The Rose Demon

fingers on his dirty apron. Matthias asked him, using the lingua franca, about a red-haired woman he’d glimpsed coming in. The taverner spread his hands, shaking his head.

    Matthias stared around: there were stairs leading to the upper storeys but a soldier blocked the way, dead drunk. The cup in his lap had spilled, the wine staining his hose. Matthias was sure Morgana had come in here. He stared back at the doorway: there was a small porch leading into it. Had she just stepped in there and left immediately?

    Matthias hurried back to the stable yard. The boy was still holding his horse but now he stood rigid with fright.

    ‘What’s the matter, lad?’

    Matthias turned to the gateway. A group of riders blocked the entrance. They were dressed completely in black, masks of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed, and on his front each wore a silver embroidered cross. They sat like a cluster of ravens. Matthias pressed a coin into the boy’s hand.

    ‘Go on, lad!’ he murmured.

    The boy needed no second bidding but fled screaming into the taverna. Matthias mounted his horse and made to leave: the line of horsemen never stirred.

    ‘Out of my way, sirs!’ Matthias’ hand went inside his pouch. He pulled out the scroll given to him by Isabella. ‘I have the Queen’s warrant - la Reina Isabella! ’

    One of the black-garbed riders spurred his horse forward.

    ‘You are Matthias Fitzosbert?’ A black-gloved hand snatched the parchment from his hand. The man’s voice was muffled behind his mask. He spoke the lingua franca. ‘You are Matthias Fitzosbert?’ he repeated.

    ‘I am. Stand aside!’

    ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, we are soldiers of the Holy Inquisition. You are under arrest!’

    ‘On what charge?’

    ‘That is not necessary.’

    Before Matthias could even gather his reins, the other horsemen clustered around him. Hands scrabbled at his war belt, sword and dagger were plucked from their sheaths, his reins were seized and, with these terrifying, black-garbed men surrounding him, Matthias was led off through the streets of Granada.

    The square which he had recently crossed was now empty. Traders and their customers had fled at the sight of the Inquisition. Another party of horsemen were waiting for them. Two carried great, black, flapping banners, on which silver crosses were embroidered. The two parties met and continued up, past the Alhambra, along cobbled trackways. Matthias tried to discover where he was going but no one replied. The horsemen had no trouble getting through the streets. Even though Granada was freshly taken, the terror of the Inquisition preceded them. Townspeople fled, even the soldiery, the hidalgos, the nobles, the foreign mercenaries hastily cleared away.

    The party stopped at a crossroads. Before he could object, a black mask was pulled over Matthias’ head, his hands were tied by silken cords to the saddle horn and the journey continued. Matthias found it difficult to control his horse: the inside of his thighs became sore, his back stiff as he tried to keep his position. He heard different sounds which always died whenever the Inquisition passed. The hood was hot and stifling and, just when Matthias thought he could bear it no longer, he heard gates being opened, the sound of horse hooves, clattering on the cobbles and he was dragged unceremoniously from the saddle. He was pushed up some steps, through a door and the mask was taken off.

    Matthias expected a dungeon but the room was large, cavernous and airy. A window, its shutters thrown back, looked out over a pleasant, tree-shaded garden. It was large enough to allow in sunlight and fresh air but too small for a man to force his way through. The cords round Matthias’ hands were cut and his captors left, the key of the door being turned behind them. Matthias stared around. He was genuinely surprised. The white walls had been given a fresh coat of lime wash against flies and insects. The floor was of polished wood and covered with rugs: the bed was large and soft, the sheets crisp, the bolsters as white as driven snow. On a table stood a jug of cool sherbet and a bowl of fruit, some of which Matthias had never seen before. There was a shelf of books just to the left of the doorway. Matthias wandered over: there was a copy of the Bible, a few tracts and treatises of some theologians, prominently Bonaventure and Albertus Magnus.

    Matthias sat in the low-backed, cushioned chair placed under the