Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

‘It’s a wonder no one shoots him,’ Matthias murmured. ‘A master bowman could plant a shaft in his neck or pierce that chain mail.’

‘And bring dishonour on us all!’ Ratcliffe snapped. ‘A man, whom we could not kill in fair fight, but secretly murder. That is not the way, Matthias, the code of chivalry!’ He turned in exasperation to the young Englishman, but started in surprise for Matthias was gone.

Sir Edgar shrugged and continued to watch the Moor ride up and down. Ratcliffe could not understand Fitzosbert: a quiet, moody man constantly lost in his own thoughts, though a good Christian. Fitzosbert regularly prayed and attended Mass, took the Sacrament and, every week, was shrived by a priest. Nevertheless, though they had shared a long and dangerous voyage, followed by a dusty, throat-parching march, Matthias was as much a stranger to Sir Edgar as he was on the first day they had met.

The English knight returned to studying the Moorish champion, grudgingly admiring how the man now made his horse cavort and dance. Sir Edgar was distracted by shouting behind him, men running, a horse’s hooves. He turned and stared in astonishment as Matthias, dressed in his chain mail suit, a sallet upon his head, cantered through the gateway: shield on one arm, the reins wrapped round his wrist, his long stabbing sword held aloft. Spanish soldiers ran along on either side in a half-hearted attempt to stop him. Matthias reined in and smiled at Ratcliffe’s astonishment.

‘I decided yesterday,’ he said.

Ratcliffe grabbed the bridle of Matthias’ horse, gesturing angrily at the Spaniards to back away.

‘This man is English,’ he shouted. ‘He is under my command.’

The Spaniards shrugged and stepped back.

‘For God’s sake, Matthias!’ Ratcliffe seized Matthias’ knee. ‘All you are carrying is a wooden shield, a sword, chain mail which has seen better days, and a helmet I wouldn’t even piss in!’

Matthias moved his sword and shield to the other hand. He took off the helmet and let it fall with a clang at Ratcliffe’s feet.

‘Sir Edgar, you are right. If the Moor didn’t kill me the stench from that would.’

‘Yarfel is a champion,’ Ratcliffe whispered hoarsely. ‘And you know about the royal command. No man is to accept his challenge on pain of death.’

Matthias gently grasped Ratcliffe’s hand.

‘Don’t you realise, Sir Edgar, I have to? I must prepare for death as any man.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Look at him, Sir Edgar!’

Ratcliffe looked out where Yarfel, alerted by the clamour around the gate, was now sitting on his horse, staring in their direction.

‘He’ll kill you,’ Ratcliffe retorted.

‘Haven’t you read the Scriptures?’ Matthias replied. ‘And David went up against Goliath and the Lord was with him.’

‘But is the Lord with you?’ Ratcliffe dug his fingers more tightly into Matthias’ knee.

‘I don’t know. But, if he isn’t, the Spanish soon will be!’

Matthias dug his spurs into his horse and galloped down the small escarpment on to the great open plateau. As in a dream he could hear the cries and shouts from the Spanish camp for the news had already spread. Men in their thousands were streaming through the walls or gates. He looked back: Ratcliffe was now surrounded by officers from the royal household. He heard a trumpet blast from Granada and glanced up. The battlements and towers were crowded, people clustered like ants to see the Christian fool who dared to pick up their champion’s challenge. Matthias heard their yells and faint mocking laughter: he did not look the part in his battered chain mail, tattered leather saddle and simple wooden shield. He grasped his sword more carefully, calming his horse. For a while Yarfel chose to ignore him. He rode his destrier towards the Spaniards clustered all along the walls and edge of their camp. The Moor was speaking fast. Matthias only understood a few words but he gathered that Yarfel was mocking him, taunting the Spanish that was he the best that they could send out? The Moorish champion stood high in his stirrups. He now deigned to notice Matthias pointing his sword towards him. He kept uttering one word, which was taken up by the Moors lining the battlements. At last Matthias understood it. They were calling him a scarecrow. Rocks and pieces of offal and dirt were thrown from the battlements. They had no hope of hitting him, the gesture was more a sign of the soldiers’ disdain than an attempt to hurt.

Matthias closed his eyes. He thought of Rosamund. They were alone in their chamber. She was sitting in a chair, teasing him, trying to keep her face straight whilst her eyes danced with mischief. She held a book in her hand, one of those chivalrous romances she loved to read and then make fun of. The fire in the hearth burnt merrily. Outside it was snowing. Matthias felt that, if he could only walk towards her, if he could put his arms around her once more, he would not be on barren, sun-scorched Spanish earth awaiting his death but warm and secure in their chamber at Barnwick.

‘That was heaven,’ Matthias whispered. ‘Oh Rosamund.’ He fought back the tears. ‘I miss you. I am so lonely. I can do no more.’

A loud roar made him open his eyes. He glanced towards the Spanish camp. The entire army was now assembled, watching what he was doing. He glimpsed the pennants and banners of the royal household. So far no Spaniard had dared to ride on the field to stop him and Matthias knew they would not. Deep in their hearts, the soldiers wanted Yarfel’s challenge answered and couldn’t care whether Matthias lived or died. The Moorish champion turned his horse and, sword extended, saluted someone above the main gateway of the city. Matthias, his mind still full of Rosamund, watched the Moor canter towards him. Matthias controlled his horse, dropping his sword down as a gesture of peace. The Moor followed suit and reined in. Matthias gently spurred his horse forward. The Moor took off his pointed helmet, pushing back the chain mail coif: his face was olive-skinned, dark, beautiful eyes, a finely cut moustache and beard round a soft, sensuous mouth. The Moorish champion, eyes unblinking, spoke slowly in Spanish. Matthias shook his head uncomprehendingly.

‘By what name are you called?’ The Moor lapsed into the lingua franca.

‘I am Matthias Fitzosbert. I am English.’

‘Matthias Fitzosbert?’ The Moor’s eyes smiled as his tongue tripped over the strange-sounding names. ‘You are a long way from home, Inglese. Is it your fate to die under a foreign sun?’

‘My fate is in God’s hands,’ Matthias retorted. ‘I care not if I live or die.’

The words were out before he could stop them. The Moor edged his horse closer, his face puckered in concern.

‘You are not frightened of death?’

Matthias stared down and watched the sun glint on the Moor’s sword.

‘I am sorry.’ He lifted his head. ‘I did not mean that. It’s not so much death I fear. I simply do not care if I have to leave this life.’

‘Is that why you are here?’ Yarfel put his helmet back on: both men were now impervious to the growing clamour from either side.

‘I don’t know,’ Matthias replied. ‘It is God’s will.’

‘Allah il Allah.’ Yarfel replied. ‘Our fates are written.’

He gathered up his reins and galloped back sixty yards before stopping and turning. Yarfel held his sword up, turning once again to salute the rose-red walls of Granada. Matthias grasped his reins. The weight of the shield in his left arm was hurting him and, despite the cries from the Catholic encampment, he dropped it on the ground. He watched Yarfel prepare for battle. The sun was growing stronger. A heat haze now swirled across the open expanse.

Now Yarfel was moving at a canter. Matthias crossed himself and urged his horse forward. As they approached, both men spurred their horses into a charge. Matthias, reins in his left hand, his sword slightly out, kept his eyes on the Moor. He forgot about the sun, the hard ground underneath, the breeze cooling the sweat on his brow: his world had shrunk to that man charging towards him. Matthias remembered what he had learnt. Yarfel expected Matthias to pass him in a cloud of dust and a clash of swords. Matthias intended different. He let the reins slip, guiding his horse by his knees; he now held his sword with two hands. Yarfel moved, as he’d expected, a little to Matthias’ right and Matthias moved with him. They met: Matthias’ horse crashing into Yarfel’s. Matthias felt himself lifted from the saddle up in the air then crashing to the earth, a bone-jarring fall, but he rolled and, ignoring the searing pain in his left leg, struggled to his feet, sword out. Yarfel also had been pitched from the saddle. The Moor had lost his helmet but he was ready for battle: curved scimitar out, legs apart, he waited for Matthias to charge.