The Rose Demon

of her corpse or the wineskin or any blood, no indication that he and Morgana had lain there. Matthias had waited. Perhaps the authorities had discovered the corpse? He’d joined his companions in the tavernas or sitting out on the quayside chatting with the fishermen. He heard nothing, even though some of his companions had learnt about the beautiful, red-haired woman and constantly teased him about her. Matthias wondered who had killed Morgana. Had someone been following them? Was it the Rose Demon’s work or someone else’s? Matthias shook his head, that would be impossible. He had also closely scrutinised the crew. Morgana had said that he was being watched but by whom? Matthias realised a subtle game was being played with him. It would be virtually impossible to track such a man down. Columbus had left it to the crew where and when they attended Mass whilst, in the tightly enclosed spaces of his three ships, discussion about religion or any disputatious topic was strictly forbidden. And Morgana? Matthias wondered why she had given up her life so easily? Surely this wasn’t the thanks the servants of the Rose Demon received? She had been killed yet she’d never struggled or cried out. Her assassin had come like a thief in the night, her death being sprung on her like a trap.

    On Wednesday, 5 September, the evening before they sailed, Baldini, Murillo and the rest had persuaded Matthias to come to a party, a wild raucous affair in a ramshackle taverna in an alleyway off the quayside. The wine flowed like water, fresh meats and fish grilled over charcoal, smothered in the vegetable sauce, were served up on trenchers. Each platter had a hunk of soft, white bread to mop the juices up. There had been singing and dancing, the usual tomfoolery before sailors prepared to leave port. Matthias had drunk a little more deeply than he wanted. A young girl had come up and sat on his lap but Matthias had pushed her away. At last the Pinzons and other officers came to take the sailors back to the ships. Matthias was following the rest out of the door; the men were shouting their farewells, blowing kisses at the girls when Matthias heard his name called out.

    ‘Farewell, Matthias! Take care of yourself, Creatura!’

    The words were spoken in English. Matthias had stared at the woman through a drunken haze. He had not noticed her before. She had deep olive skin, black hair which fell like a veil, shrouding her beautiful face, her eyes were bold, her mouth pert. She stared at Matthias boldly, lifted one bare shoulder and winked. In that moment the fug cleared from Matthias’ mind. He saw the look in those eyes and knew that, whatever the girl called herself, Morgana’s spirit was there. Matthias had returned to the ship baffled. Were other beings spirits in the service of the Rose Demon? At the same time he recognised Morgana’s cleverness: her death had removed any thought of flight from his mind and now, whether he liked it or not, Matthias Fitzosbert was committed body and soul to Columbus’ great venture and whatever lay waiting for him across this broad, unknown, mysterious ocean.

    Matthias walked up and down the forecastle. Now and again he’d stop to check the hourglass placed there and, when the sand ran out, turn it over. He’d watch the glass until midnight, when he’d be relieved and others would take over. Darkness fell. The stars seemed brighter, closer than they did on land. Matthias wondered how far they had sailed. Columbus had been rash in proclaiming that the voyage would be 750 miles. The crew had taken him at his word and, each day, the distance was carefully measured. The excitement of leaving land had now faded. The rigours of ship life were making themselves felt. The water had turned brackish, the wine slightly sour, the biscuits and bread hard, the meat too well spiced and salted. The men crowded each other, the chance to be alone was a luxury. Moreover, despite the strictest instructions, the ship now stank. Men fell ill, vomited and retched, or ran, clutching their stomachs, to the side, as their bowels turned to water. Every day the slops were washed out; buckets of seawater were taken down to sluice the bilges, rats were hunted and killed. As the ships drove on, the crew greedily recalled the luxuries of the Canaries and returned to counting the miles.

    ‘Matthias, Matthias Fitzosbert!’ The voice just came out of the darkness.

    Matthias walked to the rail and stared down. The sea