The Rose Demon

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