The Rose Demon

treasure house.’

    ‘Why have you come, Edgar?’

    Ratcliffe chewed on the corner of his lip.

    ‘I watched you fight, Matthias,’ he replied slowly. ‘God forgive me, I was already whispering your Requiem.’

    Matthias sensed he was smiling.

    ‘Then I saw you charge. Your horse colliding with that of the Moor. Everything was covered in a curtain of dust. When it settled and I saw you standing, sword out, ready to fight, I thought, God is with that man.’

    ‘And?’

    ‘You were so fast,’ Ratcliffe continued. He plucked at a piece of the dried grass and held it between his lips.

    ‘What are you implying, Sir Edgar? What is this about?’

    The English knight faced him squarely, his eyes no longer tender but hard and certain.

    ‘Don’t you realise, Matthias? Here you are, nothing more than an Englishman at arms. You rode out on a sorry-looking horse without helmet and shield, yet you killed a Moorish champion: a man who had slain, in open combat, some of the best knights of Castile and Aragon. You despatched him in minutes like a farmer would a pig.’ He shrugged and sat, head half-cocked, listening to the faint strains of a guitar, the stamp of feet and the cries and shouts of the soldiers, encouraging some woman in her mad, passionate dance.

    ‘I was injured,’ Matthias replied churlishly. ‘And all soldiers have luck.’

    ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Ratcliffe replied, ‘on the road to Rye: you warned me about Craftleigh. I thought it was just a presentiment, a premonition?’

    ‘And now?’

    ‘When you fell unconscious and were brought back to the camp, the Spanish had Yarfel’s body removed. You didn’t kill him outright.’ He paused and Matthias’ blood ran cold. ‘He was taken to the Santa Hermanda. You know who they are? The Holy Brotherhood, the military arm of the Inquisition. They have doctors, physicians, leeches, they are also headed by one of the most powerful men in Spain, the Dominican, Tomas de Torquemada. He’s confessor to Queen Isabella. Yarfel regained consciousness, just for a short while. He said something strange. He called out your name, Matthias, then he added something in Latin.’

    Matthias stiffened.

    ‘ “ Creatura bona atque parva ,” the Moor whispered. He said it again. A few seconds later he was dead.’ Ratcliffe chewed on the grass blade. ‘Torquemada came to see me. He had been by Yarfel’s bedside hoping to elicit information about the state of the garrison in Granada. He wondered why a Moor should call out your name and what was the meaning of these words? Torquemada,’ Ratcliffe continued slowly, ‘is a dangerous man. He passionately believes in the limpieza de sangre , the purity of the Spanish blood. He sees Spain as a great Catholic kingdom. He argues constantly with their Majesties, so Lord Rivers has told me, that, when Granada falls, the purity of the Spanish blood must be maintained. Spain is to be purged of all Moriscos, the Conversi, those Muslims who have converted to Catholicism, as well as Jews, schismatics, heretics and,’ he looked up at the star-strewn sky, ‘those guilty of dabbling in the black arts.’

    ‘Are you accusing me of being a warlock?’ Matthias snapped, getting to his feet.

    ‘No, Matthias, I am not. I am giving you a warning.’ Ratcliffe also scrambled to his feet. ‘When Granada falls, do not stay too long in Spain. Indeed, if you have incurred the interest of Master Torquemada, I strongly suggest that you leave Spain as quickly as you can, whilst you can.’

    ‘But I am leaving with you?’ Matthias knew his words sounded half-hearted.

    Ratcliffe lifted a hand. ‘Are you, Matthias?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you really want to come? You are a man searching for death, Matthias. God knows what nightmares you suffer and only God knows what happened out there in that terrible fight. You are, in truth, an uncommon man. I do not believe your destiny lies with me or the company of St Raphael.’ He let his hand drop. ‘We will see you out of Spain, but after that . . .’ He shrugged and walked off into the darkness.

    Matthias stared up at the sky.

    ‘Even then,’ he murmured, ‘the Rose Demon must have suspected what I was doing. Was he so close?’

    Matthias heard a sound behind him. He glimpsed a figure stride off. In the fading light of a flickering torch, Matthias recognised the black and white robes of a Dominican monk.

32

    On 2 January 1492, so all the Chroniclers of Europe wrote,