The Rose Demon

‘Matthias, I saved your life. I can’t account for every single item of your belongings.’

    ‘No, it was stolen,’ Matthias whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ve had a dream, Sir Edgar. Tonight Craftleigh intends to kill you. He will stab you with my dirk. You will die and I will hang. Craftleigh will have the gold as well as the company of St Raphael.’

    Ratcliffe, face tensed with rage, pushed Matthias away.

    ‘You are a liar!’ he hissed. ‘Perhaps Craftleigh is right. You’ve lost your dagger and now you try to blacken a man’s name and besmirch his reputation.’

    ‘Sir Edgar, listen . . .’

    Ratcliffe was striding off through the darkness. Matthias returned to the campfire. He took a small arbalest and loaded it. Someone pushed a cup of wine into his hand. He sipped it, it tasted a little bitter but he finished it, put the cup down and stretched out, resting his head on a saddle. He felt drowsy and, try as he might, he could not keep his eyes open.

    He was roughly awoken by Ratcliffe. All around was uproar. Matthias pushed Ratcliffe away and half-raised himself. It was still dark. Men were running and shouting. Across the fire lay a corpse with a crossbow bolt embedded deep between the shoulder blades. Ratcliffe pulled Matthias to his feet. Someone threw wood on to the fire. Matthias glimpsed Craftleigh’s face, eyes staring, a trickle of blood snaking out of the corner of his mouth. A few inches from his splayed fingers lay Matthias’ dagger. Ratcliffe clasped Matthias’ hand.

    ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

    Matthias still felt heavy-headed: his mouth was dry, his throat parched.

    ‘I meant to stay awake,’ he declared. ‘Someone gave me a cup of wine . . .’

    ‘I did.’ An archer came forward. ‘Craftleigh filled it and told me to give it to you. He said it would help drown your sorrows.’

    ‘I watched you drink it,’ Ratcliffe said. ‘Then you were asleep within minutes. I called your name. I even came across and shook you.’ He grinned. ‘I might as well have tried to rouse the dead. I began to wonder. The cup was still beside you. How, I thought, could a man make such an allegation then fall so quickly into a deep sleep? I told an archer to hide in the shadows. If he saw any danger during the night, he was to loose.’

    ‘I saw a figure move.’ The crossbow man stepped into the firelight. ‘Craftleigh was so quick, so silent. I saw the glint of steel, so I loosed.’ He hawked and spat into the flames. ‘He was a murdering bastard!’

    ‘Comrades,’ Ratcliffe put his arm round Matthias’ shoulders, ‘may I introduce the newest recruit to our company, Matthias Fitzosbert.’

    A loud cheer rang out. Sir Edgar shook Matthias’ hand.

    ‘You can take Craftleigh’s armour and weapons. His horse is good as well. Thomas!’ He shouted at an archer. ‘Take Craftleigh’s corpse and bury it amongst the trees. The rest, catch what sleep you can!’

    Matthias returned to his makeshift bed.

    The next morning he felt better, more able to receive the congratulations of Ratcliffe and the others. By noon they were in Rye, clopping through the cobbles of the winding streets down to the quayside. Ratcliffe had already signed indentures with the captain of a cog, the St Anthony . Later in the day, the entire company and its horses were taken out by barge to the waiting ship. Just before dusk the captain gave the orders to weigh anchor. The ship turned slowly, its great loose sail filling with wind. Three times, the ship’s banners were dipped in honour of the Trinity, whilst Sir Edgar led his company in their hymn to St Raphael. Matthias, standing on the poop, watched the retreating white cliffs of England. In his heart he knew he’d never see or set foot on that land again.

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