The Rose Demon

window. As he became accustomed to the room, he smelt the fragrance of resin, sandalwood and incense. He went across and filled a small, jewel-rimmed pewter goblet. The sherbet tasted delicious, washing his mouth, slaking the dust from his throat.

    He heard the key turn and a little, dark-browed man came in. He was dressed in a grey robe with a cord round the waist.

    ‘My name is Miguel Vincessors.’ He spoke the lingua franca slowly. ‘I am your servant. Oh dear!’ His hand went to his lips. He hurried out of the doorway and brought back a crucifix which he placed on a hook on the wall. ‘Are you comfortable?’ He gabbled on, not waiting for an answer.

    Matthias smiled at this little mouse of a man with his constant twitching nose and blinking eyes.

    ‘You’ll eat before sunset. You like meat? Lamb nicely cut?’ He pointed to the fruit bowl. ‘The pomegranates are fresh. They have to be cut. Don’t eat the skin. Oh, but you haven’t a knife, have you?’

    The little man hurried off and a bemused Matthias went across to the bed and sat down. He recalled the saying often used by the Spanish soldiers: ‘What will be, shall be. A man’s fate is written on his forehead.’ Matthias wondered what danger he was in. In the camp he’d been so immersed in his own problems, he’d scarcely grown accustomed to the habits, history and customs of Spain. He’d heard horrifying stories of the Inquisition. He glanced up at the beautiful cloth tester above the bed. This was no Bocardo, no filthy, rat-infested dungeon. Matthias was on the verge of falling asleep when the door opened again. Two Dominicans padded quietly into the room. The younger, dark-faced one, stood near the door, his hood pulled across his head, his hands up the sleeves of his gown. The other was Torquemada. He walked over and smiled down at Matthias, now sitting on the edge of the bed. He was smaller than Matthias had thought but of stout stature: his olive-skinned face was freshly shaved, his mouth was soft, the dark eyes gentle.

    ‘Are you comfortable, Matthias Fitzosbert?’ He smiled apologetically, clicked his fingers, gesturing at Matthias to remain as he was whilst the younger Dominican moved a chair from the table across for his master to sit on.

    ‘There.’ Torquemada smiled and breathed out noisily. ‘I am so tired. My bones--’ He stopped. ‘I cannot speak English.’ He changed from lingua franca to Latin. ‘You are an Oxford scholar?’

    Matthias nodded.

    ‘You understand Latin?’

    ‘Almost as well as English,’ Matthias retorted.

    Torquemada rocked backwards and forwards, clapping his hands gently. He chuckled softly, his soft eyes dancing with merriment.

    ‘I’ve always wished to visit England,’ he replied. ‘There’s a growing alliance between our two countries but they say England is cold: the mists seeps into the bones. A fairy island.’

    Matthias watched him intently.

    ‘A mysterious place. They say Englishmen wear tails.’

    ‘They say many things, Father.’

    ‘Of course they do, of course they do.’

    Torquemada fingered the simple cross which hung on a cord round his neck. He stared across at a square oil painting on the wall. Matthias followed his gaze. He’d hardly noticed it before but now he realised it was a scene from the Old Testament: Saul visiting the witch of Endor, who raised the ghost of Samuel. The painting was dark but the fires at the centre seemed to glow with a life of their own, filling the scene with a chilling light, catching the wraithlike figure of Samuel, the staring eyes of Saul and the cruel, hooked visage of the witch. Torquemada glanced at Matthias.

    ‘It is true there are witches in England?’

    ‘Father, I have no knowledge of that.’

    Torquemada tapped his sandalled foot against the floor.

    ‘I’ve only been here a few minutes,’ he said. ‘But you never asked why you are here.’ A podgy finger jabbed towards Matthias’ face. ‘You’ve never objected,’ Torquemada continued. ‘Now why is that, eh? You are an Englishman: you enjoy the special protection of our Queen. You have been plucked from your lawful business, bound, hooded and taken to a place which you do not know, yet you do not object.’ Torquemada’s face was still gentle: he spoke slowly, enunciating every word. ‘Which means,’ Torquemada rubbed his hands together, ‘you are either guilty of some great crime or you don’t care. Now, why shouldn’t you care?’ His eyes