‘The lads voted against you, Matthias. They would have taken you but Craftleigh is a troublemaker. He knows the famous articles, and so far the men-’ he shrugged — ‘they are still not too sure that I am truly their leader.’ He patted Matthias on the shoulder and got up. ‘But you can keep the horse and we’ll take you into Rye. I am sorry I cannot do any more.’
Matthias stared up in the star-strewn sky. A full moon bathed the meadow and hillside in a silvery light. The cool water looked inviting. He saw a fish snaking amongst the reeds. He watched it curl and turn. His eyes grew heavy, he lay back on the grass and drifted off to sleep.
He began to dream immediately. He was lying in the camp, the fire was burning low. Across the red-hot embers Sir Edgar Ratcliffe, head back, mouth open, was sleeping like a baby. Matthias saw a shape move towards him. His hand went to his dagger, a thin Italian stiletto he always carried. He fumbled with his war belt but the dagger pouch was empty. In the dying light of the fire he saw Craftleigh lift a dagger — it was Matthias’ own — and with both hands plunge it into the chest of the sleeping Ratcliffe.
‘No!’ Matthias sat up.
The night breeze was cold. Looking over his shoulder, he could see Ratcliffe and his company preparing for the night. Matthias scrambled to his feet and went back to the fireside. His saddle and belongings were piled high: he picked up his war belt, the stiletto was missing. He glanced up; Ratcliffe was watching him curiously.
‘Sir Edgar, may I have a word, please?’ He took the knight out of earshot of the others. ‘My dagger’s gone,’ he declared.
Ratcliffe shrugged. ‘Matthias, I saved your life. I can’t account for every single item of your belongings.’
‘No, it was stolen,’ Matthias whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ve had a dream, Sir Edgar. Tonight Craftleigh intends to kill you. He will stab you with my dirk. You will die and I will hang. Craftleigh will have the gold as well as the company of St Raphael.’
Ratcliffe, face tensed with rage, pushed Matthias away.
‘You are a liar!’ he hissed. ‘Perhaps Craftleigh is right. You’ve lost your dagger and now you try to blacken a man’s name and besmirch his reputation.’
‘Sir Edgar, listen. .’
Ratcliffe was striding off through the darkness. Matthias returned to the campfire. He took a small arbalest and loaded it. Someone pushed a cup of wine into his hand. He sipped it, it tasted a little bitter but he finished it, put the cup down and stretched out, resting his head on a saddle. He felt drowsy and, try as he might, he could not keep his eyes open.
He was roughly awoken by Ratcliffe. All around was uproar. Matthias pushed Ratcliffe away and half-raised himself. It was still dark. Men were running and shouting. Across the fire lay a corpse with a crossbow bolt embedded deep between the shoulder blades. Ratcliffe pulled Matthias to his feet. Someone threw wood on to the fire. Matthias glimpsed Craftleigh’s face, eyes staring, a trickle of blood snaking out of the corner of his mouth. A few inches from his splayed fingers lay Matthias’ dagger. Ratcliffe clasped Matthias’ hand.
‘How did you know?’ he asked.
Matthias still felt heavy-headed: his mouth was dry, his throat parched.
‘I meant to stay awake,’ he declared. ‘Someone gave me a cup of wine. .’
‘I did.’ An archer came forward. ‘Craftleigh filled it and told me to give it to you. He said it would help drown your sorrows.’
‘I watched you drink it,’ Ratcliffe said. ‘Then you were asleep within minutes. I called your name. I even came across and shook you.’ He grinned. ‘I might as well have tried to rouse the dead. I began to wonder. The cup was still beside you. How, I thought, could a man make such an allegation then fall so quickly into a deep sleep? I told an archer to hide in the shadows. If he saw any danger during the night, he was to loose.’
‘I saw a figure move.’ The crossbow man stepped into the firelight. ‘Craftleigh was so quick, so silent. I saw the glint of steel, so I loosed.’ He hawked and spat into the flames. ‘He was a murdering bastard!’
‘Comrades,’ Ratcliffe put his arm round Matthias’ shoulders, ‘may I introduce the newest recruit to our company, Matthias Fitzosbert.’
A loud cheer rang out. Sir Edgar shook Matthias’ hand.
‘You can take Craftleigh’s armour and weapons. His horse is good as well. Thomas!’ He shouted at an archer. ‘Take Craftleigh’s corpse and bury it amongst the trees. The rest, catch what sleep you can!’
Matthias returned to his makeshift bed.
The next morning he felt better, more able to receive the congratulations of Ratcliffe and the others. By noon they were in Rye, clopping through the cobbles of the winding streets down to the quayside. Ratcliffe had already signed indentures with the captain of a cog, the
31
‘Three whores have been murdered in the last month.’
The Castilian captain knelt down and covered the corpse of a sallow-skinned girl, her black hair spread out like a fan around her head. The sheet was dirty but at least it protected her from the flies which, despite winter, still plagued the great Catholic army outside the Moorish city of Granada.
Matthias murmured a prayer and walked back along the street, past the stables which could house a thousand horses and on to the edge of the great no man’s land, the Vega, brown-scorched earth which stretched from the camp of Ferdinand and Isabella up to the soaring walls and formidable gates of Granada. Matthias fought to control his own thoughts. He looked up at the city: above its soaring, rambling walls rose the Alhambra, the great Moorish palace, a place of mystery and power in the centre of the city. Matthias had heard the stories about its stately gardens and arching fountains, its intricate mosaic rooms and beautifully tiled floors; its chambers which seemed to open endlessly from one sun-filled courtyard to another. Beyond Granada, through the early morning mist, rose the snow-capped ridges of the Sierra Nevada.
Matthias sat down, his back to a tree. He and Sir Edgar had been in Spain for almost four months. It was now December 1491. Matthias could hardly believe that he was so far from home, part of a crusading army, tens of thousands of men from Castile, Aragon, Leon, France and the Low Countries. He and Sir Edgar had joined up with another English contingent under Lord Rivers: young men, fired by an ideal, determined to place the silver cross of Castile on the ramparts of Granada and end Moorish power in Spain for ever.
For the first few weeks Matthias had been fascinated. Both King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella had joined the army: he had glimpsed them either riding through the camp or seated on their thrones before the great high altar when solemn Mass was sung on Sundays and Holy Days. Matthias had been caught up in the excitement of this great crusading army. So determined were the Catholic monarchs to take Granada, they had built a small city to house their army, quarrying rock and masonry to build the town of Holy Faith; a potent warning to the Muslims that the besiegers would never give up until Granada was theirs.
Matthias had witnessed the daring deeds, the life and death struggle between the Catholic monarchs and their Moorish enemy. A Muslim champion, Yarfel, had galloped close into the Castilian encampment and hurled his spear at the royal quarters. It bore an insulting and obscene note for Isabella, Queen of Castile. In revenge a Castilian soldier, Puljar, had led fifteen companions through a poorly guarded gate into Granada’s central mosque. The knights had, in whispered voices, rededicated the mosque to the Virgin Mary and left a note, pinned by a dagger to the main door, with the words ‘Ave Maria’ scrawled across it.
Matthias had also become used to the camp’s routine. He and the rest had soon recovered from a turbulent voyage down the Bay of Biscay and the exhausting march from Cadiz across southern Spain to the Catholic camp.
Shortly after All-Hallows, Matthias had heard rumours: young women, whores, camp followers had been found barbarously murdered, their throats pierced, their cadavers drained of blood. Matthias had kept his own
