Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

Matthias stiffened.

‘ “ Creatura bona atque parva ,” the Moor whispered. He said it again. A few seconds later he was dead.’ Ratcliffe chewed on the grass blade. ‘Torquemada came to see me. He had been by Yarfel’s bedside hoping to elicit information about the state of the garrison in Granada. He wondered why a Moor should call out your name and what was the meaning of these words? Torquemada,’ Ratcliffe continued slowly, ‘is a dangerous man. He passionately believes in the limpieza de sangre , the purity of the Spanish blood. He sees Spain as a great Catholic kingdom. He argues constantly with their Majesties, so Lord Rivers has told me, that, when Granada falls, the purity of the Spanish blood must be maintained. Spain is to be purged of all Moriscos, the Conversi, those Muslims who have converted to Catholicism, as well as Jews, schismatics, heretics and,’ he looked up at the star-strewn sky, ‘those guilty of dabbling in the black arts.’

‘Are you accusing me of being a warlock?’ Matthias snapped, getting to his feet.

‘No, Matthias, I am not. I am giving you a warning.’ Ratcliffe also scrambled to his feet. ‘When Granada falls, do not stay too long in Spain. Indeed, if you have incurred the interest of Master Torquemada, I strongly suggest that you leave Spain as quickly as you can, whilst you can.’

‘But I am leaving with you?’ Matthias knew his words sounded half-hearted.

Ratcliffe lifted a hand. ‘Are you, Matthias?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you really want to come? You are a man searching for death, Matthias. God knows what nightmares you suffer and only God knows what happened out there in that terrible fight. You are, in truth, an uncommon man. I do not believe your destiny lies with me or the company of St Raphael.’ He let his hand drop. ‘We will see you out of Spain, but after that. .’ He shrugged and walked off into the darkness.

Matthias stared up at the sky.

‘Even then,’ he murmured, ‘the Rose Demon must have suspected what I was doing. Was he so close?’

Matthias heard a sound behind him. He glimpsed a figure stride off. In the fading light of a flickering torch, Matthias recognised the black and white robes of a Dominican monk.

On 2 January 1492, so all the Chroniclers of Europe wrote, God manifested his glory to his people when Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada, surrendered his city to Ferdinand and Isabella and secretly left his palace by the door of the Seven Sighs. The main gates to the city were thrown open and, with banners flying and trumpets braying, the Catholic army passed into the streets of Granada.

Matthias Fitzosbert, on a specially caparisoned destrier, rode in the long snaking column of the splendidly arrayed household of Ferdinand and Isabella. The sun had barely risen but already the townspeople, Christian, Moor and Jew, had flocked out to greet their new rulers. Ferdinand and Isabella had promised the citizens their lives and freedom whilst the strictest instructions had been issued against pillaging or the molestation of any of Granada’s inhabitants.

Matthias rode alongside Sir Edgar Ratcliffe, his own anxieties forgotten, as he stared in wonderment at this jewel of a city: cool, porticoed basilicas, marble villas, squares washed by fountains, gardens neatly laid out behind terraced walls and, everywhere, a mixture of fragrant smells: precious oils from the perfume quarter, the mouth-watering odours from the kitchens and cook shops and, above all, the great puffs of incense coming from the censers swung by the priests who walked either side of the cavalcade. The sun rose higher and, despite the season, Matthias found it hot, his skin turning clammy beneath his leather hauberk.

At last they climbed a hill and entered the splendid Alhambra Palace. Many of the household remained outside but Matthias and Sir Edgar were allowed to follow the monarchs into the Hall of Justice. Matthias stared in wonderment at the lacy walls, painted ceilings, scintillating domes, brilliantly coloured tiles and silken gold mosaics. The palace was composed of interconnecting courtyards, each a perfect marble square enclosed by ivory-coloured columns and ornamental arches.

The Te Deum was sung at the centre of this palace. For the first time ever Matthias could study close up the two Spanish monarchs: long-nosed, heavy-jowled, russet-haired Ferdinand, with the face and eyes of a crafty fox; Isabella, skin like alabaster, her golden, grey-streaked hair gathered up under an elegant laced veil. With her perfectly composed face, high cheekbones, half-closed eyes, her hands joined devoutly in front of her, she reminded Matthias of a picture of the Virgin Mary he had once seen in an Oxford church. Memories of England flooded back and Matthias, standing in a porticoed corner of the Lion Court, felt a wave of homesickness. This was a strange world of glaring sunshine, savage, beautiful countryside, mysterious people, golden halls, silver-draped chambers, a place of opulence, of exotic tapestries, blood-red wine, meat and fruits piled high on golden platters. Matthias half-closed his eyes: it was also a place of danger and mystery. Here, in the Alhambra, or so he had been told, was the Room of Secrets, with its whispering alcoves which magnified and echoed every sound. According to Lord Rivers, a former sultan had beheaded over two score princes there and then washed his feet in their blood as it seeped across the marble floor.

Matthias opened his eyes. The great Lion Hall was now packed with soldiers, courtiers and priests gathered in a horseshoe fashion behind Ferdinand and Isabella, who knelt on cushions. They all watched two friars place up against the marble wall a gaunt, black cross on which an ivory-bodied Christ writhed in his final torments. The hall fell quiet. When suitable silence had been observed, there was a bray of trumpets from outside and the whole assembly broke into wild cheering as the signal that the great silver cross of Castile had, at last, been placed on the highest peak of the Alhambra Palace. Chamberlains and knight bannerets of the royal household now began to clear the hall. Matthias gazed round. Despite the clamour, the gorgeous colours, the jubiliation, the cries of triumph in a number of languages, he was sure he was being watched. His eyes swept the room: in the far corner a Dominican was watching him. The man was short and squat, his head neatly tonsured, his face was heavy, the nose aquiline but the friar’s eyes seemed to burn: even though they stood yards apart, Matthias felt the Dominican was probing his very soul.

‘Who is that?’ he whispered gruffly.

Ratcliffe followed his gaze. ‘The former Prior of Segovia,’ he murmured. ‘Confessor to Queen Isabella, about whom I have spoken. As you may know, he has been keeping you under strict surveillance during the last few days.’

Finally it was the turn of Matthias and Ratcliffe to leave. The English knight grasped Matthias’ elbow and, when they left the Alhambra, took him across to a small wine shop. The place was full of roistering soldiers. In the small garden beyond, a small patch of faded green, intersected by pebble-dashed paths, Ratcliffe sat Matthias down. A young boy, eager to please, dressed in ragged leggings and a tattered linen shirt came up and jabbered at them, his eyes dancing with merriment. Ratcliffe laughed and tossed him a coin, demanding wine.

‘Not water!’ He shouted as the boy scampered away. ‘ Nualla aqua! ’

A few minutes later, a podgy woman brought two pewter cups of dark-red wine and a platter of brown bread smeared with butter and honey. She served them quickly, not raising her head. She took the coin Ratcliffe offered and waddled away.

‘They don’t know whether to be glad or sad.’ Ratcliffe leant back against the hard brick wall, moving to ease the cramp in his thighs.