The Rose Demon

stared in disbelief. It had been so quick, so effortless. That was not what should have happened. He looked towards Granada. As he did so, the Catholic camp burst into cheering which rose to the heavens. An entire line of Crusaders now rushed forward. Men brandishing swords and shields as the trumpets of the Catholic army began to bray their defiance. Soon he was not alone. People were pressing about him. Someone kicked the fallen Yarfel and Matthias screamed his protest. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe was there, a friend amongst the sea of faces. Matthias begged Ratcliffe to show respect to Yarfel’s corpse. The Englishman agreed. He spoke quickly in French, much-used here, to a Spanish officer standing behind him. The man nodded. Matthias’ legs grew weak. He resheathed his sword and turned to look for his horse.

    ‘I really should ride away,’ he muttered. The sweat grew cold on his skin. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ He took a step forward, the sky seemed to move, whirl around, and Ratcliffe caught him as he fainted.

    When Matthias awoke, he looked towards the mouth of the tent and saw it was dark. Men were clustered there chattering excitedly in Spanish. He pulled himself up. Ratcliffe came out of the shadows, put an arm round his shoulders and lifted a wineskin to his lips.

    ‘Well, well, my boy!’

    His words reminded Matthias of Fitzgerald. He looked up sharply but Sir Edgar smiled.

    ‘Don’t be alarmed, Matthias. When you fell from your horse, you received a blow to your head. Didn’t you feel it?’

    ‘No.’

    ‘You defeated the champion,’ Ratcliffe whispered, pulling him up and raising the bolsters to support him. ‘So quickly. I didn’t know we had a Lancelot amongst us!’

    A figure blocked the entrance to the tent. He spoke in Spanish and Ratcliffe replied. The man came forward and crouched beside Matthias.

    ‘I am the Duke of Medina-Sidonia,’ he began slowly. ‘I can speak your tongue.’ His grizzled face broke into a smile. ‘I learnt it on an embassy to your fog-bound island.’ He opened his pouch, took out a small, jewelled cross and placed it carefully around Matthias’ neck. ‘You broke their Majesties’ command. You picked up the Moor’s challenge but God was with you. Their Majesties have been kind enough to send you this, a token of their affection and esteem.’ He also took a small scroll of parchment and a heavy jingling purse from his pouch. ‘This is a pass which will give you permission to go wherever you wish. It commands all officers of the Crown to assist you in your passage and provide you with every sustenance and comfort. You are to be regarded, here in Spain, as their Majesties’ most loyal servant.’ The man rose and bowed stiffly. ‘When Granada falls, and fall it will, you are to ride in triumph with other members of the royal household.’

    Matthias spent the next few days recovering from his bruises. Ratcliffe fussed around him like a mother hen, carefully arranging that those who came to see the English champion did not stay too long. The tent Matthias found himself in was the gift of a Spanish bishop. Other presents arrived: silken cloths, fruit, cooked dishes, wine. Matthias asked for these to be distributed amongst the company of St Raphael.

    After a while the excitement subsided. Concerns were taken up by news that the rulers of Granada, fearful of the city being starved to death or taken by storm, had sent out envoys to enquire about an honourable surrender.

    Matthias was left to his own devices and noticed how Ratcliffe’s attitude was changing. As Matthias cleaned some equipment, or sat round the campfire with the rest of the company, he would catch Sir Edgar watching him from the corner of his eye, studying him carefully. At length, one night just after they had celebrated Christmas, Matthias went to his usual place outside the camp, staring up at the stars, wondering what he would do next. He glimpsed the pinpricks of light along the battlements or from windows along the walls. Granada would fall. The Spanish kings would take possession of this last city in Moorish hands but what would he do? Ratcliffe was talking of leading his men north into France, then east to join the Teutonic knights or even the Hospitallers in the Middle Sea. A twig snapped behind him; Matthias whirled round.

    ‘It’s only me!’ Ratcliffe came and sat beside him. ‘They say it’s a beautiful city.’ He began pointing towards the battlements. ‘A veritable