The Rose Demon

31

‘Three whores have been murdered in the last month.’

The Castilian captain knelt down and covered the corpse of a sallow-skinned girl, her black hair spread out like a fan around her head. The sheet was dirty but at least it protected her from the flies which, despite winter, still plagued the great Catholic army outside the Moorish city of Granada.

Matthias murmured a prayer and walked back along the street, past the stables which could house a thousand horses and on to the edge of the great no man’s land, the Vega, brown-scorched earth which stretched from the camp of Ferdinand and Isabella up to the soaring walls and formidable gates of Granada. Matthias fought to control his own thoughts. He looked up at the city: above its soaring, rambling walls rose the Alhambra, the great Moorish palace, a place of mystery and power in the centre of the city. Matthias had heard the stories about its stately gardens and arching fountains, its intricate mosaic rooms and beautifully tiled floors; its chambers which seemed to open endlessly from one sun-filled courtyard to another. Beyond Granada, through the early morning mist, rose the snow-capped ridges of the Sierra Nevada.

Matthias sat down, his back to a tree. He and Sir Edgar had been in Spain for almost four months. It was now December 1491. Matthias could hardly believe that he was so far from home, part of a crusading army, tens of thousands of men from Castile, Aragon, Leon, France and the Low Countries. He and Sir Edgar had joined up with another English contingent under Lord Rivers: young men, fired by an ideal, determined to place the silver cross of Castile on the ramparts of Granada and end Moorish power in Spain for ever.

For the first few weeks Matthias had been fascinated. Both King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella had joined the army: he had glimpsed them either riding through the camp or seated on their thrones before the great high altar when solemn Mass was sung on Sundays and Holy Days. Matthias had been caught up in the excitement of this great crusading army. So determined were the Catholic monarchs to take Granada, they had built a small city to house their army, quarrying rock and masonry to build the town of Holy Faith; a potent warning to the Muslims that the besiegers would never give up until Granada was theirs.

Matthias had witnessed the daring deeds, the life and death struggle between the Catholic monarchs and their Moorish enemy. A Muslim champion, Yarfel, had galloped close into the Castilian encampment and hurled his spear at the royal quarters. It bore an insulting and obscene note for Isabella, Queen of Castile. In revenge a Castilian soldier, Puljar, had led fifteen companions through a poorly guarded gate into Granada’s central mosque. The knights had, in whispered voices, rededicated the mosque to the Virgin Mary and left a note, pinned by a dagger to the main door, with the words ‘Ave Maria’ scrawled across it.

Matthias had also become used to the camp’s routine. He and the rest had soon recovered from a turbulent voyage down the Bay of Biscay and the exhausting march from Cadiz across southern Spain to the Catholic camp.

Shortly after All-Hallows, Matthias had heard rumours: young women, whores, camp followers had been found barbarously murdered, their throats pierced, their cadavers drained of blood. Matthias had kept his own counsel, but this morning, the corpse he had just glimpsed had been found where the English had their quarters. One look had convinced Matthias the Rose Demon had returned.

‘Ever the dreamer, eh, Matthias?’

Sir Edgar Ratcliffe stood over him. His face had soon burnt brown under the Spanish sun, his beard and moustache were more luxuriant. Sir Edgar, however, still had the easy charm and good-natured camaraderie which had first attracted Matthias.

‘You saw the whore?’

‘Aye I did,’ Mathias replied.

Sir Edgar sighed and sat down beside him.

‘I knew her.’ He caught Matthias’ sharp glance. ‘Not in the carnal sense.’ Ratcliffe grinned. ‘But she was a merry girl and could dance wildly like a gypsy.’

Matthias nodded and stared across the Vega at the green silver-edged banner floating above the main gateway of Granada. Matthias had wondered if Sir Edgar could be trusted yet. There again, even as late as yesterday, he and the English knight had shared the Sacrament together at a Mass celebrated by Lord Rivers’ chaplain.

‘Are you waiting for him?’ Ratcliffe abruptly asked. ‘It should happen about now.’

Matthias looked back at him, puzzled.

‘Yarfel!’ Ratcliffe exclaimed.

‘Oh yes,’ Matthias nodded. ‘Him! Someone should accept his challenge.’

Matthias studied the heavily fortified postern door built into one of the side towers near the main gate of Granada. Every morning a trumpet would blow and the huge Moorish champion, head protected by a spiked helmet, his chain mail covered by a flapping red cloak, would ride his great black destrier out of Granada and issue his challenge to single combat. This had begun a month earlier. At first the challenge had been quickly accepted. Time and again some knight from the Spanish army had ridden out, pennants snapping bravely on the end of his spear. Each time Yarfel had been victorious. A superb horseman, a skilled swordsman, he had ridden back into Granada with his enemy’s head stuck on his lance. The rules of chivalry forbade a general assault upon him. However, his constant daily mocking and easy victories had so dispirited the Spanish army that Queen Isabella had issued a written order that no one, on pain of death, was to accept the challenge. No one was even to watch when he rode out, but Matthias ignored the decree.

Every morning he came to the same place and studied the Moorish champion: his posture, the way he guided his horse with his knees, the speed with which he lifted his sword and the manner in which his weapons seemed as much part of his body as his arm or leg. Slowly, as each day passed, Matthias began to wonder. He had been accepted by Ratcliffe’s company and enjoyed their lazy comradeship, the good-natured banter of the camp. He was fascinated by Spain, its freezing nights, the searing heat of the day; the gorgeous panoply of the great lords, the sultry-eyed beauty of their women, the heavy wine, the wild stamping dances and that gypsy music which fired the heart and filled the nights with melodious, twanging sounds.

‘A land of rocks and saints,’ Lord Rivers described Spain.

Nevertheless, Matthias never forgot why he was here. As the weeks passed he wondered where his great chivalrous idea would lead him. He had imagined great battles, men storming crenellated walls, bloody hand-to-hand fights. Instead, nothing but the boring routine of the military camp, until Yarfel had come out of the gates and issued his challenge. Matthias had brooded. Was this the place, he wondered, where he would die? In between Granada and the Catholic camp, defending the honour of the Cross and reputation of a Spanish queen?

A shrill trumpet blast stirred him from his reverie. Despite Ferdinand and Isabella’s instructions, knights, squires and soldiers gathered at the gates or climbed on to the parapets of the makeshift walls of their camp. The postern gate in the city walls opened. Another trumpet blast and the Moorish champion rode out. The early morning sun flashed and gleamed on his armour and helmet. His great cloak billowing out behind him, he rode within the bowshot of the Spanish camp and issued his challenges. He spoke in the lingua franca, the patois of the soldiers, calling them cowards, the sons of bitches, women in men’s clothing. He ridiculed Isabella as a yellow-haired strumpet and, punning on her name, called her a new Jezebel, a witch, a virago. The Spanish soldiers returned this abuse with vigour but Yarfel simply laughed as his horse pranced up and down.

‘It’s a wonder no one shoots him,’ Matthias murmured. ‘A master bowman could plant a shaft in his neck or pierce that chain mail.’

‘And bring dishonour on us all!’ Ratcliffe snapped. ‘A man, whom we could not kill in fair fight, but secretly murder. That is not the way, Matthias, the code of chivalry!’ He turned in exasperation to the young Englishman, but started in surprise for Matthias was gone.

Sir Edgar shrugged and continued to watch the Moor ride up and down. Ratcliffe could not understand Fitzosbert: a quiet, moody man constantly lost in his own thoughts, though a good Christian. Fitzosbert regularly prayed and attended Mass, took the Sacrament and, every week, was shrived by a priest. Nevertheless, though they had shared a long and dangerous voyage, followed by a dusty, throat-parching march, Matthias was as much a stranger to Sir Edgar as he was on the first day they had met.

The English knight returned to studying the Moorish champion, grudgingly admiring how the man now made his horse cavort and dance. Sir Edgar was distracted by shouting behind him, men running, a horse’s hooves. He turned and stared in astonishment as Matthias, dressed in his chain mail suit, a sallet upon his head, cantered through the gateway: shield on one arm, the reins wrapped round his wrist, his long stabbing sword held aloft. Spanish soldiers ran along on either side in a half-hearted attempt to stop him. Matthias reined in and smiled at Ratcliffe’s astonishment.

‘I decided yesterday,’ he said.

Ratcliffe grabbed the bridle of Matthias’ horse, gesturing angrily at the Spaniards to back away.

‘This man is English,’ he shouted. ‘He is under my command.’

The Spaniards shrugged and stepped back.

‘For God’s sake, Matthias!’ Ratcliffe seized Matthias’ knee. ‘All you are carrying is a wooden shield, a sword, chain mail which has seen better days, and a helmet I wouldn’t even piss in!’

Matthias moved his sword and shield to the other hand. He took off the helmet and let it fall with a clang at Ratcliffe’s feet.

‘Sir Edgar, you are right. If the Moor didn’t kill me the stench from that would.’

‘Yarfel is a champion,’ Ratcliffe whispered hoarsely. ‘And you know about the royal command. No man is to accept his challenge on pain of death.’

Matthias gently grasped Ratcliffe’s hand.

‘Don’t you realise, Sir Edgar, I have to? I must prepare for death as any man.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Look at him, Sir Edgar!’

Ratcliffe looked out where Yarfel, alerted by the clamour around the gate, was now sitting on his horse, staring in their direction.

‘He’ll kill you,’ Ratcliffe retorted.

‘Haven’t you read the Scriptures?’ Matthias replied. ‘And David went up against Goliath and the Lord was with him.’

‘But is the Lord with you?’ Ratcliffe dug his fingers more tightly into Matthias’ knee.

‘I don’t know. But, if he isn’t, the Spanish soon will be!’

Matthias dug his spurs into his horse and galloped down the small escarpment on to the great open plateau. As in a dream he could hear the cries and shouts from the Spanish camp for the news had already spread. Men in their thousands were streaming through the walls or gates. He looked back: Ratcliffe was now surrounded by officers from the royal household. He heard a trumpet blast from Granada and glanced up. The battlements and towers were crowded, people clustered like ants to see the Christian fool who dared to pick up their champion’s challenge. Matthias heard their yells and faint mocking laughter: he did not look the part in his battered chain mail, tattered leather saddle and simple wooden shield. He grasped his sword more carefully, calming his horse. For a while Yarfel chose to ignore him. He rode his destrier towards the Spaniards clustered all along the walls and edge of their camp. The Moor was speaking fast. Matthias only understood a few words but he gathered that Yarfel was mocking him, taunting the Spanish that was he the best that they could send out? The Moorish champion stood high in his stirrups. He now deigned to notice Matthias pointing his sword towards him. He kept uttering one word, which was taken up by the Moors lining the battlements. At last Matthias understood it. They were calling him a scarecrow. Rocks and pieces of offal and dirt were thrown from the battlements. They had no hope of hitting him, the gesture was more a sign of the soldiers’ disdain than an attempt to hurt.

Matthias closed his eyes. He thought of Rosamund. They were alone in their chamber. She was sitting in a chair, teasing him, trying to keep her face straight whilst her eyes danced with mischief. She held a book in her hand, one of those chivalrous romances she loved to read and then make fun of. The fire in the hearth burnt merrily. Outside it was snowing. Matthias felt that, if he could only walk towards her, if he could put his arms around her once more, he would not be on barren, sun-scorched Spanish earth awaiting his death but warm and secure in their chamber at Barnwick.

‘That was heaven,’ Matthias whispered. ‘Oh Rosamund.’ He fought back the tears. ‘I miss you. I am so lonely. I can do no more.’

A loud roar made him open his eyes. He glanced towards the Spanish camp. The entire army was now assembled, watching what he was doing. He glimpsed the pennants and banners of the royal household. So far no Spaniard had dared to ride on the field to stop him and Matthias knew they would not. Deep in their hearts, the soldiers wanted Yarfel’s challenge answered and couldn’t care whether Matthias lived or died. The Moorish champion turned his horse and, sword extended, saluted someone above the main gateway of the city. Matthias, his mind still full of Rosamund, watched the Moor canter towards him. Matthias controlled his horse, dropping his sword down as a gesture of peace. The Moor followed suit and reined in. Matthias gently spurred his horse forward. The Moor took off his pointed helmet, pushing back the chain mail coif: his face was olive-skinned, dark, beautiful eyes, a finely cut moustache and beard round a soft, sensuous mouth. The Moorish champion, eyes unblinking, spoke slowly in Spanish. Matthias shook his head uncomprehendingly.

‘By what name are you called?’ The Moor lapsed into the lingua franca.

‘I am Matthias Fitzosbert. I am English.’

‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’ The Moor’s eyes smiled as his tongue tripped over the strange-sounding names. ‘You are a long way from home, Inglese. Is it your fate to die under a foreign sun?’

‘My fate is in God’s hands,’ Matthias retorted. ‘I care not if I live or die.’

The words were out before he could stop them. The Moor edged his horse closer, his face puckered in concern.

‘You are not frightened of death?’

Matthias stared down and watched the sun glint on the Moor’s sword.

‘I am sorry.’ He lifted his head. ‘I did not mean that. It’s not so much death I fear. I simply do not care if I have to leave this life.’

‘Is that why you are here?’ Yarfel put his helmet back on: both men were now impervious to the growing clamour from either side.

‘I don’t know,’ Matthias replied. ‘It is God’s will.’

‘Allah il Allah.’ Yarfel replied. ‘Our fates are written.’

He gathered up his reins and galloped back sixty yards before stopping and turning. Yarfel held his sword up, turning once again to salute the rose-red walls of Granada. Matthias grasped his reins. The weight of the shield in his left arm was hurting him and, despite the cries from the Catholic encampment, he dropped it on the ground. He watched Yarfel prepare for battle. The sun was growing stronger. A heat haze now swirled across the open expanse.

Now Yarfel was moving at a canter. Matthias crossed himself and urged his horse forward. As they approached, both men spurred their horses into a charge. Matthias, reins in his left hand, his sword slightly out, kept his eyes on the Moor. He forgot about the sun, the hard ground underneath, the breeze cooling the sweat on his brow: his world had shrunk to that man charging towards him. Matthias remembered what he had learnt. Yarfel expected Matthias to pass him in a cloud of dust and a clash of swords. Matthias intended different. He let the reins slip, guiding his horse by his knees; he now held his sword with two hands. Yarfel moved, as he’d expected, a little to Matthias’ right and Matthias moved with him. They met: Matthias’ horse crashing into Yarfel’s. Matthias felt himself lifted from the saddle up in the air then crashing to the earth, a bone-jarring fall, but he rolled and, ignoring the searing pain in his left leg, struggled to his feet, sword out. Yarfel also had been pitched from the saddle. The Moor had lost his helmet but he was ready for battle: curved scimitar out, legs apart, he waited for Matthias to charge.

As the dust settled and the spectators saw what was happening, a great roar rose from the Spanish camp. Yarfel had never been dismounted: he often despatched his opponent within a few minutes of the initial charge. Matthias edged closer. The Moor was watching him intently. Matthias prayed and realised he was praying to Rosamund. In a sense he wasn’t here. He was in the outer bailey at Barnwick Castle, learning the tricks and turns of a professional swordsman. He coughed and lowered his head as if there was dust in his eyes. Yarfel charged. Matthias stepped sideways. Swords clashed, Matthias twisted his and cut deep into the Moor’s right arm. Yarfel stepped away. This time Matthias moved in slashing and jabbing with his sword, forcing the Moorish champion backwards. Despite the heat and the dust, the pain in his leg from his fall, Matthias felt cold. Yarfel’s sword did not bother him; that winking flashing piece of steel was not to be feared. He must watch the Moor’s eyes. Yarfel glanced away, a quick momentary look and Matthias closed. Instead of swinging from the right Yarfel brought his sword up in an attempt to slash Matthias’ chest. Matthias moved, not sideways, but backwards. The Moor lost his footing. Matthias had seen others do this: a blow given too quickly, too strongly and for a few seconds the right side of the neck was exposed. Matthias’ sword sliced through the air: a slashing, deep-boned cut which finished the fight. The Moor turned, his face contorted in agony. He staggered, knees buckling. He went to speak but his eyes rolled in his head and the blood frothed out of his mouth. He crashed to his knees and sprawled out on the ground.

Matthias felt no elation. He stared in disbelief. It had been so quick, so effortless. That was not what should have happened. He looked towards Granada. As he did so, the Catholic camp burst into cheering which rose to the heavens. An entire line of Crusaders now rushed forward. Men brandishing swords and shields as the trumpets of the Catholic army began to bray their defiance. Soon he was not alone. People were pressing about him. Someone kicked the fallen Yarfel and Matthias screamed his protest. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe was there, a friend amongst the sea of faces. Matthias begged Ratcliffe to show respect to Yarfel’s corpse. The Englishman agreed. He spoke quickly in French, much-used here, to a Spanish officer standing behind him. The man nodded. Matthias’ legs grew weak. He resheathed his sword and turned to look for his horse.

‘I really should ride away,’ he muttered. The sweat grew cold on his skin. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ He took a step forward, the sky seemed to move, whirl around, and Ratcliffe caught him as he fainted.

When Matthias awoke, he looked towards the mouth of the tent and saw it was dark. Men were clustered there chattering excitedly in Spanish. He pulled himself up. Ratcliffe came out of the shadows, put an arm round his shoulders and lifted a wineskin to his lips.

‘Well, well, my boy!’

His words reminded Matthias of Fitzgerald. He looked up sharply but Sir Edgar smiled.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Matthias. When you fell from your horse, you received a blow to your head. Didn’t you feel it?’

‘No.’

‘You defeated the champion,’ Ratcliffe whispered, pulling him up and raising the bolsters to support him. ‘So quickly. I didn’t know we had a Lancelot amongst us!’

A figure blocked the entrance to the tent. He spoke in Spanish and Ratcliffe replied. The man came forward and crouched beside Matthias.

‘I am the Duke of Medina-Sidonia,’ he began slowly. ‘I can speak your tongue.’ His grizzled face broke into a smile. ‘I learnt it on an embassy to your fog-bound island.’ He opened his pouch, took out a small, jewelled cross and placed it carefully around Matthias’ neck. ‘You broke their Majesties’ command. You picked up the Moor’s challenge but God was with you. Their Majesties have been kind enough to send you this, a token of their affection and esteem.’ He also took a small scroll of parchment and a heavy jingling purse from his pouch. ‘This is a pass which will give you permission to go wherever you wish. It commands all officers of the Crown to assist you in your passage and provide you with every sustenance and comfort. You are to be regarded, here in Spain, as their Majesties’ most loyal servant.’ The man rose and bowed stiffly. ‘When Granada falls, and fall it will, you are to ride in triumph with other members of the royal household.’

Matthias spent the next few days recovering from his bruises. Ratcliffe fussed around him like a mother hen, carefully arranging that those who came to see the English champion did not stay too long. The tent Matthias found himself in was the gift of a Spanish bishop. Other presents arrived: silken cloths, fruit, cooked dishes, wine. Matthias asked for these to be distributed amongst the company of St Raphael.

After a while the excitement subsided. Concerns were taken up by news that the rulers of Granada, fearful of the city being starved to death or taken by storm, had sent out envoys to enquire about an honourable surrender.

Matthias was left to his own devices and noticed how Ratcliffe’s attitude was changing. As Matthias cleaned some equipment, or sat round the campfire with the rest of the company, he would catch Sir Edgar watching him from the corner of his eye, studying him carefully. At length, one night just after they had celebrated Christmas, Matthias went to his usual place outside the camp, staring up at the stars, wondering what he would do next. He glimpsed the pinpricks of light along the battlements or from windows along the walls. Granada would fall. The Spanish kings would take possession of this last city in Moorish hands but what would he do? Ratcliffe was talking of leading his men north into France, then east to join the Teutonic knights or even the Hospitallers in the Middle Sea. A twig snapped behind him; Matthias whirled round.

‘It’s only me!’ Ratcliffe came and sat beside him. ‘They say it’s a beautiful city.’ He began pointing towards the battlements. ‘A veritable treasure house.’

‘Why have you come, Edgar?’

Ratcliffe chewed on the corner of his lip.

‘I watched you fight, Matthias,’ he replied slowly. ‘God forgive me, I was already whispering your Requiem.’

Matthias sensed he was smiling.

‘Then I saw you charge. Your horse colliding with that of the Moor. Everything was covered in a curtain of dust. When it settled and I saw you standing, sword out, ready to fight, I thought, God is with that man.’

‘And?’

‘You were so fast,’ Ratcliffe continued. He plucked at a piece of the dried grass and held it between his lips.

‘What are you implying, Sir Edgar? What is this about?’

The English knight faced him squarely, his eyes no longer tender but hard and certain.

‘Don’t you realise, Matthias? Here you are, nothing more than an Englishman at arms. You rode out on a sorry-looking horse without helmet and shield, yet you killed a Moorish champion: a man who had slain, in open combat, some of the best knights of Castile and Aragon. You despatched him in minutes like a farmer would a pig.’ He shrugged and sat, head half-cocked, listening to the faint strains of a guitar, the stamp of feet and the cries and shouts of the soldiers, encouraging some woman in her mad, passionate dance.

‘I was injured,’ Matthias replied churlishly. ‘And all soldiers have luck.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Ratcliffe replied, ‘on the road to Rye: you warned me about Craftleigh. I thought it was just a presentiment, a premonition?’

‘And now?’

‘When you fell unconscious and were brought back to the camp, the Spanish had Yarfel’s body removed. You didn’t kill him outright.’ He paused and Matthias’ blood ran cold. ‘He was taken to the Santa Hermanda. You know who they are? The Holy Brotherhood, the military arm of the Inquisition. They have doctors, physicians, leeches, they are also headed by one of the most powerful men in Spain, the Dominican, Tomas de Torquemada. He’s confessor to Queen Isabella. Yarfel regained consciousness, just for a short while. He said something strange. He called out your name, Matthias, then he added something in Latin.’

Matthias stiffened.

‘ “Creatura bona atque parva,” the Moor whispered. He said it again. A few seconds later he was dead.’ Ratcliffe chewed on the grass blade. ‘Torquemada came to see me. He had been by Yarfel’s bedside hoping to elicit information about the state of the garrison in Granada. He wondered why a Moor should call out your name and what was the meaning of these words? Torquemada,’ Ratcliffe continued slowly, ‘is a dangerous man. He passionately believes in the limpieza de sangre, the purity of the Spanish blood. He sees Spain as a great Catholic kingdom. He argues constantly with their Majesties, so Lord Rivers has told me, that, when Granada falls, the purity of the Spanish blood must be maintained. Spain is to be purged of all Moriscos, the Conversi, those Muslims who have converted to Catholicism, as well as Jews, schismatics, heretics and,’ he looked up at the star-strewn sky, ‘those guilty of dabbling in the black arts.’

‘Are you accusing me of being a warlock?’ Matthias snapped, getting to his feet.

‘No, Matthias, I am not. I am giving you a warning.’ Ratcliffe also scrambled to his feet. ‘When Granada falls, do not stay too long in Spain. Indeed, if you have incurred the interest of Master Torquemada, I strongly suggest that you leave Spain as quickly as you can, whilst you can.’

‘But I am leaving with you?’ Matthias knew his words sounded half-hearted.

Ratcliffe lifted a hand. ‘Are you, Matthias?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you really want to come? You are a man searching for death, Matthias. God knows what nightmares you suffer and only God knows what happened out there in that terrible fight. You are, in truth, an uncommon man. I do not believe your destiny lies with me or the company of St Raphael.’ He let his hand drop. ‘We will see you out of Spain, but after that. .’ He shrugged and walked off into the darkness.

Matthias stared up at the sky.

‘Even then,’ he murmured, ‘the Rose Demon must have suspected what I was doing. Was he so close?’

Matthias heard a sound behind him. He glimpsed a figure stride off. In the fading light of a flickering torch, Matthias recognised the black and white robes of a Dominican monk.