The Rose Demon

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