The Rose Demon

Moorish champion, eyes unblinking, spoke slowly in Spanish. Matthias shook his head uncomprehendingly.

    ‘By what name are you called?’ The Moor lapsed into the lingua franca.

    ‘I am Matthias Fitzosbert. I am English.’

    ‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’ The Moor’s eyes smiled as his tongue tripped over the strange-sounding names. ‘You are a long way from home, Inglese. Is it your fate to die under a foreign sun?’

    ‘My fate is in God’s hands,’ Matthias retorted. ‘I care not if I live or die.’

    The words were out before he could stop them. The Moor edged his horse closer, his face puckered in concern.

    ‘You are not frightened of death?’

    Matthias stared down and watched the sun glint on the Moor’s sword.

    ‘I am sorry.’ He lifted his head. ‘I did not mean that. It’s not so much death I fear. I simply do not care if I have to leave this life.’

    ‘Is that why you are here?’ Yarfel put his helmet back on: both men were now impervious to the growing clamour from either side.

    ‘I don’t know,’ Matthias replied. ‘It is God’s will.’

    ‘Allah il Allah.’ Yarfel replied. ‘Our fates are written.’

    He gathered up his reins and galloped back sixty yards before stopping and turning. Yarfel held his sword up, turning once again to salute the rose-red walls of Granada. Matthias grasped his reins. The weight of the shield in his left arm was hurting him and, despite the cries from the Catholic encampment, he dropped it on the ground. He watched Yarfel prepare for battle. The sun was growing stronger. A heat haze now swirled across the open expanse.

    Now Yarfel was moving at a canter. Matthias crossed himself and urged his horse forward. As they approached, both men spurred their horses into a charge. Matthias, reins in his left hand, his sword slightly out, kept his eyes on the Moor. He forgot about the sun, the hard ground underneath, the breeze cooling the sweat on his brow: his world had shrunk to that man charging towards him. Matthias remembered what he had learnt. Yarfel expected Matthias to pass him in a cloud of dust and a clash of swords. Matthias intended different. He let the reins slip, guiding his horse by his knees; he now held his sword with two hands. Yarfel moved, as he’d expected, a little to Matthias’ right and Matthias moved with him. They met: Matthias’ horse crashing into Yarfel’s. Matthias felt himself lifted from the saddle up in the air then crashing to the earth, a bone-jarring fall, but he rolled and, ignoring the searing pain in his left leg, struggled to his feet, sword out. Yarfel also had been pitched from the saddle. The Moor had lost his helmet but he was ready for battle: curved scimitar out, legs apart, he waited for Matthias to charge.

    As the dust settled and the spectators saw what was happening, a great roar rose from the Spanish camp. Yarfel had never been dismounted: he often despatched his opponent within a few minutes of the initial charge. Matthias edged closer. The Moor was watching him intently. Matthias prayed and realised he was praying to Rosamund. In a sense he wasn’t here. He was in the outer bailey at Barnwick Castle, learning the tricks and turns of a professional swordsman. He coughed and lowered his head as if there was dust in his eyes. Yarfel charged. Matthias stepped sideways. Swords clashed, Matthias twisted his and cut deep into the Moor’s right arm. Yarfel stepped away. This time Matthias moved in slashing and jabbing with his sword, forcing the Moorish champion backwards. Despite the heat and the dust, the pain in his leg from his fall, Matthias felt cold. Yarfel’s sword did not bother him; that winking flashing piece of steel was not to be feared. He must watch the Moor’s eyes. Yarfel glanced away, a quick momentary look and Matthias closed. Instead of swinging from the right Yarfel brought his sword up in an attempt to slash Matthias’ chest. Matthias moved, not sideways, but backwards. The Moor lost his footing. Matthias had seen others do this: a blow given too quickly, too strongly and for a few seconds the right side of the neck was exposed. Matthias’ sword sliced through the air: a slashing, deep-boned cut which finished the fight. The Moor turned, his face contorted in agony. He staggered, knees buckling. He went to speak but his eyes rolled in his head and the blood frothed out of his mouth. He crashed to his knees and sprawled out on the ground.

    Matthias felt no elation. He