The Rose Demon

and lack of movement a terrifying reminder of the power of the Inquisition. Matthias tried to object, claiming he was an Englishman and innocent of any charges, that he also had the special protection of the Queen. Torquemada swept this aside.

‘There are no charges.’ He leant forward. ‘You may well be innocent. And you still enjoy the protection of our Queen. So?’ He sat back in the purple-draped throne-like chair. ‘If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.’

The questioning then began. It was done in Latin. All of the judges spoke softly, eager to clarify their points by lapsing into lingua franca. The questions were always the same. Who was he? Why was he in Spain? Why did the Moorish champion, Yarfel, speak as he did? Did Matthias know any of the women killed so barbarously in the camp? Was he a true son of Holy Mother Church?

Matthias kept his answers short and terse. He did not know Yarfel. He was a Christian fighting for the Church. He had been born a Catholic: he wanted to die a Catholic. He had no woman’s blood on his hands. And the woman he had been seeking in Granada?

‘She reminded me of someone,’ Matthias explained. ‘A girl I loved in England,’ he lied. ‘I was tired, my mind was dazed. The memory plays tricks.’

Matthias kept staring at Torquemada. He couldn’t see what impact his answers had on the other judges but Torquemada looked genuinely puzzled. Matthias grew stiff: the ache in his back from his fall grew more intense. He explained this. Torquemada spread his hands and apologised. Matthias was allowed to stand and walk round the room. Refreshments were served: chilled white wine, a dish of sweetened figs and then the trial continued. At the end Torquemada clapped his hands softly as a sign for silence.

‘What do you say, brothers?’ he said, weaving his fingers together as if in prayer. ‘Guilty or innocent?’

One of the judges at the end of the dais stood up, facing down the table at Torquemada.

‘Reverend Father,’ he said, measuring his words carefully, ‘Matthias Fitzosbert appears to be innocent of any charges. His life seems a mystery, like a rose before sunrise, the petals closed tight-’

Matthias stiffened. The judge was speaking in Latin but there was something about his voice, the intonation, the reference to a rose.

‘You wax lyrical,’ Torquemada broke in. ‘Brother Benjamin, what do you propose?’

‘Matthias Fitzosbert enjoys the protection of the Queen?’ the black-masked judge asked Torquemada.

‘Yes he does!’

‘He is, therefore, the Queen’s subject if he enjoys her protection?’

‘Of course!’ Torquemada snapped back. ‘That is why we have the right to question him!’

‘He is a man of great courage,’ the judge continued.

Matthias now knew that the Rose Demon was present in the room.

‘Their Majesties are looking for officers,’ the anonymous judge continued. ‘The Genoese, Columbus, and his projected voyage across the Western Seas — Fitzosbert would make an excellent officer for such an expedition.’

The judge sat down. Torquemada stood, his face wreathed in smiles.

‘Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he declared. ‘What do you say?’

Matthias stared back.

‘You have appealed to God,’ Torquemada declared. ‘So, let God decide. You have a choice. To subject yourself further to the interrogation of the Inquisition or to be the Inquisition’s man if, and when, this Columbus sails across the Western Seas.’

‘I would rather go than stay!’

‘Good!’ Torquemada sat down. ‘Until then you shall continue to be our guest.’

Matthias turned and stared at the anonymous judge who had intervened. However, in the candlelight, all he could glimpse were eyes glittering behind the sombre mask.

33

Half an hour after sunrise, on 3 August 1492, the 100 ton ship the Santa Maria, escorted by its two 60 ton caravels, the Nina and the Pinta, left its moorings in the port of Palos in southern Spain. They were to sail west across unknown seas in the hope of finding a swifter, more accessible route to Cathay and Cipango. All three ships were well provisioned with water and white wine as well as hard biscuits, olive oil, salt meat and cured fish. Portuguese lentils, chick peas, almonds, raisins and rice had also been stowed to offset the hard diet.

The Santa Maria, Christopher Columbus’ flagship, was a sluggish, three-sailed cog, heavy-bottomed with a high raised castle in the front and stern. The Nina and Pinta, each commanded by the Pinzon brothers, Vincente and Martin, were similarly rigged but moved faster in the water.

Matthias Fitzosbert, master-at-arms on board the Santa Maria, though not listed among its crew, stood in the stern castle and watched the retreating white buildings of the small Spanish port of Palos. To his right and left (Matthias had not yet grown accustomed to ‘port’ and ‘starboard’), the Pinta and Nina’s square sails billowed full in the early morning breeze. All three ships were in line, a fine sight as they crossed the bar of the Saltes river and made their way past the friary of La Rabida where the good Franciscan brothers were now being called to the office of Prime by the faint tolling of the bell.

Matthias loosened the lacing of his leather jerkin and spread his feet more firmly. The sky was now streaked with red, the winds were soft. He was growing accustomed to the pitch of the ship ever since he had joined it at the end of June. The previous months had been spent as an enforced guest of the Inquisition. After his dramatic trial by night, Mathias had been left to his own devices, though he suspected there were hidden eyelets and peepholes in his chamber where Torquemada or his officers could keep him under close watch.

At first Matthias had raged against what was happening; not so much the verdict of the court — he had been relieved of the threat of incarceration in the Inquisition’s dungeon — but the sheer boredom of each day. He had books, he was allowed to walk in the garden but nothing else happened. It was as if the world had forgotten him. Now and again a physician would call to ensure all was well. If it hadn’t been for the servant Miguel, Matthias would have spent most of his time either talking to himself or reading the different works of piety Torquemada’s officers delivered to his room. Miguel had been his saviour. An Inquisition spy and certainly Torquemada’s creature, nevertheless he had a sardonic view of the world and kept Matthias informed of events in the city and beyond.

By the end of February Miguel had become Matthias’ teacher: first in the basic elements of the Spanish tongue then, as Matthias grew more proficient, correcting his use of the language until Matthias found he was able to think in Spanish. Matthias noticed how Miguel, time and again, would deftly turn the conversation to the matters on which Matthias had been tried. Matthias, however, maintained every aspect of orthodoxy. He took the Sacrament on Sunday and Holy Days in a small side chapel. He deliberately showed little interest in Miguel’s stories about witchcraft and demons in Spain. It was like a game of chess. Miguel would turn the conversation one way and Matthias would expertly turn it back. The subject which really preoccupied him as the weeks passed was Columbus. Who was he? What were his plans? Miguel would always clap his hands and shake his head.

‘Columbus,’ he declared, ‘is a dreamer, a Genoese. He claims to have secret maps and has been begging their Majesties and Holy Mother Church to fund an expedition across the great unknown Western Ocean. He really believes that, by sailing west, he can find a shorter route to the country of the Great Khan and so open up a lucrative trade in spices and gold, but the man’s a fool!’

‘Is there anything to the west?’ Matthias asked. He recalled Abbot Benedict’s reference to the Beautiful Islands.

‘There are stories of islands populated by strange people and mythical beasts.’

‘What do you believe, Miguel?’

‘I don’t think the world’s flat,’ Miguel retorted. ‘Everyone knows it’s a sphere, otherwise, when you walked along a road,’ he smiled triumphantly, ‘you wouldn’t see the spire of a church rise up on the horizon.’ His smile