The Rose Demon

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 faded. ‘Some people believe Columbus is a sorcerer.’

Matthias deliberately stifled a yawn as this funny, rather nervous servant of Torquemada tried to bring the conversation to more topical matters.

At night Matthias was more circumspect. He dreamt scenes from his past and was fearful lest he talk in his sleep and thus provide fresh information for the silent watchers. In the middle of June, however, Torquemada came to visit him. The Inquisitor General was booted and spurred, ready to leave: his attitude to Matthias was one of bored indifference. He handed his English captive a purse of silver.

‘In a few days,’ he declared, after giving his final benediction, ‘you will be released. Soldiers will take you to the port of Palos.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, you are on your own!’ He was about to leave but turned, one hand on the door. ‘Of course, you might desert but that would be very foolish. If you are caught, and it would not be hard to hunt for an Englishman in southern Spain, we would certainly meet again. Goodbye, Englishman!’ And he slammed the door unceremoniously behind him.

Two weeks later an officer of the Santa Hermanda arrived late in the evening and announced that, tomorrow morning, they would leave. Matthias was to pack and be ready. Matthias was overjoyed but his happiness was soon marred by the long, bone-racking journey under a scorching sun to the small fishing port of Palos. There Matthias had been handed over to Columbus’ business partners and Spanish captains, the Pinzon brothers. They were tactful, but cold and distant. Matthias recognised the subtlety of Torquemada. Both men saw him as a mercenary, a creature of the Inquisition.

Columbus himself, who now had the title of Captain General, was even more cold and forbidding. The Genoese was tall, thickset, open-faced, with eyes heavy-lidded under a high, sweeping brow. In many ways he reminded Matthias of Torquemada: a man absorbed by dreams. When the Pinzon brothers introduced Matthias, Columbus hardly raised his eyes from the charts spread out on the table before him. He limply clasped Matthias’ hand, said that he should expect no favours, and then dismissed him.

Matthias moved against the ship’s rail. He’d also been given clear instructions about his conduct on board ship: the rigging of the sails, the navigation, duties on board were not for him. In the event of any enemy attack he would man the light cannon, four-inch bombards which fired a stone ball, or take one of the crossbows. Matthias chewed on his lip and watched the sailors scurrying like monkeys around the deck. Bare-footed, dressed in drab hose and ragged linen shirts, all were born sailors. They moved with the lightness of a cat despite the pitching deck and the constant sea spray which drenched everything from the huge square sail bearing a resplendent red cross to the small bumboat slung along the side. Matthias hardly knew any of the crew. He’d met the royal representative Escobedo, whilst the barber surgeon, a converted Jew, Louis de Torres, was amiable enough. The rest of the crew, however, regarded him as a foreigner.

‘Don’t worry,’ de Torres had confided. ‘I’m here to patch their wounds and, because I am fluent in many tongues, I’m to be Columbus’ interpreter for the Great Khan.’ He winked, a sign that he no more believed Columbus would meet such a great king than, indeed, any other of the crew did.

‘Columbus is a dreamer,’ de Torres hissed, ‘and every man Jack on board our three ships is only here because they have come from Palos. If it hadn’t been for the Pinzon brothers, Columbus would have had to paddle his own boat out into the unknown.’

Nonetheless, despite all this, Matthias had been pleased to be free of Torquemada. The Pinzon brothers kept an eye on him but he’d been allowed to wander the taverns and wine shops which lined the busy quayside. Matthias had caught the excitement caused by Columbus’ projected voyage. Many were doubtful, though, secretly, they nursed dreams of finding golden cities and mines rich with silver. Matthias had also kept his ears open for any strange occurrences. He still wondered if it really had been Morgana he’d glimpsed in Granada.

In the end, the days passed in humdrum fashion until on 1 August Matthias had been given his orders that, the next time he boarded the Santa Maria, it would be no exercise. He was to check the bombards and ensure that the strings of the crossbows were still dry. Columbus was determined to catch the easterly winds and sail out into the unknown.

‘Fitzosbert! Fitzosbert!’

Matthias broke from his reverie. De Torres was standing on the steps of the forecastle beckoning him over.

‘The Captain General wishes to see you.’

Matthias looked at the small, monkey-faced man, his friendly eyes and ever-smiling mouth. De Torres scratched his close-cropped hair.

‘He’s in a temper,’ he whispered. ‘He’s never in the best of moods so watch what you say.’

Columbus’ cabin was no more than a dark panelled closet under the stern castle. A small pallet bed in one corner, a collapsible table, a chair and two stools. Columbus was sitting, studying the charts spread over his lap. He was dressed in a light blue shirt, open at the neck. He’d kicked his boots off and his bare feet tapped impatiently on the wooden floor.

‘Sit down! Sit down! Sit down!’ Columbus wiped the sweat from his brow. He rolled the charts up and gently tapped Matthias on the cheek, forcing his head sideways. ‘The Pinzon brothers noticed that!’

‘Noticed what?’ Matthias replied.

‘The rope marks on your neck!’

Matthias nursed the small scar left by the rough handling of Emloe’s men on the Winchelsea road.

‘Are you a felon, Englishman? A gallows bird?’

‘I’m a soldier,’ Matthias replied bleakly. He regarded his life as a closed book, especially to this Genoese who studied him in such a hostile manner.

‘I know nothing of you.’ Columbus leant forward. ‘You seem to have an honest face. I received the letter from the Inquisition that you were to come, be part of the crew with the specific duties of master-at-arms. However, you are not on my manifest and I shall not mention you in my log. Most of the crew here are seamen from Palos, about two or three are from gaols elsewhere: people whom the authorities in Spain want as far away from them as possible. You are one of these. I am Captain General. I have the power of life and death over everyone in this fleet. You will carry out my orders and that’s all I care about. I don’t give a fig about your past or why you are really here. If we return to Spain, Torquemada wishes to meet you again. I expect you to obey my orders. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good. Your duties are light. Remember: don’t try to climb the rigging or mast, you’ll only go overboard. I haven’t got time for a search. However, you can be part of the forward watch. Each man does four hours every day, sometimes in the morning, sometimes at night. I expect you to be awake when I do my rounds.’

‘What are we looking for, Captain General? I mean, we are sailing into the unknown. .’

Columbus smiled bleakly. ‘We are setting sail for the Grand Canaries, no more dangerous than a jaunt along a river. But, when we leave there,’ he held his hand up, ‘the Portuguese may have men-of-war waiting for me. I’m to give these the slip. Once we are out in the open,’ he pushed his face closer, ‘it’s land, do you understand, Fitzosbert?’ Columbus stumbled over Matthias’ name. ‘For the man who first sights land, there’ll be a pension for life.’

Matthias was dismissed. Later in the day he was given his place to sleep in the corner of the forecastle. Matthias’ goods were stowed away with the rest. There was no mattress, only a threadbare, rather smelly grey blanket.

In the succeeding days Matthias became accustomed to the humdrum routine of the ship. He was relieved that any sea-sickness soon passed, and his ability to participate in different duties, including a watch, soon made him acceptable to other members of the crew. They drew him into their light-hearted conversations and banter about each other: the sexual exploits of women who lived in the Canaries; of Columbus and their dreams of what they might find out in the unknown ocean. They were a tough group of men, self-sufficient, with little respect for authority, even for the Captain General.

‘He’ll have to prove himself,’ Alonzo Baldini declared. He was a fisherman from Palos who had also served as a pirate. He rubbed his hands. ‘What I want to see are these women on the Grand Canaries.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you know that before a virgin is married, she is fattened with milk until her skin is plump as that of a ripe fig. The people there claim that thin maidens are not as good as fat ones.’ He licked his lips. ‘Once she is fattened she is shown to the groom.’ His voice dropped to a whisper because of Columbus’ strict instructions against impure and Godless conversation. ‘She’s shown naked,’ he whispered, ‘like a cow at a fair.’

Other members of the crew joined in, making tart observations on what they hoped to do before they left the Canaries. They told Matthias that he should hire the service of a good whore because the women of the Great Khan were too small for Spaniards and not able to cater for their sexual needs.

Matthias half-listened. Staring round the moon-dappled deck, he idly wondered which of these men did not possess their own soul. Was the Rose Demon amongst them? So far he had encountered nothing to provoke any suspicions and he wondered about the old stories he had read in Oxford — could demons cross vast expanses of water? And, if they did reach lands across the Western Seas, would Matthias find peace? A sanctuary from the forces which had pursued him for most of his life?

Six days after leaving Palos, the Pinta and Nina closed up behind the Santa Maria. Following the glow of the brazier which was slung over the flagship’s stern, they followed it into the harbour of San Sebastian, which stood on the cliffs overlooking the port on the island of Gomera in the Canaries.

The rest of the day was spent in bringing the ships alongside each other in the harbour. The Pinzon brothers came over to confer with Columbus whilst the crew waited to see what orders would be given. At last, late in the afternoon, Columbus announced that the Pinta would be sailing back because of a fault with its rudder whilst he would wait to present his compliments to Lady Bobadilla, the widowed ruler of the Canaries. The crew were, therefore, given leave to go ashore.

Matthias found Gomera a restful place: its white, gleaming buildings, small, cool wine shops, gardens and vineyards and the great, green expanse of the island stretching up to the rim of an extinct volcano. The islanders were an easy, careless, merry group of people who welcomed the ships and the gossip they brought.

They landed at Gomera on 12 August. Matthias spent the first few days wandering round the seaside port. He then went out into the countryside to view the great dragon trees. Huge, red-barked, with strangely arranged branches, these produced a red-coloured resin highly prized as a medicine.

Matthias mixed with the crew, but after a while he grew tired of days and evenings spent in the tavernas carousing and quarrelling with whores. He took to journeying out, going for long walks, climbing the escarpment of rocky ridges and sitting under the cool shade of the trees. Below him sprawled San Sebastian and he could make out the Santa Maria and Nina, their sails unhooked, as Columbus changed the rigging, eager to catch every breeze once he had set sail into the unknown ocean.

Matthias listened to de Torres or the little fisherman, Frederico Totonaz: their constant chatter about their families, beloved ones, girlfriends, as well as whispers about Columbus being mad, that he was a secret Jew and how he possessed secret information on what would happen across the great ocean. Would they sail into nothingness? And, if there was land, would the women be comely and welcoming? Matthias compared their concerns to his own life. He felt no attraction towards women — sometimes a desire to empty himself, to stroke smooth flesh, to bury his face in a woman’s hair — but then he’d think of Rosamund and his desire would fade. Only now and again, particularly in the last weeks of his imprisonment in Granada, had Matthias confronted the problem which clouded his soul. Was he the son of Parson Osbert or the offspring of a demon? Was that possible? If it was, was his soul lost and damned before he was ever born? But, if that was the case, why these constant confrontations? What was at stake? What was the issue?

On the Feast of the Assumption 1492, Matthias sat on the hillside and stared down at Columbus’ ships. Despite his coldness, Matthias felt a kinship with the Genoese. The Captain General was an outsider, a stranger, a man driven by a burning ambition. On the voyage from Palos, Matthias had listened to the crew and watched the admiral of the Western Ocean. Columbus was driven by one thought and one thought only: to find out a new route to the Indies, to bring back the treasures of Cathay and Cipango and lay them at the feet of Ferdinand and Isabella. Matthias moved deeper into the shade of a dragon tree. And what would happen if they ever did return? Matthias was totally determined not to fall into the hands of Torquemada yet it seemed that no royal protection could save him from the Inquisition. And what happened if the voyage went wrong? Would Matthias be blamed? Bundled off into some dungeon to be tortured and quietly garrotted? Matthias shifted uneasily. Should he continue this journey? Columbus was determined to sail as soon as all was ready. Matthias knew from the gossip that other ships sailed to and from Gomera. He could travel back to Lisbon, beyond the arm of the Inquisition, and then into France, perhaps Italy?

Matthias rose and made his way slowly down the hill. So immersed in his thoughts, he was oblivious to the warbling of the birds and the beautiful variegated butterflies which moved in clouds from one bunch of flowers to another. He entered the back streets of San Sebastian. It was still early in the afternoon. He felt thirsty so he called into a small taverna. He bought a jug of chilled wine and sat in the corner sipping at it, wondering what to do. He was lost in his own thoughts: sometimes he was back at Barnwick, or waiting on the ridge at East Stoke.

He felt a soft touch on his hand and became aware of a cloying, lingering perfume. He looked up. Morgana was sitting opposite him, her red hair like a gorgeous cloud on either side of her beautiful face, green eyes smiling. She proffered her empty cup.

‘Are you going to drink alone?’

Matthias stared at this exquisite witch-woman. Her dress was a low-cut, clinging simple gown fringed with gold: it emphasised her beautiful slender neck and rich lustrous breasts. Matthias noticed the green earrings which hung from either lobe, small balls of flashing light. He filled her cup and glanced round the taverna. The other customers were looking at him curiously.

‘Just ignore them, Matthias,’ Morgana murmured, her green eyes more catlike than ever. She lowered her head and dabbed at the sweat between her breasts. Her eyes never left his.

‘Where do you come from?’ Matthias asked. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Like the breeze,’ she smiled, ‘I come and go as I wish.’

‘And your companion? The man who always escorts you?’

‘Oh, he’s with you, Matthias. He’s on board the Santa Maria to protect you. Sailors are superstitious. They do not like strangers or people who act as if their lives are cursed.’ Her smile widened. ‘Have you not read the Scriptures: the fate of Jonah? We cannot have that happening to you.’

‘Who are you?’ Matthias asked. ‘You say your name is Morgana.’

‘I am a servant of the Master,’ she replied, her smile fading as she sipped the white wine Matthias had poured. ‘I go where he tells me. I do what he orders. I have a special charge for you.’

‘I can see that,’ Matthias replied tartly. ‘I am hounded like a dog from one place to another. Snatched up, imprisoned, bullied and threatened. If you are the breeze, Morgana, I am a dry leaf with no life of my own.’

‘Are you?’ she teased back. ‘Are you really, Matthias? Tell me how different you are from any of the men who serve on the Santa Maria. Or those who died at Tewkesbury, at East Stoke, at Barnwick, at Sauchieburn?’ Her eyes became hard, like beautiful emeralds, but not vibrant with life or warmth. ‘Are you going to sit and wallow in self-pity, Matthias? How do you know your life would have been any different? Or shorter? Or more tragic?’

‘Other people know why they live. They have a purpose.’

‘Some do,’ she replied. ‘But so have you, Matthias.’ She leant across the table and squeezed his hand.

‘Am I his son?’ Matthias asked abruptly.

Her face softened. ‘You are the Beloved, Matthias. You are his Beloved. He wants you. He wants your love. He wants you to accept him for what he is.’

‘And how long must I wait?’

‘Love is about waiting, Matthias. Haven’t you realised that? There is a time and a place for love to be consummated, to be returned, to be agreed upon. It will come!’

‘And what happens if I go?’ Matthias asked. ‘What happens if I flee?’

‘What will be, shall be and a man’s fate is written upon his forehead.’ Morgana glanced round the room. ‘Here we are on the island of Gomera. If you wish, Matthias, you could travel back to Sutton Courteny, and sit in the fields and listen to the nightingales sing. There are many ways of travelling back home. Various paths, strange routes but, in the end, the journey will be about your heart’s desire. Matthias, you carry your world within you. You can fly to the dark side of the moon, free from Torquemada, of all those who pursue you — but never free of yourself.’

Matthias heard a commotion on the far side of the room. A group of young men who had been playing noisily were now looking across at him, arguing loudly amongst themselves. They dismissed him with disdain, their 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.