narrow-eyed looks and leering glances were all for Morgana. One of them, a young, arrogant buck, his olive skin scarred by knife wounds to his cheek and neck, unloosed his long, black, oily hair and strutted across the floor like a barnyard cock. He put one hand on Morgana’s shoulder, the other on the rough-handled knife pushed into the ragged sash round his waist. He said something to Matthias then spat into the rush-covered floor. Matthias went to rise but Morgana squeezed his hand.
‘Look at him, Matthias,’ she whispered. ‘Speak to him in Spanish. Tell him to return quietly to his seat. Tell him that he is lucky to be alive. This morning he fell from the stern of his fishing boat. If he does not sit down, tomorrow he will drown. Tell him that. Hold his gaze.’
Matthias did so, quietly repeating Morgana’s message.
The young man blinked, his jaw sagged. He backed away, his face a mask of fear, and ran from the taverna. His companions watched in astonishment, then followed.
‘We’d best go,’ Morgana said. ‘The day draws on. Soon it will be cool.’ She picked up the small wineskin she carried and wrapped the cord round her hand. ‘Let’s go, Matthias, out into the hills. Go back to that dragon tree under which you sat.’
Matthias followed her out. She took his hand as if they were lovers, strolling along the cobbled street and into the countryside.
‘I did see you in Granada, didn’t I?’ Matthias asked.
‘Yes, you did,’ she replied. ‘I was told to be there.’
‘And your companion?’ Matthias asked. ‘Which member of the crew is he?’
‘Oh come, Matthias,’ she joked. ‘You worry so much. I’ve told you, sailors are a suspicious group. He is there to guard you, to watch over you night and day. So, who he is, is of no real concern.’
‘How long have you been. .?’
‘You mean as I am now?’ Morgana stopped and faced him. With the breeze ruffling her flame-red hair, Matthias had never seen a woman so beautiful. ‘I come and go,’ she smiled. ‘I am older than you think,’ she teased. ‘Do you not find me attractive, Matthias?’
‘Yes,’ he replied quickly. ‘Of course I do.’ He glanced at the wild grass at the verge of the track. ‘But you are like a butterfly: you move constantly, never still.’
‘I will today,’ she smiled impishly.
She ran ahead of him, long-legged strides, her hips swaying, then gazed provocatively over her shoulder at him. Teasing and laughing, they left the trackway and climbed the hill, up under the outstretched branches of the huge dragon tree. They lay down in the long, fresh grass. Morgana unstoppered the wineskin and teasingly made Matthias open his mouth. She poured the most delicious drink he had ever tasted, sweet and rich. She kept pouring until he spluttered. Morgana then drew away laughing and, lifting the wineskin, squeezed the wine into her own mouth. Even as she did so, she glanced sideways, teasing and provoking Matthias with her eyes. She put the wineskin down, placed her hand behind his head, kissing the wine back into his mouth. Her tongue wetted his lips, her fingers massaging the back of his neck. Matthias responded greedily until he recalled that day with Rosamund sitting in the ruins of the old Roman wall. He drew away and stared up at the branches above him, watching a multicoloured bird hop along a branch.
‘Are you tired, Matthias?’ Morgana murmured, nestling up beside him. She traced the contours of his face with her finger; her touch was like silk. ‘Sleep,’ she whispered. ‘Forget your teasing thoughts.’ Her voice was low, soothing.
Matthias felt his body jerk as he began to relax. Dreamily he stared up at the bird, watching it intently. Morgana kissed his ear, the side of his face, her fingers ruffling his hair. He drifted into a dreamless sleep and, when he woke, the sky was darkening, the breeze much cooler. He turned. Morgana was lying with her back to him. He stretched out and turned her over. Her eyes were open and staring, her face as white as snow and her neck crusted with blood which had seeped out from the two great wounds on either side of her windpipe. Matthias sprang to his feet. He felt for the knife in his sheath: it was still there. He stared around: darkness was falling, the birds above were mocking in their sweet, plaintive song. Matthias whirled round.
‘Who’s there?’
No answer, only Morgana’s eyes staring sightlessly up at him. Matthias gripped his dagger and fled into the night.
34
‘Nothing to the north! Nothing to the south!’ The lookout’s voice was whipped away by the wind.
Matthias, standing on the forecastle of the
Beside Columbus, Raphael Murillo turned the hourglass. Matthias stared up, the sky was darkening, soon it would be night. Columbus would order lanterns to be swung from the stern and one of the bombards fired, a signal to the Pinzon brothers to close up for the night. Matthias never really knew whether Columbus was frightened of losing his fellow captains or fearful that they would steal a march on him. They had left the Canaries well behind them and now, as the Captain General said, they were in the hands of God. Everything depended on Columbus, his maps and charts and, above all, his astrolabe and quadrant which he used for taking the height of the sun at midday and the pole star at night to determine what latitude they were crossing.
Matthias was baffled by such technicalities. He put more trust in what the men said about Columbus, that he navigated by dead reckoning whereby he plotted the position of the ships by the map in his mind.
Matthias leant against the rail and became lost in his own memories. He had fled from the scene of Morgana’s murder and gone straight back to the port. The following day he had returned up the hill but had found no trace of her corpse or the wineskin or any blood, no indication that he and Morgana had lain there. Matthias had waited. Perhaps the authorities had discovered the corpse? He’d joined his companions in the tavernas or sitting out on the quayside chatting with the fishermen. He heard nothing, even though some of his companions had learnt about the beautiful, red-haired woman and constantly teased him about her. Matthias wondered who had killed Morgana. Had someone been following them? Was it the Rose Demon’s work or someone else’s? Matthias shook his head, that would be impossible. He had also closely scrutinised the crew. Morgana had said that he was being watched but by whom? Matthias realised a subtle game was being played with him. It would be virtually impossible to track such a man down. Columbus had left it to the crew where and when they attended Mass whilst, in the tightly enclosed spaces of his three ships, discussion about religion or any disputatious topic was strictly forbidden. And Morgana? Matthias wondered why she had given up her life so easily? Surely this wasn’t the thanks the servants of the Rose Demon received? She had been killed yet she’d never struggled or cried out. Her assassin had come like a thief in the night, her death being sprung on her like a trap.
On Wednesday, 5 September, the evening before they sailed, Baldini, Murillo and the rest had persuaded Matthias to come to a party, a wild raucous affair in a ramshackle taverna in an alleyway off the quayside. The wine flowed like water, fresh meats and fish grilled over charcoal, smothered in the vegetable sauce, were served up on trenchers. Each platter had a hunk of soft, white bread to mop the juices up. There had been singing and dancing, the usual tomfoolery before sailors prepared to leave port. Matthias had drunk a little more deeply than he wanted. A young girl had come up and sat on his lap but Matthias had pushed her away. At last the Pinzons and other officers came to take the sailors back to the ships. Matthias was following the rest out of the door; the men were shouting their farewells, blowing kisses at the girls when Matthias heard his name called out.
‘Farewell, Matthias! Take care of yourself, Creatura!’
The words were spoken in English. Matthias had stared at the woman through a drunken haze. He had not noticed her before. She had deep olive skin, black hair which fell like a veil, shrouding her beautiful face, her eyes were bold, her mouth pert. She stared at Matthias boldly, lifted one bare shoulder and winked. In that moment the fug cleared from Matthias’ mind. He saw the look in those eyes and knew that, whatever the girl called herself, Morgana’s spirit was there. Matthias had returned to the ship baffled. Were other beings spirits in the service of the Rose Demon? At the same time he recognised Morgana’s cleverness: her death had removed any thought of
