counsel, but this morning, the corpse he had just glimpsed had been found where the English had their quarters. One look had convinced Matthias the Rose Demon had returned.
‘Ever the dreamer, eh, Matthias?’
Sir Edgar Ratcliffe stood over him. His face had soon burnt brown under the Spanish sun, his beard and moustache were more luxuriant. Sir Edgar, however, still had the easy charm and good-natured camaraderie which had first attracted Matthias.
‘You saw the whore?’
‘Aye I did,’ Mathias replied.
Sir Edgar sighed and sat down beside him.
‘I knew her.’ He caught Matthias’ sharp glance. ‘Not in the carnal sense.’ Ratcliffe grinned. ‘But she was a merry girl and could dance wildly like a gypsy.’
Matthias nodded and stared across the Vega at the green silver-edged banner floating above the main gateway of Granada. Matthias had wondered if Sir Edgar could be trusted yet. There again, even as late as yesterday, he and the English knight had shared the Sacrament together at a Mass celebrated by Lord Rivers’ chaplain.
‘Are you waiting for him?’ Ratcliffe abruptly asked. ‘It should happen about now.’
Matthias looked back at him, puzzled.
‘Yarfel!’ Ratcliffe exclaimed.
‘Oh yes,’ Matthias nodded. ‘Him! Someone should accept his challenge.’
Matthias studied the heavily fortified postern door built into one of the side towers near the main gate of Granada. Every morning a trumpet would blow and the huge Moorish champion, head protected by a spiked helmet, his chain mail covered by a flapping red cloak, would ride his great black destrier out of Granada and issue his challenge to single combat. This had begun a month earlier. At first the challenge had been quickly accepted. Time and again some knight from the Spanish army had ridden out, pennants snapping bravely on the end of his spear. Each time Yarfel had been victorious. A superb horseman, a skilled swordsman, he had ridden back into Granada with his enemy’s head stuck on his lance. The rules of chivalry forbade a general assault upon him. However, his constant daily mocking and easy victories had so dispirited the Spanish army that Queen Isabella had issued a written order that no one, on pain of death, was to accept the challenge. No one was even to watch when he rode out, but Matthias ignored the decree.
Every morning he came to the same place and studied the Moorish champion: his posture, the way he guided his horse with his knees, the speed with which he lifted his sword and the manner in which his weapons seemed as much part of his body as his arm or leg. Slowly, as each day passed, Matthias began to wonder. He had been accepted by Ratcliffe’s company and enjoyed their lazy comradeship, the good-natured banter of the camp. He was fascinated by Spain, its freezing nights, the searing heat of the day; the gorgeous panoply of the great lords, the sultry-eyed beauty of their women, the heavy wine, the wild stamping dances and that gypsy music which fired the heart and filled the nights with melodious, twanging sounds.
‘A land of rocks and saints,’ Lord Rivers described Spain.
Nevertheless, Matthias never forgot why he was here. As the weeks passed he wondered where his great chivalrous idea would lead him. He had imagined great battles, men storming crenellated walls, bloody hand-to- hand fights. Instead, nothing but the boring routine of the military camp, until Yarfel had come out of the gates and issued his challenge. Matthias had brooded. Was this the place, he wondered, where he would die? In between Granada and the Catholic camp, defending the honour of the Cross and reputation of a Spanish queen?
A shrill trumpet blast stirred him from his reverie. Despite Ferdinand and Isabella’s instructions, knights, squires and soldiers gathered at the gates or climbed on to the parapets of the makeshift walls of their camp. The postern gate in the city walls opened. Another trumpet blast and the Moorish champion rode out. The early morning sun flashed and gleamed on his armour and helmet. His great cloak billowing out behind him, he rode within the bowshot of the Spanish camp and issued his challenges. He spoke in the lingua franca, the patois of the soldiers, calling them cowards, the sons of bitches, women in men’s clothing. He ridiculed Isabella as a yellow- haired strumpet and, punning on her name, called her a new Jezebel, a witch, a virago. The Spanish soldiers returned this abuse with vigour but Yarfel simply laughed as his horse pranced up and down.
‘It’s a wonder no one shoots him,’ Matthias murmured. ‘A master bowman could plant a shaft in his neck or pierce that chain mail.’
‘And bring dishonour on us all!’ Ratcliffe snapped. ‘A man, whom we could not kill in fair fight, but secretly murder. That is not the way, Matthias, the code of chivalry!’ He turned in exasperation to the young Englishman, but started in surprise for Matthias was gone.
Sir Edgar shrugged and continued to watch the Moor ride up and down. Ratcliffe could not understand Fitzosbert: a quiet, moody man constantly lost in his own thoughts, though a good Christian. Fitzosbert regularly prayed and attended Mass, took the Sacrament and, every week, was shrived by a priest. Nevertheless, though they had shared a long and dangerous voyage, followed by a dusty, throat-parching march, Matthias was as much a stranger to Sir Edgar as he was on the first day they had met.
The English knight returned to studying the Moorish champion, grudgingly admiring how the man now made his horse cavort and dance. Sir Edgar was distracted by shouting behind him, men running, a horse’s hooves. He turned and stared in astonishment as Matthias, dressed in his chain mail suit, a sallet upon his head, cantered through the gateway: shield on one arm, the reins wrapped round his wrist, his long stabbing sword held aloft. Spanish soldiers ran along on either side in a half-hearted attempt to stop him. Matthias reined in and smiled at Ratcliffe’s astonishment.
‘I decided yesterday,’ he said.
Ratcliffe grabbed the bridle of Matthias’ horse, gesturing angrily at the Spaniards to back away.
‘This man is English,’ he shouted. ‘He is under my command.’
The Spaniards shrugged and stepped back.
‘For God’s sake, Matthias!’ Ratcliffe seized Matthias’ knee. ‘All you are carrying is a wooden shield, a sword, chain mail which has seen better days, and a helmet I wouldn’t even piss in!’
Matthias moved his sword and shield to the other hand. He took off the helmet and let it fall with a clang at Ratcliffe’s feet.
‘Sir Edgar, you are right. If the Moor didn’t kill me the stench from that would.’
‘Yarfel is a champion,’ Ratcliffe whispered hoarsely. ‘And you know about the royal command. No man is to accept his challenge on pain of death.’
Matthias gently grasped Ratcliffe’s hand.
‘Don’t you realise, Sir Edgar, I have to? I must prepare for death as any man.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Look at him, Sir Edgar!’
Ratcliffe looked out where Yarfel, alerted by the clamour around the gate, was now sitting on his horse, staring in their direction.
‘He’ll kill you,’ Ratcliffe retorted.
‘Haven’t you read the Scriptures?’ Matthias replied. ‘And David went up against Goliath and the Lord was with him.’
‘But is the Lord with you?’ Ratcliffe dug his fingers more tightly into Matthias’ knee.
‘I don’t know. But, if he isn’t, the Spanish soon will be!’
Matthias dug his spurs into his horse and galloped down the small escarpment on to the great open plateau. As in a dream he could hear the cries and shouts from the Spanish camp for the news had already spread. Men in their thousands were streaming through the walls or gates. He looked back: Ratcliffe was now surrounded by officers from the royal household. He heard a trumpet blast from Granada and glanced up. The battlements and towers were crowded, people clustered like ants to see the Christian fool who dared to pick up their champion’s challenge. Matthias heard their yells and faint mocking laughter: he did not look the part in his battered chain mail, tattered leather saddle and simple wooden shield. He grasped his sword more carefully, calming his horse. For a while Yarfel chose to ignore him. He rode his destrier towards the Spaniards clustered all along the walls and edge of their camp. The Moor was speaking fast. Matthias only understood a few words but he gathered that Yarfel was mocking him, taunting the Spanish that was he the best that they could send out? The Moorish champion stood high in his stirrups. He now deigned to notice Matthias pointing his sword towards him. He kept uttering one word, which was taken up by the Moors lining the battlements. At last Matthias understood it. They were calling him a
