entered the shop. He knew that he had not come to buy nautical instruments, for he was in the service of the Bishop of Ceuta.
Christoforo rose hastily and pushed Diego from his knee.
‘Leave us, my son,’ he said.
And Diego ran up the spiral staircase, but he did not enter the room above the shop; he sat on the top stair listening to the voices below. He could not hear what was said but he would know by the sound of his father’s voice whether the news was good. Good news would be that his father might prepare immediately to make the voyage, and although Diego knew that would mean separation, no less than his father he longed to hear this news. For Diego, like Christoforo, there could only be real satisfaction when the dream became reality; and like his father, the boy was ready to endure any hardship if this should come to pass.
Meanwhile Christoforo had taken his visitor into the dark little room beyond the shop.
Christoforo’s heart had sunk at the sight of the man’s face; he had seen that expression on faces before, the faintly suppressed smile of superiority which men of small understanding, who thought themselves wise, gave to those who in their opinion bordered on imbecility.
‘I come from my lord Bishop of Ceuta,’ said the man.
‘And your news?’
The man shook his head. ‘Nothing more can be done. The voyage is impossible.’
‘Impossible!’ cried Christoforo rising, his blue eyes blazing. ‘How can any say this of that which has not been proved?’
‘It had been proved.’ The man’s smile widened. ‘The Ecclesiastical Council decided that your project would be a hopeless one, but his lordship, the Bishop of Ceuta, did not dismiss your claims as lightly as did the others.’
‘I know,’ said Christoforo, ‘he promised me that ere long I should be equipped with all I needed to make the voyage.’
‘Meanwhile his lordship decided to put your theories to the test.’
‘But he has not done so. I have been here in Lisbon these many months . . . waiting . . . waiting, eternally waiting.’
‘But he has done this. He sent his own expedition. He equipped a vessel and sent her out in search of this new world which you are so sure exists.’
Christoforo was fighting hard to restrain himself. He was not a meek man, and he wanted to crash his fist into the smiling face. They had cheated him. They had listened to his plans; they had studied his charts. It had been necessary to convince them that he had something to support his theories. Then they had deceived him. They had equipped a vessel for someone else.
‘The ship returned, battered and almost unseaworthy. It is a miracle that she arrived back safely in Lisbon. She encountered such storms in the Saragossa Sea that it was impossible to continue the journey. In fact, the discovery has been made that the journey is impossible.’
Christoforo’s rage was tempered with relief. The failure of others did not affect his dream.
He held it intact, but he had made one important discovery. He could expect no help in Lisbon. He had wasted his time.
‘You are now convinced that what you propose is impossible, I hope?’ he was asked.
Christoforo’s eyes were as hard and brilliant as aquamarines.
‘I am convinced of the impossibility of getting help from Portugal,’ he said.
Now the visitor was smiling broadly. ‘I trust business is good?’
Christoforo lifted his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘What do you think, my good sir? Do you think that Lisbon is a city of adventurers who would be interested in my charts and instruments?’
‘Sailors need them on their journeys, do they not?’
‘But in Lisbon!’ said Christoforo, his anger rising. ‘Perhaps the sale of such articles would be more profitable in towns where men do not set out to sea and then allow a storm or two to drive them back to port.’
‘You are an angry man, Christoforo Colombo.’
‘I should be less angry if I were alone.’
The visitor rose abruptly and left him.
Christoforo sat down at the table and stared ahead of him. Little Diego crept down and stood watching him.
Diego longed to run to his father and comfort him, but he was afraid. He could understand and share the terrible disappointment.
Then Christoforo saw the small figure standing there, and he smiled slowly. He beckoned, and the boy ran to him. Christoforo took him into his arms, and for a while neither spoke.
Then Christoforo said: ‘Diego, let us start packing the charts and a few things that we shall need for a journey.’
‘A long journey, Father?’
‘A very long journey. We are leaving Lisbon. Lisbon has cheated us. I shall not rest until I have shaken its dust from off my feet.’
‘Where shall we go, Father?’
‘We have little money. We shall go on foot, my son. There is only one place we can make for.’
Diego looked expectantly into his father’s face. Then he saw the disappointment fade; he saw the rebirth of hope.
‘They say Isabella, the Queen of Castile, is a wise woman. My son, let us prepare with all speed. We shall go to Spain and there attempt to interest Isabella in our new world.’
* * *
The journey was long and arduous. They were often hungry, always footsore. But their spirits never flagged. Christoforo knew with absolute certainty that one day he would interest some wealthy and influential person in his schemes; as for eight-year-old Diego, he had been brought up with the dream and he too never doubted.
In his scrip Christoforo carried his charts; he also wore a dagger, for the way through the Alemtejo district was wild and infested with robbers.
It was late afternoon; they had left the province of Huelva behind them and were approaching the estuary of the Rio Tinto.
The month was January, and a cold wind was blowing in from the Atlantic.
‘Diego, my son,’ said Christoforo, ‘you are weary.’
‘I am weary, Father,’ the boy admitted.
They had left the small town of Palos two or three miles behind, and Diego had wondered why they did not stop there and ask for shelter. Christoforo, however, had walked purposefully on.
‘Soon we shall have a roof over our heads, my son. Can you keep up your spirits for another mile?’
‘Why, yes, Father.’
Diego threw back his shoulders and walked on beside his father. Then, as they trudged on in the direction of Cadiz and Gibraltar, and the wind caught the sand and flung it among the pine trees which grew sparsely here and there, he understood, for in the distance he saw the walls of a monastery and he knew that this was the place to which his father was taking him.
‘There we will ask for food and shelter for the night,’ said Christoforo. He did not add that he hoped for more. He was now inside Spain; and in the monasteries were learned men who might listen to his talk of an undiscovered world.
If, however, he could interest no one at the Franciscan Monastery of Santa Maria de la Rabida he must pass hopefully on.
They approached the gate, and Christoforo addressed the lay brother whose duty it was to guard it.
‘I come to beg food and shelter for myself and my child,’ he said. ‘We have come far; we are poor, weary and hungry. I believe you will not deny us charity.’
The lay brother looked at them – the travel-stained man and the weary little boy. He said: ‘You are right, traveller, to expect charity from us. It is our boast that we never turn the weary and hungry from our gates. Enter.’
Christoforo took Diego by the hand and they entered the monastery of Santa Maria de la Rabida.
They were taken to wash off the travel stains in the great trough, and when this was done they were led to the kitchens and set at a table where hot soup and bread were given them.
They fed ravenously; and while they ate, a young monk who was passing paused to look with curiosity at the man and boy and said: ‘Good day to you, travellers. Have yo
u come far?’
‘From Lisbon,’ answered Christoforo.
‘And you have a long journey ahead of you?’
‘We travel hopefully,’ answered Christoforo, ‘and it may be, if we are fortunate, to the Court of Isabella, the Queen.’
The monk was interested. Occasionally travellers stopped at the monastery, but never before had he encountered a man with that almost fanatical light in his eyes; never had he seen such a shabby traveller on his way to visit the Queen.
Christoforo was determined to exploit the interest of the monk. It was not by chance that he had come to this monastery. He was aware that the Prior, Fray Juan Perez de Marchena, was a man of wide interests and a friend of Fernando de Talavera, who was confessor to, and in high favour with, the Queen herself.
So he talked to the monk of his ambitions; he patted his scrip and told him: ‘In here I have plans, I have charts . . . If I could find the means to equip an expedition, I would find a New World.’
It was fascinating talk to the monk who lived life within the quiet walls of the monastery, and he listened entranced while Christoforo entertained him with tales of his adventures off the coast of Guinea and Iceland.
Diego had finished his soup, and his father’s was growing cold. The boy anxiously tugged his father’s sleeve and nodded at the soup, whereupon Christoforo smiled and finished it.
The monk said: ‘And the child, he is to go with you to this New World?’
‘There are hazards, and he is young,’ said Christoforo. ‘But if other provision cannot be made for him . . .’
‘You are a man of dreams,’ said the monk.
‘Many of us are, and those who are not, should be. All that is accomplished on earth must begin as a dream.’
The monk rose and hurried away to his duties, but he could not forget the strange talk of the traveller; he sought out the Prior and told him of the unusual guests who had sought comfort within their walls.
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