by Paul Doherty
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.
As the dust settled and the spectators saw what was happening, a great roar rose from the Spanish camp. Yarfel had never been dismounted: he often despatched his opponent within a few minutes of the initial charge. Matthias edged closer. The Moor was watching him intently. Matthias prayed and realised he was praying to Rosamund. In a sense he wasn’t here. He was in the outer bailey at Barnwick Castle, learning the tricks and turns of a professional swordsman. He coughed and lowered his head as if there was dust in his eyes. Yarfel charged. Matthias stepped sideways. Swords clashed, Matthias twisted his and cut deep into the Moor’s right arm. Yarfel stepped away. This time Matthias moved in slashing and jabbing with his sword, forcing the Moorish champion backwards. Despite the heat and the dust, the pain in his leg from his fall, Matthias felt cold. Yarfel’s sword did not bother him; that winking flashing piece of steel was not to be feared. He must watch the Moor’s eyes. Yarfel glanced away, a quick momentary look and Matthias closed. Instead of swinging from the right Yarfel brought his sword up in an attempt to slash Matthias’ chest. Matthias moved, not sideways, but backwards. The Moor lost his footing. Matthias had seen others do this: a blow given too quickly, too strongly and for a few seconds the right side of the neck was exposed. Matthias’ sword sliced through the air: a slashing, deep-boned cut which finished the fight. The Moor turned, his face contorted in agony. He staggered, knees buckling. He went to speak but his eyes rolled in his head and the blood frothed out of his mouth. He crashed to his knees and sprawled out on the ground.
Matthias felt no elation. He stared in disbelief. It had been so quick, so effortless. That was not what should have happened. He looked towards Granada. As he did so, the Catholic camp burst into cheering which rose to the heavens. An entire line of Crusaders now rushed forward. Men brandishing swords and shields as the trumpets of the Catholic army began to bray their defiance. Soon he was not alone. People were pressing about him. Someone kicked the fallen Yarfel and Matthias screamed his protest. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe was there, a friend amongst the sea of faces. Matthias begged Ratcliffe to show respect to Yarfel’s corpse. The Englishman agreed. He spoke quickly in French, much-used here, to a Spanish officer standing behind him. The man nodded. Matthias’ legs grew weak. He resheathed his sword and turned to look for his horse.
‘I really should ride away,’ he muttered. The sweat grew cold on his skin. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ He took a step forward, the sky seemed to move, whirl around, and Ratcliffe caught him as he fainted.
When Matthias awoke, he looked towards the mouth of the tent and saw it was dark. Men were clustered there chattering excitedly in Spanish. He pulled himself up. Ratcliffe came out of the shadows, put an arm round his shoulders and lifted a wineskin to his lips.
‘Well, well, my boy!’
His words reminded Matthias of Fitzgerald. He looked up sharply but Sir Edgar smiled.
‘Don’t be alarmed, Matthias. When you fell from your horse, you received a blow to your head. Didn’t you feel it?’
‘No.’
‘You defeated the champion,’ Ratcliffe whispered, pulling him up and raising the bolsters to support him. ‘So quickly. I didn’t know we had a Lancelot amongst us!’
A figure blocked the entrance to the tent. He spoke in Spanish and Ratcliffe replied. The man came forward and crouched beside Matthias.
‘I am the Duke of Medina-Sidonia,’ he began slowly. ‘I can speak your tongue.’ His grizzled face broke into a smile. ‘I learnt it on an embassy to your fog-bound island.’ He opened his pouch, took out a small, jewelled cross and placed it carefully around Matthias’ neck. ‘You broke their Majesties’ command. You picked up the Moor’s challenge but God was with you. Their Majesties have been kind enough to send you this, a token of their affection and esteem.’ He also took a small scroll of parchment and a heavy jingling purse from his pouch. ‘This is a pass which will give you permission to go wherever you wish. It commands all officers of the Crown to assist you in your passage and provide you with every sustenance and comfort. You are to be regarded, here in Spain, as their Majesties’ most loyal servant.’ The man rose and bowed stiffly. ‘When Granada falls, and fall it will, you are to ride in triumph with other members of the royal household.’
Matthias spent the next few days recovering from his bruises. Ratcliffe fussed around him like a mother hen, carefully arranging that those who came to see the English champion did not stay too long. The tent Matthias found himself in was the gift of a Spanish bishop. Other presents arrived: silken cloths, fruit, cooked dishes, wine. Matthias asked for these to be distributed amongst the company of St Raphael.
After a while the excitement subsided. Concerns were taken up by news that the rulers of Granada, fearful of the city being starved to death or taken by storm, had sent out envoys to enquire about an honourable surrender.
Matthias was left to his own devices and noticed how Ratcliffe’s attitude was changing. As Matthias cleaned some equipment, or sat round the campfire with the rest of the company, he would catch Sir Edgar watching him from the corner of his eye, studying him carefully. At length, one night just after they had celebrated Christmas, Matthias went to his usual place outside the camp, staring up at the stars, wondering what he would do next. He glimpsed the pinpricks of light along the battlements or from windows along the walls. Granada would fall. The Spanish kings would take possession of this last city in Moorish hands but what would he do? Ratcliffe was talking of leading his men north into France, then east to join the Teutonic knights or even the Hospitallers in the Middle Sea. A twig snapped behind him; Matthias whirled round.
‘It’s only me!’ Ratcliffe came and sat beside him. ‘They say it’s a beautiful city.’ He began pointing towards the battlements. ‘A veritable treasure house.’
‘Why have you come, Edgar?’
Ratcliffe chewed on the corner of his lip.
‘I watched you fight, Matthias,’ he replied slowly. ‘God forgive me, I was already whispering your Requiem.’
Matthias sensed he was smiling.
‘Then I saw you charge. Your horse colliding with that of the Moor. Everything was covered in a curtain of dust. When it settled and I saw you standing, sword out, ready to fight, I thought, God is with that man.’
‘And?’
‘You were so fast,’ Ratcliffe continued. He plucked at a piece of the dried grass and held it between his lips.
‘What are you implying, Sir Edgar? What is this about?’
The English knight faced him squarely, his eyes no longer te
nder but hard and certain.
‘Don’t you realise, Matthias? Here you are, nothing more than an Englishman at arms. You rode out on a sorry-looking horse without helmet and shield, yet you killed a Moorish champion: a man who had slain, in open combat, some of the best knights of Castile and Aragon. You despatched him in minutes like a farmer would a pig.’ He shrugged and sat, head half-cocked, listening to the faint strains of a guitar, the stamp of feet and the cries and shouts of the soldiers, encouraging some woman in her mad, passionate dance.
‘I was injured,’ Matthias replied churlishly. ‘And all soldiers have luck.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Ratcliffe replied, ‘on the road to Rye: you warned me about Craftleigh. I thought it was just a presentiment, a premonition?’
‘And now?’
‘When you fell unconscious and were brought back to the camp, the Spanish had Yarfel’s body removed. You didn’t kill him outright.’ He paused and Matthias’ blood ran cold. ‘He was taken to the Santa Hermanda. You know who they are? The Holy Brotherhood, the military arm of the Inquisition. They have doctors, physicians, leeches, they are also headed by one of the most powerful men in Spain, the Dominican, Tomas de Torquemada. He’s confessor to Queen Isabella. Yarfel regained consciousness, just for a short while. He said something strange. He called out your name, Matthias, then he added something in Latin.’
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.
32
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 plac
e 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.
‘Aren’t they pleased?’ Matthias asked. ‘That Granada is Spanish and Catholic?’
‘Granada was an island in itself,’ Ratcliffe answered. ‘A city of opulence, luxury, carefree in all matters. If it hadn’t been for a group of fanatics, Boabdil would have surrendered as soon as the Catholic standards appeared over the hill. Granada is a place, Matthias, where Christian, Jew, Moor, as well as a few faiths you’ve never even heard of, lived in easy amity. Now all has changed. Granada is Catholic, the Santa Hermanda, the Inquisition and, above all, Tomas de Torquemada are here. Rumours are rife. Ferdinand and Isabella are pragmatic: they need the Moorish craftsmen and they depend heavily upon the Jewish bankers.’
‘But Torquemada?’ Matthias asked.
‘Ah yes.’ Ratcliffe lowered his voice and made a sign to Matthias to do so. He stared round the garden. ‘Be careful, Matthias. They say that Torquemada even pays the birds, the mice and the rats to bring him information. Torquemada is a zealot. He not only sees a united Catholic Spain but, as I have said, a kingdom free of Moor and Jew. He has already accused Ferdinand and Isabella of selling the Church, like Judas sold Christ, for the sake of money and peace.’
