down the street after the woman, pulling his horse behind him. He entered a square, roughly cobbled, with traders’ stalls around all four sides. He hurriedly mounted his horse; standing up in the stirrups, he looked over the heads of the crowd and glimpsed the woman again. She was standing on the far edge beneath a goldsmith’s sign at the mouth of an alleyway. Matthias hastened across. He had to dismount, pushing his way through the traders and people milling about. A journeyman ran up offering a bejewelled baldric. Matthias pushed him aside.
When he reached the goldsmith’s sign he stopped and looked around. There was no sign of Morgana. He went down an alleyway and glimpsed her, or at least her cloak, just as she entered a taverna. Matthias followed. There was an alleyway leading down the side of the inn, and he took his horse along and into the stable yard. A groom lazing in the sun got up. Matthias threw him the reins, pressed a coin in his hands and explained that he would receive another if he looked after the horse. The boy pulled a face and Matthias hurried off. Inside, the taverna was cool, with a high ceiling: a large, spacious room with wine vats and tuns at one end, just outside the kitchen door. The rest of the room was taken up with roughly hewn tables and makeshift stools: hams and other pieces of meat hung from the rafters to be cured, giving the air a spicy tang. The customers looked up as Matthias blundered through the doorway. He stood, narrowing his eyes against the gloom.
‘Morgana!’ he called.
The landlord came over, a small tub of a man, wiping bloody fingers on his dirty apron. Matthias asked him, using the lingua franca, about a red-haired woman he’d glimpsed coming in. The taverner spread his hands, shaking his head.
Matthias stared around: there were stairs leading to the upper storeys but a soldier blocked the way, dead drunk. The cup in his lap had spilled, the wine staining his hose. Matthias was sure Morgana had come in here. He stared back at the doorway: there was a small porch leading into it. Had she just stepped in there and left immediately?
Matthias hurried back to the stable yard. The boy was still holding his horse but now he stood rigid with fright.
‘What’s the matter, lad?’
Matthias turned to the gateway. A group of riders blocked the entrance. They were dressed completely in black, masks of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed, and on his front each wore a silver embroidered cross. They sat like a cluster of ravens. Matthias pressed a coin into the boy’s hand.
‘Go on, lad!’ he murmured.
The boy needed no second bidding but fled screaming into the taverna. Matthias mounted his horse and made to leave: the line of horsemen never stirred.
‘Out of my way, sirs!’ Matthias’ hand went inside his pouch. He pulled out the scroll given to him by Isabella. ‘I have the Queen’s warrant —
One of the black-garbed riders spurred his horse forward.
‘You are Matthias Fitzosbert?’ A black-gloved hand snatched the parchment from his hand. The man’s voice was muffled behind his mask. He spoke the lingua franca. ‘You are Matthias Fitzosbert?’ he repeated.
‘I am. Stand aside!’
‘Matthias Fitzosbert, we are soldiers of the Holy Inquisition. You are under arrest!’
‘On what charge?’
‘That is not necessary.’
Before Matthias could even gather his reins, the other horsemen clustered around him. Hands scrabbled at his war belt, sword and dagger were plucked from their sheaths, his reins were seized and, with these terrifying, black-garbed men surrounding him, Matthias was led off through the streets of Granada.
The square which he had recently crossed was now empty. Traders and their customers had fled at the sight of the Inquisition. Another party of horsemen were waiting for them. Two carried great, black, flapping banners, on which silver crosses were embroidered. The two parties met and continued up, past the Alhambra, along cobbled trackways. Matthias tried to discover where he was going but no one replied. The horsemen had no trouble getting through the streets. Even though Granada was freshly taken, the terror of the Inquisition preceded them. Townspeople fled, even the soldiery, the hidalgos, the nobles, the foreign mercenaries hastily cleared away.
The party stopped at a crossroads. Before he could object, a black mask was pulled over Matthias’ head, his hands were tied by silken cords to the saddle horn and the journey continued. Matthias found it difficult to control his horse: the inside of his thighs became sore, his back stiff as he tried to keep his position. He heard different sounds which always died whenever the Inquisition passed. The hood was hot and stifling and, just when Matthias thought he could bear it no longer, he heard gates being opened, the sound of horse hooves, clattering on the cobbles and he was dragged unceremoniously from the saddle. He was pushed up some steps, through a door and the mask was taken off.
Matthias expected a dungeon but the room was large, cavernous and airy. A window, its shutters thrown back, looked out over a pleasant, tree-shaded garden. It was large enough to allow in sunlight and fresh air but too small for a man to force his way through. The cords round Matthias’ hands were cut and his captors left, the key of the door being turned behind them. Matthias stared around. He was genuinely surprised. The white walls had been given a fresh coat of lime wash against flies and insects. The floor was of polished wood and covered with rugs: the bed was large and soft, the sheets crisp, the bolsters as white as driven snow. On a table stood a jug of cool sherbet and a bowl of fruit, some of which Matthias had never seen before. There was a shelf of books just to the left of the doorway. Matthias wandered over: there was a copy of the Bible, a few tracts and treatises of some theologians, prominently Bonaventure and Albertus Magnus.
Matthias sat in the low-backed, cushioned chair placed under the window. As he became accustomed to the room, he smelt the fragrance of resin, sandalwood and incense. He went across and filled a small, jewel-rimmed pewter goblet. The sherbet tasted delicious, washing his mouth, slaking the dust from his throat.
He heard the key turn and a little, dark-browed man came in. He was dressed in a grey robe with a cord round the waist.
‘My name is Miguel Vincessors.’ He spoke the lingua franca slowly. ‘I am your servant. Oh dear!’ His hand went to his lips. He hurried out of the doorway and brought back a crucifix which he placed on a hook on the wall. ‘Are you comfortable?’ He gabbled on, not waiting for an answer.
Matthias smiled at this little mouse of a man with his constant twitching nose and blinking eyes.
‘You’ll eat before sunset. You like meat? Lamb nicely cut?’ He pointed to the fruit bowl. ‘The pomegranates are fresh. They have to be cut. Don’t eat the skin. Oh, but you haven’t a knife, have you?’
The little man hurried off and a bemused Matthias went across to the bed and sat down. He recalled the saying often used by the Spanish soldiers: ‘What will be, shall be. A man’s fate is written on his forehead.’ Matthias wondered what danger he was in. In the camp he’d been so immersed in his own problems, he’d scarcely grown accustomed to the habits, history and customs of Spain. He’d heard horrifying stories of the Inquisition. He glanced up at the beautiful cloth tester above the bed. This was no Bocardo, no filthy, rat-infested dungeon. Matthias was on the verge of falling asleep when the door opened again. Two Dominicans padded quietly into the room. The younger, dark-faced one, stood near the door, his hood pulled across his head, his hands up the sleeves of his gown. The other was Torquemada. He walked over and smiled down at Matthias, now sitting on the edge of the bed. He was smaller than Matthias had thought but of stout stature: his olive-skinned face was freshly shaved, his mouth was soft, the dark eyes gentle.
‘Are you comfortable, Matthias Fitzosbert?’ He smiled apologetically, clicked his fingers, gesturing at Matthias to remain as he was whilst the younger Dominican moved a chair from the table across for his master to sit on.
‘There.’ Torquemada smiled and breathed out noisily. ‘I am so tired. My bones-’ He stopped. ‘I cannot speak English.’ He changed from lingua franca to Latin. ‘You are an Oxford scholar?’
Matthias nodded.
‘You understand Latin?’
‘Almost as well as English,’ Matthias retorted.
Torquemada rocked backwards and forwards, clapping his hands gently. He chuckled softly, his soft eyes dancing with merriment.
‘I’ve always wished to visit England,’ he replied. ‘There’s a growing alliance between our two countries but they say England is cold: the mists seeps into the bones. A fairy island.’
