The Rose Demon

32

On 2 January 1492, so all the Chroniclers of Europe wrote, God manifested his glory to his people when Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada, surrendered his city to Ferdinand and Isabella and secretly left his palace by the door of the Seven Sighs. The main gates to the city were thrown open and, with banners flying and trumpets braying, the Catholic army passed into the streets of Granada.

Matthias Fitzosbert, on a specially caparisoned destrier, rode in the long snaking column of the splendidly arrayed household of Ferdinand and Isabella. The sun had barely risen but already the townspeople, Christian, Moor and Jew, had flocked out to greet their new rulers. Ferdinand and Isabella had promised the citizens their lives and freedom whilst the strictest instructions had been issued against pillaging or the molestation of any of Granada’s inhabitants.

Matthias rode alongside Sir Edgar Ratcliffe, his own anxieties forgotten, as he stared in wonderment at this jewel of a city: cool, porticoed basilicas, marble villas, squares washed by fountains, gardens neatly laid out behind terraced walls and, everywhere, a mixture of fragrant smells: precious oils from the perfume quarter, the mouth-watering odours from the kitchens and cook shops and, above all, the great puffs of incense coming from the censers swung by the priests who walked either side of the cavalcade. The sun rose higher and, despite the season, Matthias found it hot, his skin turning clammy beneath his leather hauberk.

At last they climbed a hill and entered the splendid Alhambra Palace. Many of the household remained outside but Matthias and Sir Edgar were allowed to follow the monarchs into the Hall of Justice. Matthias stared in wonderment at the lacy walls, painted ceilings, scintillating domes, brilliantly coloured tiles and silken gold mosaics. The palace was composed of interconnecting courtyards, each a perfect marble square enclosed by ivory-coloured columns and ornamental arches.

The Te Deum was sung at the centre of this palace. For the first time ever Matthias could study close up the two Spanish monarchs: long-nosed, heavy-jowled, russet-haired Ferdinand, with the face and eyes of a crafty fox; Isabella, skin like alabaster, her golden, grey-streaked hair gathered up under an elegant laced veil. With her perfectly composed face, high cheekbones, half-closed eyes, her hands joined devoutly in front of her, she reminded Matthias of a picture of the Virgin Mary he had once seen in an Oxford church. Memories of England flooded back and Matthias, standing in a porticoed corner of the Lion Court, felt a wave of homesickness. This was a strange world of glaring sunshine, savage, beautiful countryside, mysterious people, golden halls, silver-draped chambers, a place of opulence, of exotic tapestries, blood-red wine, meat and fruits piled high on golden platters. Matthias half-closed his eyes: it was also a place of danger and mystery. Here, in the Alhambra, or so he had been told, was the Room of Secrets, with its whispering alcoves which magnified and echoed every sound. According to Lord Rivers, a former sultan had beheaded over two score princes there and then washed his feet in their blood as it seeped across the marble floor.

Matthias opened his eyes. The great Lion Hall was now packed with soldiers, courtiers and priests gathered in a horseshoe fashion behind Ferdinand and Isabella, who knelt on cushions. They all watched two friars place up against the marble wall a gaunt, black cross on which an ivory-bodied Christ writhed in his final torments. The hall fell quiet. When suitable silence had been observed, there was a bray of trumpets from outside and the whole assembly broke into wild cheering as the signal that the great silver cross of Castile had, at last, been placed on the highest peak of the Alhambra Palace. Chamberlains and knight bannerets of the royal household now began to clear the hall. Matthias gazed round. Despite the clamour, the gorgeous colours, the jubiliation, the cries of triumph in a number of languages, he was sure he was being watched. His eyes swept the room: in the far corner a Dominican was watching him. The man was short and squat, his head neatly tonsured, his face was heavy, the nose aquiline but the friar’s eyes seemed to burn: even though they stood yards apart, Matthias felt the Dominican was probing his very soul.

‘Who is that?’ he whispered gruffly.

Ratcliffe followed his gaze. ‘The former Prior of Segovia,’ he murmured. ‘Confessor to Queen Isabella, about whom I have spoken. As you may know, he has been keeping you under strict surveillance during the last few days.’

Finally it was the turn of Matthias and Ratcliffe to leave. The English knight grasped Matthias’ elbow and, when they left the Alhambra, took him across to a small wine shop. The place was full of roistering soldiers. In the small garden beyond, a small patch of faded green, intersected by pebble-dashed paths, Ratcliffe sat Matthias down. A young boy, eager to please, dressed in ragged leggings and a tattered linen shirt came up and jabbered at them, his eyes dancing with merriment. Ratcliffe laughed and tossed him a coin, demanding wine.

‘Not water!’ He shouted as the boy scampered away. ‘Nualla aqua!’

A few minutes later, a podgy woman brought two pewter cups of dark-red wine and a platter of brown bread smeared with butter and honey. She served them quickly, not raising her head. She took the coin Ratcliffe offered and waddled away.

‘They don’t know whether to be glad or sad.’ Ratcliffe leant back against the hard brick wall, moving to ease the cramp in his thighs.

‘Aren’t they pleased?’ Matthias asked. ‘That Granada is Spanish and Catholic?’

‘Granada was an island in itself,’ Ratcliffe answered. ‘A city of opulence, luxury, carefree in all matters. If it hadn’t been for a group of fanatics, Boabdil would have surrendered as soon as the Catholic standards appeared over the hill. Granada is a place, Matthias, where Christian, Jew, Moor, as well as a few faiths you’ve never even heard of, lived in easy amity. Now all has changed. Granada is Catholic, the Santa Hermanda, the Inquisition and, above all, Tomas de Torquemada are here. Rumours are rife. Ferdinand and Isabella are pragmatic: they need the Moorish craftsmen and they depend heavily upon the Jewish bankers.’

‘But Torquemada?’ Matthias asked.

‘Ah yes.’ Ratcliffe lowered his voice and made a sign to Matthias to do so. He stared round the garden. ‘Be careful, Matthias. They say that Torquemada even pays the birds, the mice and the rats to bring him information. Torquemada is a zealot. He not only sees a united Catholic Spain but, as I have said, a kingdom free of Moor and Jew. He has already accused Ferdinand and Isabella of selling the Church, like Judas sold Christ, for the sake of money and peace.’

‘He said that!’ Matthias exclaimed.

‘Torquemada and his Inquisition answer to no one but God. Even the Pope in Rome fears him. He has Isabella’s soul in the palm of his hand and, like a child with a toy, Torquemada knows how to use it!’

‘And?’

Ratcliffe sipped at his wine, savouring its rich sweetness. ‘It’s better than the vinegar we’ve got in camp,’ he observed. ‘Lord Rivers has been given the honour of accompanying certain nobles from Granada to Madrid. He has asked for the company of St Raphael to join him. I have agreed. We leave tomorrow morning before first light.’ He knocked the dust from his jacket. ‘If you wish, and I advise you to do so, you may come with us.’

Matthias stared across the garden. Somewhere in the tavern a man was singing a lusty, merry song. Matthias realised he was in danger, that he was under surveillance by the Holy Brotherhood. Yet he didn’t really care. Those dying words of Yarfel showed that, whatever he did, he was like a swimmer in a fast-flowing river: however hard he struggled, the current would always have its way. He closed his eyes. He’d always been fleeing: from Oxford, from Barnwick, from Scotland, from London, from St Wilfrid’s, from Emloe’s men. He opened his eyes.

‘I’ll stay,’ he declared.

‘In which case,’ Ratcliffe put his cup down and stood up, ‘I suggest you find quarters in the city here.’ He pointed to the cross the Spanish Queen had sent Matthias. ‘You have the royal warrant to do what you want and go where you will. I shall arrange for whatever the company owes you to be left in trust with Hidalbo, a Spanish merchant. He has a house just within the gateways of Holy Faith city, near the sign of the Bull.’

Matthias got to his feet. ‘I don’t want it, Edgar.’ He saw the surprise in the man’s face. ‘My horse is stabled in the Alhambra. I paid a groom to guard that and my saddlebags. What I want, what I need, is in them: the rest you can keep.’

Matthias liked this English knight but he knew any hope of camaraderie, of a deeper, more lasting friendship was gone for ever. He stretched out his hand.

‘I shall not return tonight. God be with you, Sir Edgar.’

‘Is that how it is, Matthias?’

‘That’s how it is, Edgar. You are a good soldier, a loyal friend. In the last few months you have been my brother. However, I cannot tell you about my past or what haunts me and it’s best if I continue alone. The company of St Raphael do not need me and I do not need them.’

Sir Edgar clasped his hand and embraced him. They exchanged the kiss of peace. Sir Edgar left, walking purposefully across the garden and into the tavern without a backward glance.

Matthias sat down on the bench and picked up his wine cup. He stared down at Sir Edgar’s, fighting hard against the self-pity which threatened to engulf him. He closed his eyes.

‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why don’t you come, Rosifer. Why not now?’

The sun was warm on his face. Matthias leant back and dozed. His mind slipped into dreams of Barnwick and Rosamund: such dreams occurred frequently, more insistently. He felt himself shaken and opened his eyes. The little boy was staring at him sadly, pointing to his cup and chattering. Matthias shook his head.

‘No, I’ve had enough wine.’

He pressed a coin into the boy’s hand, got to his feet and went back into the courtyard to the Alhambra where he collected his horse. The city was now packed with soldiery but their mood was happy. Archers, wearing the silver cross of Castile, were massed at every corner, bows in hand, arrows notched under the watchful eye of royal knights, their sole duty to maintain law and order. The wine shops were full: some men slept in the cool shade of trees or, taking off their boots, sat and dangled their feet in the fountains. Every so often royal couriers, messengers, as well as heralds bringing proclamations, would enter the streets or gallop by on foam-flecked horses.

Matthias wandered into the Jewish quarter. He crossed a square and entered a more wealthy area. Here, officers from the royal army, English, French, Spanish and German, were negotiating with householders for chambers. Matthias turned his horse, meaning to go back to the taverna he had left, when a woman came out of a house, tripping down the outside steps. Matthias stared in astonishment. She was dressed resplendently in a rich crimson velvet skirt covered with layers of brocade: a matching mantilla, decorated with stars, covered her shoulders, whilst her head was protected from the strong sun by a broad-brimmed black hat from which a white plume danced in the breeze. Matthias only caught the side of her face but he recognised the cheek and mouth, the fiery red hair peeping out just above her ear.

‘Morgana!’ he called. ‘Morgana!’

Some passing soldiers stopped and stared in astonishment. Matthias, recovering from his surprise, hurried down the street after the woman, pulling his horse behind him. He entered a square, roughly cobbled, with traders’ stalls around all four sides. He hurriedly mounted his horse; standing up in the stirrups, he looked over the heads of the crowd and glimpsed the woman again. She was standing on the far edge beneath a goldsmith’s sign at the mouth of an alleyway. Matthias hastened across. He had to dismount, pushing his way through the traders and people milling about. A journeyman ran up offering a bejewelled baldric. Matthias pushed him aside.

When he reached the goldsmith’s sign he stopped and looked around. There was no sign of Morgana. He went down an alleyway and glimpsed her, or at least her cloak, just as she entered a taverna. Matthias followed. There was an alleyway leading down the side of the inn, and he took his horse along and into the stable yard. A groom lazing in the sun got up. Matthias threw him the reins, pressed a coin in his hands and explained that he would receive another if he looked after the horse. The boy pulled a face and Matthias hurried off. Inside, the taverna was cool, with a high ceiling: a large, spacious room with wine vats and tuns at one end, just outside the kitchen door. The rest of the room was taken up with roughly hewn tables and makeshift stools: hams and other pieces of meat hung from the rafters to be cured, giving the air a spicy tang. The customers looked up as Matthias blundered through the doorway. He stood, narrowing his eyes against the gloom.

‘Morgana!’ he called.

The landlord came over, a small tub of a man, wiping bloody fingers on his dirty apron. Matthias asked him, using the lingua franca, about a red-haired woman he’d glimpsed coming in. The taverner spread his hands, shaking his head.

Matthias stared around: there were stairs leading to the upper storeys but a soldier blocked the way, dead drunk. The cup in his lap had spilled, the wine staining his hose. Matthias was sure Morgana had come in here. He stared back at the doorway: there was a small porch leading into it. Had she just stepped in there and left immediately?

Matthias hurried back to the stable yard. The boy was still holding his horse but now he stood rigid with fright.

‘What’s the matter, lad?’

Matthias turned to the gateway. A group of riders blocked the entrance. They were dressed completely in black, masks of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed, and on his front each wore a silver embroidered cross. They sat like a cluster of ravens. Matthias pressed a coin into the boy’s hand.

‘Go on, lad!’ he murmured.

The boy needed no second bidding but fled screaming into the taverna. Matthias mounted his horse and made to leave: the line of horsemen never stirred.

‘Out of my way, sirs!’ Matthias’ hand went inside his pouch. He pulled out the scroll given to him by Isabella. ‘I have the Queen’s warrant — la Reina Isabella!’

One of the black-garbed riders spurred his horse forward.

‘You are Matthias Fitzosbert?’ A black-gloved hand snatched the parchment from his hand. The man’s voice was muffled behind his mask. He spoke the lingua franca. ‘You are Matthias Fitzosbert?’ he repeated.

‘I am. Stand aside!’

‘Matthias Fitzosbert, we are soldiers of the Holy Inquisition. You are under arrest!’

‘On what charge?’

‘That is not necessary.’

Before Matthias could even gather his reins, the other horsemen clustered around him. Hands scrabbled at his war belt, sword and dagger were plucked from their sheaths, his reins were seized and, with these terrifying, black-garbed men surrounding him, Matthias was led off through the streets of Granada.

The square which he had recently crossed was now empty. Traders and their customers had fled at the sight of the Inquisition. Another party of horsemen were waiting for them. Two carried great, black, flapping banners, on which silver crosses were embroidered. The two parties met and continued up, past the Alhambra, along cobbled trackways. Matthias tried to discover where he was going but no one replied. The horsemen had no trouble getting through the streets. Even though Granada was freshly taken, the terror of the Inquisition preceded them. Townspeople fled, even the soldiery, the hidalgos, the nobles, the foreign mercenaries hastily cleared away.

The party stopped at a crossroads. Before he could object, a black mask was pulled over Matthias’ head, his hands were tied by silken cords to the saddle horn and the journey continued. Matthias found it difficult to control his horse: the inside of his thighs became sore, his back stiff as he tried to keep his position. He heard different sounds which always died whenever the Inquisition passed. The hood was hot and stifling and, just when Matthias thought he could bear it no longer, he heard gates being opened, the sound of horse hooves, clattering on the cobbles and he was dragged unceremoniously from the saddle. He was pushed up some steps, through a door and the mask was taken off.

Matthias expected a dungeon but the room was large, cavernous and airy. A window, its shutters thrown back, looked out over a pleasant, tree-shaded garden. It was large enough to allow in sunlight and fresh air but too small for a man to force his way through. The cords round Matthias’ hands were cut and his captors left, the key of the door being turned behind them. Matthias stared around. He was genuinely surprised. The white walls had been given a fresh coat of lime wash against flies and insects. The floor was of polished wood and covered with rugs: the bed was large and soft, the sheets crisp, the bolsters as white as driven snow. On a table stood a jug of cool sherbet and a bowl of fruit, some of which Matthias had never seen before. There was a shelf of books just to the left of the doorway. Matthias wandered over: there was a copy of the Bible, a few tracts and treatises of some theologians, prominently Bonaventure and Albertus Magnus.

Matthias sat in the low-backed, cushioned chair placed under the window. As he became accustomed to the room, he smelt the fragrance of resin, sandalwood and incense. He went across and filled a small, jewel-rimmed pewter goblet. The sherbet tasted delicious, washing his mouth, slaking the dust from his throat.

He heard the key turn and a little, dark-browed man came in. He was dressed in a grey robe with a cord round the waist.

‘My name is Miguel Vincessors.’ He spoke the lingua franca slowly. ‘I am your servant. Oh dear!’ His hand went to his lips. He hurried out of the doorway and brought back a crucifix which he placed on a hook on the wall. ‘Are you comfortable?’ He gabbled on, not waiting for an answer.

Matthias smiled at this little mouse of a man with his constant twitching nose and blinking eyes.

‘You’ll eat before sunset. You like meat? Lamb nicely cut?’ He pointed to the fruit bowl. ‘The pomegranates are fresh. They have to be cut. Don’t eat the skin. Oh, but you haven’t a knife, have you?’

The little man hurried off and a bemused Matthias went across to the bed and sat down. He recalled the saying often used by the Spanish soldiers: ‘What will be, shall be. A man’s fate is written on his forehead.’ Matthias wondered what danger he was in. In the camp he’d been so immersed in his own problems, he’d scarcely grown accustomed to the habits, history and customs of Spain. He’d heard horrifying stories of the Inquisition. He glanced up at the beautiful cloth tester above the bed. This was no Bocardo, no filthy, rat-infested dungeon. Matthias was on the verge of falling asleep when the door opened again. Two Dominicans padded quietly into the room. The younger, dark-faced one, stood near the door, his hood pulled across his head, his hands up the sleeves of his gown. The other was Torquemada. He walked over and smiled down at Matthias, now sitting on the edge of the bed. He was smaller than Matthias had thought but of stout stature: his olive-skinned face was freshly shaved, his mouth was soft, the dark eyes gentle.

‘Are you comfortable, Matthias Fitzosbert?’ He smiled apologetically, clicked his fingers, gesturing at Matthias to remain as he was whilst the younger Dominican moved a chair from the table across for his master to sit on.

‘There.’ Torquemada smiled and breathed out noisily. ‘I am so tired. My bones-’ He stopped. ‘I cannot speak English.’ He changed from lingua franca to Latin. ‘You are an Oxford scholar?’

Matthias nodded.

‘You understand Latin?’

‘Almost as well as English,’ Matthias retorted.

Torquemada rocked backwards and forwards, clapping his hands gently. He chuckled softly, his soft eyes dancing with merriment.

‘I’ve always wished to visit England,’ he replied. ‘There’s a growing alliance between our two countries but they say England is cold: the mists seeps into the bones. A fairy island.’

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 “Creatura bona atque parva”?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It can’t be a conspiracy. How could an English mercenary know anything about a Moorish knight like Yarfel? But it is strange, is it not? And those deaths?’

‘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.

‘Fiat, fiat,’ he murmured. ‘Let it be. Let it be.’ He turned to his shadowy companion. ‘Brother Martin,’ he said softly. ‘Hear the man’s confession and have him garrotted.’

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 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.