The Rose Demon

carefully arranging that those who came to see the English champion did not stay too long. The tent Matthias found himself in was the gift of a Spanish bishop. Other presents arrived: silken cloths, fruit, cooked dishes, wine. Matthias asked for these to be distributed amongst the company of St Raphael.

After a while the excitement subsided. Concerns were taken up by news that the rulers of Granada, fearful of the city being starved to death or taken by storm, had sent out envoys to enquire about an honourable surrender.

Matthias was left to his own devices and noticed how Ratcliffe’s attitude was changing. As Matthias cleaned some equipment, or sat round the campfire with the rest of the company, he would catch Sir Edgar watching him from the corner of his eye, studying him carefully. At length, one night just after they had celebrated Christmas, Matthias went to his usual place outside the camp, staring up at the stars, wondering what he would do next. He glimpsed the pinpricks of light along the battlements or from windows along the walls. Granada would fall. The Spanish kings would take possession of this last city in Moorish hands but what would he do? Ratcliffe was talking of leading his men north into France, then east to join the Teutonic knights or even the Hospitallers in the Middle Sea. A twig snapped behind him; Matthias whirled round.

‘It’s only me!’ Ratcliffe came and sat beside him. ‘They say it’s a beautiful city.’ He began pointing towards the battlements. ‘A veritable treasure house.’

‘Why have you come, Edgar?’

Ratcliffe chewed on the corner of his lip.

‘I watched you fight, Matthias,’ he replied slowly. ‘God forgive me, I was already whispering your Requiem.’

Matthias sensed he was smiling.

‘Then I saw you charge. Your horse colliding with that of the Moor. Everything was covered in a curtain of dust. When it settled and I saw you standing, sword out, ready to fight, I thought, God is with that man.’

‘And?’

‘You were so fast,’ Ratcliffe continued. He plucked at a piece of the dried grass and held it between his lips.

‘What are you implying, Sir Edgar? What is this about?’

The English knight faced him squarely, his eyes no longer tender but hard and certain.

‘Don’t you realise, Matthias? Here you are, nothing more than an Englishman at arms. You rode out on a sorry-looking horse without helmet and shield, yet you killed a Moorish champion: a man who had slain, in open combat, some of the best knights of Castile and Aragon. You despatched him in minutes like a farmer would a pig.’ He shrugged and sat, head half-cocked, listening to the faint strains of a guitar, the stamp of feet and the cries and shouts of the soldiers, encouraging some woman in her mad, passionate dance.

‘I was injured,’ Matthias replied churlishly. ‘And all soldiers have luck.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Ratcliffe replied, ‘on the road to Rye: you warned me about Craftleigh. I thought it was just a presentiment, a premonition?’

‘And now?’

‘When you fell unconscious and were brought back to the camp, the Spanish had Yarfel’s body removed. You didn’t kill him outright.’ He paused and Matthias’ blood ran cold. ‘He was taken to the Santa Hermanda. You know who they are? The Holy Brotherhood, the military arm of the Inquisition. They have doctors, physicians, leeches, they are also headed by one of the most powerful men in Spain, the Dominican, Tomas de Torquemada. He’s confessor to Queen Isabella. Yarfel regained consciousness, just for a short while. He said something strange. He called out your name, Matthias, then he added something in Latin.’

Matthias stiffened.

‘ “Creatura bona atque parva,” the Moor whispered. He said it again. A few seconds later he was dead.’ Ratcliffe chewed on the grass blade. ‘Torquemada came to see me. He had been by Yarfel’s bedside hoping to elicit information about the state of the garrison in Granada. He wondered why a Moor should call out your name and what was the meaning of these words? Torquemada,’ Ratcliffe continued slowly, ‘is a dangerous man. He passionately believes in the limpieza de sangre, the purity of the Spanish blood. He sees Spain as a great Catholic kingdom. He argues constantly with their Majesties, so Lord Rivers has told me, that, when Granada falls, the purity of the Spanish blood must be maintained. Spain is to be purged of all Moriscos, the Conversi, those Muslims who have converted to Catholicism, as well as Jews, schismatics, heretics and,’ he looked up at the star-strewn sky, ‘those guilty of dabbling in the black arts.’

‘Are you accusing me of being a warlock?’ Matthias snapped, getting to his feet.

‘No, Matthias, I am not. I am giving you a warning.’ Ratcliffe also scrambled to his feet. ‘When Granada falls, do not stay too long in Spain. Indeed, if you have incurred the interest of Master Torquemada, I strongly suggest that you leave Spain as quickly as you can, whilst you can.’

‘But I am leaving with you?’ Matthias knew his words sounded half-hearted.

Ratcliffe lifted a hand. ‘Are you, Matthias?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you really want to come? You are a man searching for death, Matthias. God knows what nightmares you suffer and only God knows what happened out there in that terrible fight. You are, in truth, an uncommon man. I do not believe your destiny lies with me or the company of St Raphael.’ He let his hand drop. ‘We will see you out of Spain, but after that. .’ He shrugged and walked off into the darkness.

Matthias stared up at the sky.

‘Even then,’ he murmured, ‘the Rose Demon must have suspected what I was doing. Was he so close?’

Matthias heard a sound behind him. He glimpsed a figure stride off. In the fading light of a flickering torch, Matthias recognised the black and white robes of a Dominican monk.

32

On 2 January 1492, so all the Chroniclers of Europe wrote, God manifested his glory to his people when Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada, surrendered his city to Ferdinand and Isabella and secretly left his palace by the door of the Seven Sighs. The main gates to the city were thrown open and, with banners flying and trumpets braying, the Catholic army passed into the streets of Granada.

Matthias Fitzosbert, on a specially caparisoned destrier, rode in the long snaking column of the splendidly arrayed household of Ferdinand and Isabella. The sun had barely risen but already the townspeople, Christian, Moor and Jew, had flocked out to greet their new rulers. Ferdinand and Isabella had promised the citizens their lives and freedom whilst the strictest instructions had been issued against pillaging or the molestation of any of Granada’s inhabitants.

Matthias rode alongside Sir Edgar Ratcliffe, his own anxieties forgotten, as he stared in wonderment at this jewel of a city: cool, porticoed basilicas, marble villas, squares washed by fountains, gardens neatly laid out behind terraced walls and, everywhere, a mixture of fragrant smells: precious oils from the perfume quarter, the mouth-watering odours from the kitchens and cook shops and, above all, the great puffs of incense coming from the censers swung by the priests who walked either side of the cavalcade. The sun rose higher and, despite the season, Matthias found it hot, his skin turning clammy beneath his leather hauberk.

At last they climbed a hill and entered the splendid Alhambra Palace. Many of the household remained outside but Matthias and Sir Edgar were allowed to follow the monarchs into the Hall of Justice. Matthias stared in wonderment at the lacy walls, painted ceilings, scintillating domes, brilliantly coloured tiles and silken gold mosaics. The palace was composed of interconnecting courtyards, each a perfect marble square enclosed by ivory-coloured columns and ornamental arches.

The Te Deum was sung at the centre of this palace. For the first time ever Matthias could study close up the two Spanish monarchs: long-nosed, heavy-jowled, russet-haired Ferdinand, with the face and eyes of a crafty fox; Isabella, skin like alabaster, her golden, grey-streaked hair gathered up under an elegant laced veil. With her perfectly composed face, high cheekbones, half-closed eyes, her hands joined devoutly in front of her, she reminded Matthias of a picture of the Virgin Mary he had once seen in an Oxford church. Memories of England flooded back and Matthias, standing in a porticoed corner of the Lion Court, felt a wave of homesickness. This was a strange world of glaring sunshine, savage, beautiful countryside, mysterious people, golden halls, silver-draped