‘And if I refuse?’ Matthias repeated.
‘There is a time, Matthias, when love will meet. As streets on a corner, there is an inevitability, a final decision has to be made. You have reached that, here, in what that fool Columbus thought Paradise, your decision must be made.’
‘You must know it,’ Matthias replied.
Canabo shook his head. ‘I can see you walk. I can tell which direction you will take. I can guess the motives and thoughts of others, Matthias, but your mind, your will, they must always be yours. If they are not, how can your love be free?’
Matthias bowed his head and closed his eyes. The Rosifer had told him much of what he had suspected. He had been brought here specially, allowed to taste the world and all its joys and sorrows but a decision was to be made. He admired the cunning, as well as the subtlety of the Rosifer. Matthias had tasted the wine of life and it was bitter. Images filled his mind: Emloe’s sneering face; Ratcliffe’s rejection; Symonds, full of ambition and pride. The carnage of East Stoke; the cold cruelty of Torquemada. Everywhere, each place he had gone, the Rosifer had protected him. The images faded. Matthias suddenly recalled Barnwick but, try as he might, Rosamund’s face escaped him.
‘Where are you?’ he whispered.
Then suddenly he felt he was back in Sutton Courteny. It was a summer’s day. He was a child, walking hand in hand with Parson Osbert and Christina. He was holding their hands, they were crossing the great meadow, going down to sit by the mere where they would enjoy the day and wait until the shadows grew longer. Osbert and Christina were laughing as they swung him between them. They let go. He was running across the meadow but he was a man now, not a child, someone was coming towards him: Rosamund, her hair unbraided, her dress flapping in the breeze. A child, he could not make out the face, was running with her; they were calling his name. The image changed: he was home, in the parlour with Father Hubert. The friar was sitting at the base of a statue of St Anthony, he was teaching him his prayer, the one he used to say every night before he fell asleep. Matthias opened his eyes. Canabo was staring at him.
‘What is your answer, Matthias?’
‘Remember this, my soul and remember it well.’ Matthias held Canabo’s gaze. ‘The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and with all thy strength.’
‘That is no answer, Creatura.’
‘It’s the only one I can give,’ Matthias whispered. ‘When I was a child and met you at Tenebral, you showed me the foxes and we ate roast rabbit. You held my hand, I thought you were God incarnate: such warmth, such friendship, yet when you are a child, you think like a child.’
‘I loved you too, Creatura, and still do.’
‘But, when you are a man,’ Matthias continued remorselessly, ‘you enter a different world.’
‘That is why I waited, Creatura.’
‘Only when I met Rosamund,’ Matthias continued, ‘did I come to know what love really was. I loved her. I still do. I always will. If I had not met her,’ he shook his head, ‘my answer could well be different.’
‘Creatura.’ Canabo stretched his hands out in supplication.
‘I don’t love you,’ Matthias replied. ‘And you are right. I’ve drunk the chalice of the world and its dregs have made me sick. Let me go,’ he beseeched. ‘Release me!’
Canabo looked at him. Matthias hardened himself to the pleading in his eyes.
‘If you really love me,’ Matthias persisted, ‘if you still do, let me go!’
Canabo bowed his head. When he lifted it, tears welled in his eyes.
‘The lords of the air,’ he declared softly, ‘have said this is the time, the demand has been made, your reply has been witnessed.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, Creatura. .’
Turning, Canabo muttered something to one of his companions. The warrior rose and brought back a small gourd filled with wine. Canabo sniffed it and handed it to Matthias.
‘Drink, Creatura,’ he whispered. ‘Do you remember that day at Tenebral?’
Matthias lifted the gourd. He toasted Canabo and drank deeply to fortify himself. He did not know what was coming and he was fearful lest his body betray him. Canabo was staring at him, a strange, faraway look in his eyes. Matthias felt the wine and what was in it flow through his body. He lurched forward, a terrible numbness spreading from his stomach.
‘I am dying!’ he gasped. He held his hand out. ‘Not alone, please!’
‘Oh, Creatura!’ Canabo was sobbing. He grasped Matthias’ hand. ‘Go, Creatura!’ he whispered. ‘Run like the wind. No objection will be made at your passing.’
But Matthias couldn’t hear him. The gourd slipped from his fingers; his hands had lost their feeling. He felt a stiffness in his body, a difficulty in breathing and he was oh so tired. He closed his eyes, head falling forward. He was lying on the grass near the old Roman wall. Rosamund was bending over, shaking him, kissing his face. Matthias sighed, one last gasp and his soul went out to meet hers.
Later that day the great cacique Canabo sat on a promontory overlooking the sea and watched the water turn a bloody red in the rays of the setting sun. Behind him, in the shattered fortress of Natividad and in the trees beyond, his warriors feasted on the flesh of their enemies. Now and again they would look at their leader sitting so alone, and talk in wonderment about his new powers and his love for the white man who had drunk the poisoned wine and been allowed to die so quickly. The corpse of that young white man had not been desecrated. Canabo had placed it in a canoe, lit a funeral pyre and his warriors had pushed it out into the open sea. Canabo had watched the fire burn until the charred canoe, and all within it, sank quietly beneath the ocean. All the time Canabo wept. He cried for Matthias, for himself, for what might have been, and for the lost golden rose gardens of Heaven.
