Matthias watched him intently.
‘A mysterious place. They say Englishmen wear tails.’
‘They say many things, Father.’
‘Of course they do, of course they do.’
Torquemada fingered the simple cross which hung on a cord round his neck. He stared across at a square oil painting on the wall. Matthias followed his gaze. He’d hardly noticed it before but now he realised it was a scene from the Old Testament: Saul visiting the witch of Endor, who raised the ghost of Samuel. The painting was dark but the fires at the centre seemed to glow with a life of their own, filling the scene with a chilling light, catching the wraithlike figure of Samuel, the staring eyes of Saul and the cruel, hooked visage of the witch. Torquemada glanced at Matthias.
‘It is true there are witches in England?’
‘Father, I have no knowledge of that.’
Torquemada tapped his sandalled foot against the floor.
‘I’ve only been here a few minutes,’ he said. ‘But you never asked why you are here.’ A podgy finger jabbed towards Matthias’ face. ‘You’ve never objected,’ Torquemada continued. ‘Now why is that, eh? You are an Englishman: you enjoy the special protection of our Queen. You have been plucked from your lawful business, bound, hooded and taken to a place which you do not know, yet you do not object.’ Torquemada’s face was still gentle: he spoke slowly, enunciating every word. ‘Which means,’ Torquemada rubbed his hands together, ‘you are either guilty of some great crime or you don’t care. Now, why shouldn’t you care?’ His eyes shifted to the window. ‘Are you like a leaf ready to be borne by every wind that blows? And, if so, why?’
‘What will be, shall be.’ Matthias repeated the soldiers’ aphorism. ‘And a man’s fate is written upon his forehead.’
‘Is it now?’ Torquemada’s hands dropped away. ‘Every man’s fate, Matthias, is in the hands of God.’
‘Then, if that is so, Father, I have nothing to fear.’ Matthias got up from the bed and walked over to the window, keeping his back to Torquemada. ‘I am an Englishman and a soldier, Father. I came to Spain to fight in the cause of the Church. I am innocent of any crime. But what’s the use of protesting to people who arrest me and do not tell me the reason why?’
He heard a chuckle and turned round. Torquemada was smiling.
‘You are a strange man, Fitzosbert. You killed a Moorish champion and yet that man seemed to know you. What did he mean by “
‘What deaths?’ Matthias asked.
‘The young women found with their throats punctured? You remember them?’
Matthias nodded.
‘The deaths began when Sir Edgar Ratcliffe and his party arrived outside Granada. Strange, is it not?’
‘I have nothing to answer.’
‘Have you not? Have you not? Come with me, Matthias.’
Torquemada got to his feet. The other Dominican opened the door and they went out on to the long, polished gallery. The windows on either side were moon-shaped and looked out over a grassy square with a white marble fountain in the centre. Flowers grew in beds on either side, filling the air with their perfume. Down the passageway, standing in shadowy recesses, were soldiers of the Inquisition, the silver cross resplendent on their black liveries. Matthias heard a sound and turned round: two soldiers, their faces masked by tall, black hoods, walked quietly behind him. Torquemada waddled ahead, muttering to himself.
They left the house and went down some outside stairs. The room below was large and lit by cresset torches. Matthias glimpsed figures standing around open braziers. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw these men were stripped half-naked. They chattered softly amongst themselves as they turned red-hot pokers in the blazing coals.
At the far end of the room a stake had been driven into the ground; a man was lashed to this. He was naked except for a breech cloth across his loins: head sagging forward, he was bound by cords across his chest, stomach and legs. His hands were lashed behind him. Torquemada beckoned Matthias across. As he approached, Matthias recoiled in distaste: the man’s body was covered in red, bubbling burns where the torturers had pressed the burning, hot steel.
‘We have to move quickly,’ Torquemada murmured apologetically. ‘Their Majesties have given me this house and God’s work waits for us in Granada.’
He stretched out a hand and lifted the prisoner’s bearded face. Matthias fought hard to control his nausea. One eye had been removed from the socket, leaving a bloody hole, the rest of the prisoner’s face was badly disfigured by cuts and lacerations. A trickle of blood ran down the corner of his mouth.
‘This is Juan Behahda,’ Torquemada explained. ‘Juan was, or is, a merchant. We know he worked hard in persuading Boabdil not to surrender Granada to their Majesties. A traitor and a heretic. We have been asking Juan who else was in his coven but,’ Torquemada shrugged, tears brimming in his eyes, ‘he won’t tell us,’ he whispered. ‘Juan refuses the pardon of Holy Mother Church and, by his actions, has put himself beyond her protection. Matthias, what are we to do with such men? How can they answer for their actions?’
Torquemeda shouted in Spanish across to the torturers. The fellows’ answer was short and terse. Torquemada sighed and dabbed at the tears in his eyes.
‘
Torquemada beckoned to Matthias to follow him out of the room and, escorted by the two soldiers, returned to the chamber.
Torquemada closed the door behind him, gesturing at Matthias to sit whilst he filled two goblets with sherbet: taking quick sips from his cup, Torquemada walked round the room shaking his head.
‘Juan was an obdurate soul.’ He stopped his pacing.
‘What are you doing, Father?’ Matthias got to his feet. ‘Do you think you can frighten me? Do you think the torturers will get the truth? What do you accuse me of?’
‘I don’t know,’ Torquemada replied. His face was a mask of genuine concern. ‘I really don’t know, Matthias. I’ve made a careful study: you are a mystery. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe knew little about you though he told me how you saved his life. There is the question of Yarfel. And, even when you were arrested, so I understand, you were searching for a woman?’ He put his cup down on the table. ‘But what woman, Matthias? Eh? You are a solitary man. How could you know some woman living in Granada? To put it bluntly, Englishman, are you a witch? Are you a warlock?’ His face grew serious. ‘Are you a member of a coven?’
‘I am an Englishman. I am innocent. I also enjoy the Queen’s special protection,’ Matthias replied.
‘Oh yes, so you do.’ Torquemada walked to the door. He turned, gave Matthias his blessing and quietly left.
Matthias sat down, trying to control his trembling. Try as he might, he couldn’t remove from his mind the picture of that tortured man in the dungeons below. He could imagine the whispered confession, the cords being placed round his neck and tightened with a piece of stick until he strangled to death. Matthias picked at some fruit but found he had no appetite. He could only sit and wait.
Just after sunset, the door was flung open and the black-masked guards seized and bundled him out. Matthias tried to control his fear as the soldiers led him along the galleries, illuminated only by flashes of light from glowing candles or lanterns slung on hooks. However, he was not taken outside but into a small hall. A few torches provided light. The walls were covered in heavy drapes whilst underfoot thick carpet deadened any sound. The windows were shuttered, the air was stuffy and hot but smelt fragrantly of incense. At the far end on a dais seven men sat behind a long, oaken table. Torquemada in the middle, hands joined, smiling benevolently down at him, but the men on either side were hooded and masked. Behind Torquemada, the walls were covered in dark-red drapes with the arms of Castile boldly etched in the centre. From a beam above the table hung a stark, black crucifix. A scribe, who sat on a small bench just beneath the dais, rose and tinkled a small handbell.
The soldiers pushed Matthias forward. He was made to sit on a stool just before the table so he had to stare up at Torquemada. Matthias didn’t know whether this was a dream or reality. The Inquisitor General smiled like a benevolent uncle but the sombre-masked judges seemed like figures from the Apocalypse: their very silence
