The Rose Demon

Queen Isabella, about whom I have spoken. As you may know, he has been keeping you under strict surveillance during the last few days.’

    Finally it was the turn of Matthias and Ratcliffe to leave. The English knight grasped Matthias’ elbow and, when they left the Alhambra, took him across to a small wine shop. The place was full of roistering soldiers. In the small garden beyond, a small patch of faded green, intersected by pebble-dashed paths, Ratcliffe sat Matthias down. A young boy, eager to please, dressed in ragged leggings and a tattered linen shirt came up and jabbered at them, his eyes dancing with merriment. Ratcliffe laughed and tossed him a coin, demanding wine.

    ‘Not water!’ He shouted as the boy scampered away. ‘ Nualla aqua! ’

    A few minutes later, a podgy woman brought two pewter cups of dark-red wine and a platter of brown bread smeared with butter and honey. She served them quickly, not raising her head. She took the coin Ratcliffe offered and waddled away.

    ‘They don’t know whether to be glad or sad.’ Ratcliffe leant back against the hard brick wall, moving to ease the cramp in his thighs.

    ‘Aren’t they pleased?’ Matthias asked. ‘That Granada is Spanish and Catholic?’

    ‘Granada was an island in itself,’ Ratcliffe answered. ‘A city of opulence, luxury, carefree in all matters. If it hadn’t been for a group of fanatics, Boabdil would have surrendered as soon as the Catholic standards appeared over the hill. Granada is a place, Matthias, where Christian, Jew, Moor, as well as a few faiths you’ve never even heard of, lived in easy amity. Now all has changed. Granada is Catholic, the Santa Hermanda, the Inquisition and, above all, Tomas de Torquemada are here. Rumours are rife. Ferdinand and Isabella are pragmatic: they need the Moorish craftsmen and they depend heavily upon the Jewish bankers.’

    ‘But Torquemada?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘Ah yes.’ Ratcliffe lowered his voice and made a sign to Matthias to do so. He stared round the garden. ‘Be careful, Matthias. They say that Torquemada even pays the birds, the mice and the rats to bring him information. Torquemada is a zealot. He not only sees a united Catholic Spain but, as I have said, a kingdom free of Moor and Jew. He has already accused Ferdinand and Isabella of selling the Church, like Judas sold Christ, for the sake of money and peace.’

    ‘He said that!’ Matthias exclaimed.

    ‘Torquemada and his Inquisition answer to no one but God. Even the Pope in Rome fears him. He has Isabella’s soul in the palm of his hand and, like a child with a toy, Torquemada knows how to use it!’

    ‘And?’

    Ratcliffe sipped at his wine, savouring its rich sweetness. ‘It’s better than the vinegar we’ve got in camp,’ he observed. ‘Lord Rivers has been given the honour of accompanying certain nobles from Granada to Madrid. He has asked for the company of St Raphael to join him. I have agreed. We leave tomorrow morning before first light.’ He knocked the dust from his jacket. ‘If you wish, and I advise you to do so, you may come with us.’

    Matthias stared across the garden. Somewhere in the tavern a man was singing a lusty, merry song. Matthias realised he was in danger, that he was under surveillance by the Holy Brotherhood. Yet he didn’t really care. Those dying words of Yarfel showed that, whatever he did, he was like a swimmer in a fast-flowing river: however hard he struggled, the current would always have its way. He closed his eyes. He’d always been fleeing: from Oxford, from Barnwick, from Scotland, from London, from St Wilfrid’s, from Emloe’s men. He opened his eyes.

    ‘I’ll stay,’ he declared.

    ‘In which case,’ Ratcliffe put his cup down and stood up, ‘I suggest you find quarters in the city here.’ He pointed to the cross the Spanish Queen had sent Matthias. ‘You have the royal warrant to do what you want and go where you will. I shall arrange for whatever the company owes you to be left in trust with Hidalbo, a Spanish merchant. He has a house just within the gateways of Holy Faith city, near the sign of the Bull.’

    Matthias got to his feet. ‘I don’t want it, Edgar.’ He saw the surprise in the man’s face. ‘My horse is stabled in the Alhambra. I paid a groom to guard that and my saddlebags. What I want, what I need, is in them: the rest you can keep.’

    Matthias liked this English knight but he knew any hope of camaraderie, of a deeper, more