chambers, a place of opulence, of exotic tapestries, blood-red wine, meat and fruits piled high on golden platters. Matthias half-closed his eyes: it was also a place of danger and mystery. Here, in the Alhambra, or so he had been told, was the Room of Secrets, with its whispering alcoves which magnified and echoed every sound. According to Lord Rivers, a former sultan had beheaded over two score princes there and then washed his feet in their blood as it seeped across the marble floor.
Matthias opened his eyes. The great Lion Hall was now packed with soldiers, courtiers and priests gathered in a horseshoe fashion behind Ferdinand and Isabella, who knelt on cushions. They all watched two friars place up against the marble wall a gaunt, black cross on which an ivory-bodied Christ writhed in his final torments. The hall fell quiet. When suitable silence had been observed, there was a bray of trumpets from outside and the whole assembly broke into wild cheering as the signal that the great silver cross of Castile had, at last, been placed on the highest peak of the Alhambra Palace. Chamberlains and knight bannerets of the royal household now began to clear the hall. Matthias gazed round. Despite the clamour, the gorgeous colours, the jubiliation, the cries of triumph in a number of languages, he was sure he was being watched. His eyes swept the room: in the far corner a Dominican was watching him. The man was short and squat, his head neatly tonsured, his face was heavy, the nose aquiline but the friar’s eyes seemed to burn: even though they stood yards apart, Matthias felt the Dominican was probing his very soul.
‘Who is that?’ he whispered gruffly.
Ratcliffe followed his gaze. ‘The former Prior of Segovia,’ he murmured. ‘Confessor to Queen Isabella, about whom I have spoken. As you may know, he has been keeping you under strict surveillance during the last few days.’
Finally it was the turn of Matthias and Ratcliffe to leave. The English knight grasped Matthias’ elbow and, when they left the Alhambra, took him across to a small wine shop. The place was full of roistering soldiers. In the small garden beyond, a small patch of faded green, intersected by pebble-dashed paths, Ratcliffe sat Matthias down. A young boy, eager to please, dressed in ragged leggings and a tattered linen shirt came up and jabbered at them, his eyes dancing with merriment. Ratcliffe laughed and tossed him a coin, demanding wine.
‘Not water!’ He shouted as the boy scampered away. ‘
A few minutes later, a podgy woman brought two pewter cups of dark-red wine and a platter of brown bread smeared with butter and honey. She served them quickly, not raising her head. She took the coin Ratcliffe offered and waddled away.
‘They don’t know whether to be glad or sad.’ Ratcliffe leant back against the hard brick wall, moving to ease the cramp in his thighs.
‘Aren’t they pleased?’ Matthias asked. ‘That Granada is Spanish and Catholic?’
‘Granada was an island in itself,’ Ratcliffe answered. ‘A city of opulence, luxury, carefree in all matters. If it hadn’t been for a group of fanatics, Boabdil would have surrendered as soon as the Catholic standards appeared over the hill. Granada is a place, Matthias, where Christian, Jew, Moor, as well as a few faiths you’ve never even heard of, lived in easy amity. Now all has changed. Granada is Catholic, the Santa Hermanda, the Inquisition and, above all, Tomas de Torquemada are here. Rumours are rife. Ferdinand and Isabella are pragmatic: they need the Moorish craftsmen and they depend heavily upon the Jewish bankers.’
‘But Torquemada?’ Matthias asked.
‘Ah yes.’ Ratcliffe lowered his voice and made a sign to Matthias to do so. He stared round the garden. ‘Be careful, Matthias. They say that Torquemada even pays the birds, the mice and the rats to bring him information. Torquemada is a zealot. He not only sees a united Catholic Spain but, as I have said, a kingdom free of Moor and Jew. He has already accused Ferdinand and Isabella of selling the Church, like Judas sold Christ, for the sake of money and peace.’
‘He said that!’ Matthias exclaimed.
‘Torquemada and his Inquisition answer to no one but God. Even the Pope in Rome fears him. He has Isabella’s soul in the palm of his hand and, like a child with a toy, Torquemada knows how to use it!’
‘And?’
Ratcliffe sipped at his wine, savouring its rich sweetness. ‘It’s better than the vinegar we’ve got in camp,’ he observed. ‘Lord Rivers has been given the honour of accompanying certain nobles from Granada to Madrid. He has asked for the company of St Raphael to join him. I have agreed. We leave tomorrow morning before first light.’ He knocked the dust from his jacket. ‘If you wish, and I advise you to do so, you may come with us.’
Matthias stared across the garden. Somewhere in the tavern a man was singing a lusty, merry song. Matthias realised he was in danger, that he was under surveillance by the Holy Brotherhood. Yet he didn’t really care. Those dying words of Yarfel showed that, whatever he did, he was like a swimmer in a fast-flowing river: however hard he struggled, the current would always have its way. He closed his eyes. He’d always been fleeing: from Oxford, from Barnwick, from Scotland, from London, from St Wilfrid’s, from Emloe’s men. He opened his eyes.
‘I’ll stay,’ he declared.
‘In which case,’ Ratcliffe put his cup down and stood up, ‘I suggest you find quarters in the city here.’ He pointed to the cross the Spanish Queen had sent Matthias. ‘You have the royal warrant to do what you want and go where you will. I shall arrange for whatever the company owes you to be left in trust with Hidalbo, a Spanish merchant. He has a house just within the gateways of Holy Faith city, near the sign of the Bull.’
Matthias got to his feet. ‘I don’t want it, Edgar.’ He saw the surprise in the man’s face. ‘My horse is stabled in the Alhambra. I paid a groom to guard that and my saddlebags. What I want, what I need, is in them: the rest you can keep.’
Matthias liked this English knight but he knew any hope of camaraderie, of a deeper, more lasting friendship was gone for ever. He stretched out his hand.
‘I shall not return tonight. God be with you, Sir Edgar.’
‘Is that how it is, Matthias?’
‘That’s how it is, Edgar. You are a good soldier, a loyal friend. In the last few months you have been my brother. However, I cannot tell you about my past or what haunts me and it’s best if I continue alone. The company of St Raphael do not need me and I do not need them.’
Sir Edgar clasped his hand and embraced him. They exchanged the kiss of peace. Sir Edgar left, walking purposefully across the garden and into the tavern without a backward glance.
Matthias sat down on the bench and picked up his wine cup. He stared down at Sir Edgar’s, fighting hard against the self-pity which threatened to engulf him. He closed his eyes.
‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why don’t you come, Rosifer. Why not now?’
The sun was warm on his face. Matthias leant back and dozed. His mind slipped into dreams of Barnwick and Rosamund: such dreams occurred frequently, more insistently. He felt himself shaken and opened his eyes. The little boy was staring at him sadly, pointing to his cup and chattering. Matthias shook his head.
‘No, I’ve had enough wine.’
He pressed a coin into the boy’s hand, got to his feet and went back into the courtyard to the Alhambra where he collected his horse. The city was now packed with soldiery but their mood was happy. Archers, wearing the silver cross of Castile, were massed at every corner, bows in hand, arrows notched under the watchful eye of royal knights, their sole duty to maintain law and order. The wine shops were full: some men slept in the cool shade of trees or, taking off their boots, sat and dangled their feet in the fountains. Every so often royal couriers, messengers, as well as heralds bringing proclamations, would enter the streets or gallop by on foam-flecked horses.
Matthias wandered into the Jewish quarter. He crossed a square and entered a more wealthy area. Here, officers from the royal army, English, French, Spanish and German, were negotiating with householders for chambers. Matthias turned his horse, meaning to go back to the taverna he had left, when a woman came out of a house, tripping down the outside steps. Matthias stared in astonishment. She was dressed resplendently in a rich crimson velvet skirt covered with layers of brocade: a matching mantilla, decorated with stars, covered her shoulders, whilst her head was protected from the strong sun by a broad-brimmed black hat from which a white plume danced in the breeze. Matthias only caught the side of her face but he recognised the cheek and mouth, the fiery red hair peeping out just above her ear.
‘Morgana!’ he called. ‘Morgana!’
Some passing soldiers stopped and stared in astonishment. Matthias, recovering from his surprise, hurried
