by Paul Doherty
Ratcliffe, face tensed with rage, pushed Matthias away.
‘You are a liar!’ he hissed. ‘Perhaps Craftleigh is right. You’ve lost your dagger and now you try to blacken a man’s name and besmirch his reputation.’
‘Sir Edgar, listen. .’
Ratcliffe was striding off through the darkness. Matthias returned to the campfire. He took a small arbalest and loaded it. Someone pushed a cup of wine into his hand. He sipped it, it tasted a little bitter but he finished it, put the cup down and stretched out, resting his head on a saddle. He felt drowsy and, try as he might, he could not keep his eyes open.
He was roughly awoken by Ratcliffe. All around was uproar. Matthias pushed Ratcliffe away and half-raised himself. It was still dark. Men were running and shouting. Across the fire lay a corpse with a crossbow bolt embedded deep between the shoulder blades. Ratcliffe pulled Matthias to his feet. Someone threw wood on to the fire. Matthias glimpsed Craftleigh’s face, eyes staring, a trickle of blood snaking out of the corner of his mouth. A few inches from his splayed fingers lay Matthias’ dagger. Ratcliffe clasped Matthias’ hand.
‘How did you know?’ he asked.
Matthias still felt heavy-headed: his mouth was dry, his throat parched.
‘I meant to stay awake,’ he declared. ‘Someone gave me a cup of wine. .’
‘I did.’ An archer came forward. ‘Craftleigh filled it and told me to give it to you. He said it would help drown your sorrows.’
‘I watched you drink it,’ Ratcliffe said. ‘Then you were asleep within minutes. I called your name. I even came across and shook you.’ He grinned. ‘I might as well have tried to rouse the dead. I began to wonder. The cup was still beside you. How, I thought, could a man make such an allegation then fall so quickly into a deep sleep? I told an archer to hide in the shadows. If he saw any danger during the night, he was to loose.’
‘I saw a figure move.’ The crossbow man stepped into the firelight. ‘Craftleigh was so quick, so silent. I saw the glint of steel, so I loosed.’ He hawked and spat into the flames. ‘He was a murdering bastard!’
‘Comrades,’ Ratcliffe put his arm round Matthias’ shoulders, ‘may I introduce the newest recruit to our company, Matthias Fitzosbert.’
A loud cheer rang out. Sir Edgar shook Matthias’ hand.
‘You can take Craftleigh’s armour and weapons. His horse is good as well. Thomas!’ He shouted at an archer. ‘Take Craftleigh’s corpse and bury it amongst the trees. The rest, catch what sleep you can!’
Matthias returned to his makeshift bed.
The next morning he felt better, more able to receive the congratulations of Ratcliffe and the others. By noon they were in Rye, clopping through the cobbles of the winding streets down to the quayside. Ratcliffe had already signed indentures with the captain of a cog, the St Anthony. Later in the day, the entire company and its horses were taken out by barge to the waiting ship. Just before dusk the captain gave the orders to weigh anchor. The ship turned slowly, its great loose sail filling with wind. Three times, the ship’s banners were dipped in honour of the Trinity, whilst Sir Edgar led his company in their hymn to St Raphael. Matthias, standing on the poop, watched the retreating white cliffs of England. In his heart he knew he’d never see or set foot on that land again.
31
‘Three whores have been murdered in the last month.’
The Castilian captain knelt down and covered the corpse of a sallow-skinned girl, her black hair spread out like a fan around her head. The sheet was dirty but at least it protected her from the flies which, despite winter, still plagued the great Catholic army outside the Moorish city of Granada.
Matthias murmured a prayer and walked back along the street, past the stables which could house a thousand horses and on to the edge of the great no man’s land, the Vega, brown-scorched earth which stretched from the camp of Ferdinand and Isabella up to the soaring walls and formidable gates of Granada. Matthias fought to control his own thoughts. He looked up at the city: above its soaring, rambling walls rose the Alhambra, the great Moorish palace, a place of mystery and power in the centre of the city. Matthias had heard the stories about its stately gardens and arching fountains, its intricate mosaic rooms and beautifully tiled floors; its chambers which seemed to open endlessly from one sun-filled courtyard to another. Beyond Granada, through the early morning mist, rose the snow-capped ridges of the Sierra Nevada.
Matthias sat down, his back to a tree. He and Sir Edgar had been in Spain for almost four months. It was now December 1491. Matthias could hardly believe that he was so far from home, part of a crusading army, tens of thousands of men from Castile, Aragon, Leon, France and the Low Countries. He and Sir Edgar had joined up with another English contingent under Lord Rivers: young men, fired by an ideal, determined to place the silver cross of Castile on the ramparts of Granada and end Moorish power in Spain for ever.
For the first few weeks Matthias had been fascinated. Both King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella had joined the army: he had glimpsed them either riding through the camp or seated on their thrones before the great high altar when solemn Mass was sung on Sundays and Holy Days. Matthias had been caught up in the excitement of this great crusading army. So determined were the Catholic monarchs to take Granada, they had built a small city to house their army, quarrying rock and masonry to build the town of Holy Faith; a potent warning to the Muslims that the besiegers would never give up until Granada was theirs.
Matthias had witnessed the daring deeds, the life and death struggle between the Catholic monarchs and their Moorish enemy. A Muslim champion, Yarfel, had galloped close into the Castilian encampment and hurled his spear at the royal quarters. It bore an insulting and obscene note for Isabella, Queen of Castile. In revenge a Castilian soldier, Puljar, had led fifteen companions through a poorly guarded gate into Granada’s central mosque. The knights had, in whispered voices, rededicated the mosque to the Virgin Mary and left a note, pinned by a dagger to the main door, with the words ‘Ave Maria’ scrawled across it.
Matthias had also become used to the camp’s routine. He and the rest had soon recovered from a turbulent voyage down the Bay of Biscay and the exhausting march from Cadiz across southern Spain to the Catholic camp.
Shortly after All-Hallows, Matthias had heard rumours: young women, whores, camp followers had been found barbarously murdered, their throats pierced, their cadavers drained of blood. Matthias had kept his own counsel, but this morning, the corpse he had just glimpsed had been found where the English had their quarters. One look had convinced Matthias the Rose Demon had returned.
‘Ever the dreamer, eh, Matthias?’
Sir Edgar Ratcliffe stood over him. His face had soon burnt brown under the Spanish sun, his beard and moustache were more luxuriant. Sir Edgar, however, still had the easy charm and good-natured camaraderie which had first attracted Matthias.
‘You saw the whore?’
‘Aye I did,’ Mathias replied.
Sir Edgar sighed and sat down beside him.
‘I knew her.’ He caught Matthias’ sharp glance. ‘Not in the carnal sense.’ Ratcliffe grinned. ‘But she was a merry girl and could dance wildly like a gypsy.’
Matthias nodded and stared across the Vega at the green silver-edged banner floating above the main gateway of Granada. Matthias had wondered if Sir Edgar could be trusted yet. There again, even as late as yesterday, he and the English knight had shared the Sacrament together at a Mass celebrated by Lord Rivers’ chaplain.
‘Are you waiting for him?’ Ratcliffe abruptly asked. ‘It should happen about now.’
Matthias looked back at him, puzzled.
‘Yarfel!’ Ratcliffe exclaimed.
‘Oh yes,’ Matthias nodded. ‘Him! Someone should accept his challenge.’
Matthias studied the heavily fortified postern door built into one of the side towers near the main gate of Granada. Every morning a trumpet would blow and the huge Moorish champion, head protected by a spiked helmet, hi
s chain mail covered by a flapping red cloak, would ride his great black destrier out of Granada and issue his challenge to single combat. This had begun a month earlier. At first the challenge had been quickly accepted. Time and again some knight from the Spanish army had ridden out, pennants snapping bravely on the end of his spear. Each time Yarfel had been victorious. A superb horseman, a skilled swordsman, he had ridden back into Granada with his enemy’s head stuck on his lance. The rules of chivalry forbade a general assault upon him. However, his constant daily mocking and easy victories had so dispirited the Spanish army that Queen Isabella had issued a written order that no one, on pain of death, was to accept the challenge. No one was even to watch when he rode out, but Matthias ignored the decree.
Every morning he came to the same place and studied the Moorish champion: his posture, the way he guided his horse with his knees, the speed with which he lifted his sword and the manner in which his weapons seemed as much part of his body as his arm or leg. Slowly, as each day passed, Matthias began to wonder. He had been accepted by Ratcliffe’s company and enjoyed their lazy comradeship, the good-natured banter of the camp. He was fascinated by Spain, its freezing nights, the searing heat of the day; the gorgeous panoply of the great lords, the sultry-eyed beauty of their women, the heavy wine, the wild stamping dances and that gypsy music which fired the heart and filled the nights with melodious, twanging sounds.
‘A land of rocks and saints,’ Lord Rivers described Spain.
Nevertheless, Matthias never forgot why he was here. As the weeks passed he wondered where his great chivalrous idea would lead him. He had imagined great battles, men storming crenellated walls, bloody hand-to-hand fights. Instead, nothing but the boring routine of the military camp, until Yarfel had come out of the gates and issued his challenge. Matthias had brooded. Was this the place, he wondered, where he would die? In between Granada and the Catholic camp, defending the honour of the Cross and reputation of a Spanish queen?
A shrill trumpet blast stirred him from his reverie. Despite Ferdinand and Isabella’s instructions, knights, squires and soldiers gathered at the gates or climbed on to the parapets of the makeshift walls of their camp. The postern gate in the city walls opened. Another trumpet blast and the Moorish champion rode out. The early morning sun flashed and gleamed on his armour and helmet. His great cloak billowing out behind him, he rode within the bowshot of the Spanish camp and issued his challenges. He spoke in the lingua franca, the patois of the soldiers, calling them cowards, the sons of bitches, women in men’s clothing. He ridiculed Isabella as a yellow-haired strumpet and, punning on her name, called her a new Jezebel, a witch, a virago. The Spanish soldiers returned this abuse with vigour but Yarfel simply laughed as his horse pranced up and down.
‘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 o
n 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.’
