The Rose Demon

shifted to the window. ‘Are you like a leaf ready to be borne by every wind that blows? And, if so, why?’

    ‘What will be, shall be.’ Matthias repeated the soldiers’ aphorism. ‘And a man’s fate is written upon his forehead.’

    ‘Is it now?’ Torquemada’s hands dropped away. ‘Every man’s fate, Matthias, is in the hands of God.’

    ‘Then, if that is so, Father, I have nothing to fear.’ Matthias got up from the bed and walked over to the window, keeping his back to Torquemada. ‘I am an Englishman and a soldier, Father. I came to Spain to fight in the cause of the Church. I am innocent of any crime. But what’s the use of protesting to people who arrest me and do not tell me the reason why?’

    He heard a chuckle and turned round. Torquemada was smiling.

    ‘You are a strange man, Fitzosbert. You killed a Moorish champion and yet that man seemed to know you. What did he mean by “ Creatura bona atque parva ”?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It can’t be a conspiracy. How could an English mercenary know anything about a Moorish knight like Yarfel? But it is strange, is it not? And those deaths?’

    ‘What deaths?’ Matthias asked.

    ‘The young women found with their throats punctured? You remember them?’

    Matthias nodded.

    ‘The deaths began when Sir Edgar Ratcliffe and his party arrived outside Granada. Strange, is it not?’

    ‘I have nothing to answer.’

    ‘Have you not? Have you not? Come with me, Matthias.’

    Torquemada got to his feet. The other Dominican opened the door and they went out on to the long, polished gallery. The windows on either side were moon-shaped and looked out over a grassy square with a white marble fountain in the centre. Flowers grew in beds on either side, filling the air with their perfume. Down the passageway, standing in shadowy recesses, were soldiers of the Inquisition, the silver cross resplendent on their black liveries. Matthias heard a sound and turned round: two soldiers, their faces masked by tall, black hoods, walked quietly behind him. Torquemada waddled ahead, muttering to himself.

    They left the house and went down some outside stairs. The room below was large and lit by cresset torches. Matthias glimpsed figures standing around open braziers. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw these men were stripped half-naked. They chattered softly amongst themselves as they turned red-hot pokers in the blazing coals.

    At the far end of the room a stake had been driven into the ground; a man was lashed to this. He was naked except for a breech cloth across his loins: head sagging forward, he was bound by cords across his chest, stomach and legs. His hands were lashed behind him. Torquemada beckoned Matthias across. As he approached, Matthias recoiled in distaste: the man’s body was covered in red, bubbling burns where the torturers had pressed the burning, hot steel.

    ‘We have to move quickly,’ Torquemada murmured apologetically. ‘Their Majesties have given me this house and God’s work waits for us in Granada.’

    He stretched out a hand and lifted the prisoner’s bearded face. Matthias fought hard to control his nausea. One eye had been removed from the socket, leaving a bloody hole, the rest of the prisoner’s face was badly disfigured by cuts and lacerations. A trickle of blood ran down the corner of his mouth.

    ‘This is Juan Behahda,’ Torquemada explained. ‘Juan was, or is, a merchant. We know he worked hard in persuading Boabdil not to surrender Granada to their Majesties. A traitor and a heretic. We have been asking Juan who else was in his coven but,’ Torquemada shrugged, tears brimming in his eyes, ‘he won’t tell us,’ he whispered. ‘Juan refuses the pardon of Holy Mother Church and, by his actions, has put himself beyond her protection. Matthias, what are we to do with such men? How can they answer for their actions?’

    Torquemeda shouted in Spanish across to the torturers. The fellows’ answer was short and terse. Torquemada sighed and dabbed at the tears in his eyes.

    ‘ Fiat, fiat ,’ he murmured. ‘Let it be. Let it be.’ He turned to his shadowy companion. ‘Brother Martin,’ he said softly. ‘Hear the man’s confession and have him garrotted.’

    Torquemada beckoned to Matthias to follow him out of the room and, escorted by the two soldiers, returned to the chamber.

    Torquemada closed the door behind him, gesturing at Matthias to sit whilst he filled two goblets with