by Paul Doherty
‘This is Juan Behahda,’ Torquemada explained. ‘Juan was, or is, a merchant. We know he worked hard in persuading Boabdil not to surrender Granada to their Majesties. A traitor and a heretic. We have been asking Juan who else was in his coven but,’ Torquemada shrugged, tears brimming in his eyes, ‘he won’t tell us,’ he whispered. ‘Juan refuses the pardon of Holy Mother Church and, by his actions, has put himself beyond her protection. Matthias, what are we to do with such men? How can they answer for their actions?’
Torquemeda shouted in Spanish across to the torturers. The fellows’ answer was short and terse. Torquemada sighed and dabbed at the tears in his eyes.
‘Fiat, fiat,’ he murmured. ‘Let it be. Let it be.’ He turned to his shadowy companion. ‘Brother Martin,’ he said softly. ‘Hear the man’s confession and have him garrotted.’
Torquemada beckoned to Matthias to follow him out of the room and, escorted by the two soldiers, returned to the chamber.
Torquemada closed the door behind him, gesturing at Matthias to sit whilst he filled two goblets with sherbet: taking quick sips from his cup, Torquemada walked round the room shaking his head.
‘Juan was an obdurate soul.’ He stopped his pacing.
‘What are you doing, Father?’ Matthias got to his feet. ‘Do you think you can frighten me? Do you think the torturers will get the truth? What do you accuse me of?’
‘I don’t know,’ Torquemada replied. His face was a mask of genuine concern. ‘I really don’t know, Matthias. I’ve made a careful study: you are a mystery. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe knew little about you though he told me how you saved his life. There is the question of Yarfel. And, even when you were arrested, so I understand, you were searching for a woman?’ He put his cup down on the table. ‘But what woman, Matthias? Eh? You are a solitary man. How could you know some woman living in Granada? To put it bluntly, Englishman, are you a witch? Are you a warlock?’ His face grew serious. ‘Are you a member of a coven?’
‘I am an Englishman. I am innocent. I also enjoy the Queen’s special protection,’ Matthias replied.
‘Oh yes, so you do.’ Torquemada walked to the door. He turned, gave Matthias his blessing and quietly left.
Matthias sat down, trying to control his trembling. Try as he might, he couldn’t remove from his mind the picture of that tortured man in the dungeons below. He could imagine the whispered confession, the cords being placed round his neck and tightened with a piece of stick until he strangled to death. Matthias picked at some fruit but found he had no appetite. He could only sit and wait.
Just after sunset, the door was flung open and the black-masked guards seized and bundled him out. Matthias tried to control his fear as the soldiers led him along the galleries, illuminated only by flashes of light from glowing candles or lanterns slung on hooks. However, he was not taken outside but into a small hall. A few torches provided light. The walls were covered in heavy drapes whilst underfoot thick carpet deadened any sound. The windows were shuttered, the air was stuffy and hot but smelt fragrantly of incense. At the far end on a dais seven men sat behind a long, oaken table. Torquemada in the middle, hands joined, smiling benevolently down at him, but the men on either side were hooded and masked. Behind Torquemada, the walls were covered in dark-red drapes with the arms of Castile boldly etched in the centre. From a beam above the table hung a stark, black crucifix. A scribe, who sat on a small bench just beneath the dais, rose and tinkled a small handbell.
The soldiers pushed Matthias forward. He was made to sit on a stool just before the table so he had to stare up at Torquemada. Matthias didn’t know whether this was a dream or reality. The Inquisitor General smiled like a benevolent uncle but the sombre-masked judges seemed like figures from the Apocalypse: their very silence and lack of movement a terrifying reminder of the power of the Inquisition. Matthias tried to object, claiming he was an Englishman and innocent of any charges, that he also had the special protection of the Queen. Torquemada swept this aside.
‘There are no charges.’ He leant forward. ‘You may well be innocent. And you still enjoy the protection of our Queen. So?’ He sat back in the purple-draped throne-like chair. ‘If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.’
The questioning then began. It was done in Latin. All of the judges spoke softly, eager to clarify their points by lapsing into lingua franca. The questions were always the same. Who was he? Why was he in Spain? Why did the Moorish champion, Yarfel, speak as he did? Did Matthias know any of the women killed so barbarously in the camp? Was he a true son of Holy Mother Church?
Matthias kept his answers short and terse. He did not know Yarfel. He was a Christian fighting for the Church. He had been born a Catholic: he wanted to die a Catholic. He had no woman’s blood on his hands. And the woman he had been seeking in Granada?
‘She reminded me of someone,’ Matthias explained. ‘A girl I loved in England,’ he lied. ‘I was tired, my mind was dazed. The memory plays tricks.’
Matthias kept staring at Torquemada. He couldn’t see what impact his answers had on the other judges but Torquemada looked genuinely puzzled. Matthias grew stiff: the ache in his back from his fall grew more intense. He explained this. Torquemada spread his hands and apologised. Matthias was allowed to stand and walk round the room. Refreshments were served: chilled white wine, a dish of sweetened figs and then the trial continued. At the end Torquemada clapped his hands softly as a sign for silence.
‘What do you say, brothers?’ he said, weaving his fingers together as if in prayer. ‘Guilty or innocent?’
One of the judges at the end of the dais stood up, facing down the table at Torquemada.
‘Reverend Father,’ he said, measuring his words carefully, ‘Matthias Fitzosbert appears to be innocent of any charges. His life seems a mystery, like a rose before sunrise, the petals closed tight-’
Matthias stiffened. The judge was speaking in Latin but there was something about his voice, the intonation, the reference to a rose.
‘You wax lyrical,’ Torquemada broke in. ‘Brother Benjamin, what do you propose?’
‘Matthias Fitzosbert enjoys the protection of the Queen?’ the black-masked judge asked Torquemada.
‘Yes he does!’
‘He is, therefore, the Queen’s subject if he enjoys her protection?’
‘Of course!’ Torquemada snapped back. ‘That is why we have the right to question him!’
‘He is a man of great courage,’ the judge continued.
Matthias now knew that the Rose Demon was present in the room.
‘Their Majesties are looking for officers,’ the anonymous judge continued. ‘The Genoese, Columbus, and his projected voyage across the Western Seas — Fitzosbert would make an excellent officer for such an expedition.’
The judge sat down. Torquemada stood, his face wreathed in smiles.
‘Matthias Fitzosbert,’ he declared. ‘What do you say?’
Matthias stared back.
‘You have appealed to God,’ Torquemada declared. ‘So, let God decide. You have a choice. To subject yourself further to the interrogation of the Inquisition or to be the Inquisition’s man if, and when, this Columbus sails across the Western Seas.’
‘I would rather go than stay!’
‘Good!’ Torquemada sat down. ‘Until then you shall continue to be our guest.’
Matthias turned and stared at the anonymous judge who had intervened. However, in the candlelight, all he could glimpse were eyes glittering behind the sombre mask.
33
Half an hour after sunrise, on 3 August 1492, the 100 ton ship the Santa Maria, escorted by its two 60 ton caravels, the Nina and the Pinta, left its moorings in the port of Palos in southern Spain. They were to sail west across unknown seas in the hope of finding a swifter, more accessible route to Cathay and Cipango. All three ships were well provisioned with water and white wine as well as hard biscuits, olive oil, salt meat and cured fish. Portuguese lentils, chick peas, almonds, raisins and rice had als
o been stowed to offset the hard diet.
The Santa Maria, Christopher Columbus’ flagship, was a sluggish, three-sailed cog, heavy-bottomed with a high raised castle in the front and stern. The Nina and Pinta, each commanded by the Pinzon brothers, Vincente and Martin, were similarly rigged but moved faster in the water.
Matthias Fitzosbert, master-at-arms on board the Santa Maria, though not listed among its crew, stood in the stern castle and watched the retreating white buildings of the small Spanish port of Palos. To his right and left (Matthias had not yet grown accustomed to ‘port’ and ‘starboard’), the Pinta and Nina’s square sails billowed full in the early morning breeze. All three ships were in line, a fine sight as they crossed the bar of the Saltes river and made their way past the friary of La Rabida where the good Franciscan brothers were now being called to the office of Prime by the faint tolling of the bell.
Matthias loosened the lacing of his leather jerkin and spread his feet more firmly. The sky was now streaked with red, the winds were soft. He was growing accustomed to the pitch of the ship ever since he had joined it at the end of June. The previous months had been spent as an enforced guest of the Inquisition. After his dramatic trial by night, Mathias had been left to his own devices, though he suspected there were hidden eyelets and peepholes in his chamber where Torquemada or his officers could keep him under close watch.
At first Matthias had raged against what was happening; not so much the verdict of the court — he had been relieved of the threat of incarceration in the Inquisition’s dungeon — but the sheer boredom of each day. He had books, he was allowed to walk in the garden but nothing else happened. It was as if the world had forgotten him. Now and again a physician would call to ensure all was well. If it hadn’t been for the servant Miguel, Matthias would have spent most of his time either talking to himself or reading the different works of piety Torquemada’s officers delivered to his room. Miguel had been his saviour. An Inquisition spy and certainly Torquemada’s creature, nevertheless he had a sardonic view of the world and kept Matthias informed of events in the city and beyond.
By the end of February Miguel had become Matthias’ teacher: first in the basic elements of the Spanish tongue then, as Matthias grew more proficient, correcting his use of the language until Matthias found he was able to think in Spanish. Matthias noticed how Miguel, time and again, would deftly turn the conversation to the matters on which Matthias had been tried. Matthias, however, maintained every aspect of orthodoxy. He took the Sacrament on Sunday and Holy Days in a small side chapel. He deliberately showed little interest in Miguel’s stories about witchcraft and demons in Spain. It was like a game of chess. Miguel would turn the conversation one way and Matthias would expertly turn it back. The subject which really preoccupied him as the weeks passed was Columbus. Who was he? What were his plans? Miguel would always clap his hands and shake his head.
‘Columbus,’ he declared, ‘is a dreamer, a Genoese. He claims to have secret maps and has been begging their Majesties and Holy Mother Church to fund an expedition across the great unknown Western Ocean. He really believes that, by sailing west, he can find a shorter route to the country of the Great Khan and so open up a lucrative trade in spices and gold, but the man’s a fool!’
‘Is there anything to the west?’ Matthias asked. He recalled Abbot Benedict’s reference to the Beautiful Islands.
‘There are stories of islands populated by strange people and mythical beasts.’
‘What do you believe, Miguel?’
‘I don’t think the world’s flat,’ Miguel retorted. ‘Everyone knows it’s a sphere, otherwise, when you walked along a road,’ he smiled triumphantly, ‘you wouldn’t see the spire of a church rise up on the horizon.’ His smile faded. ‘Some people believe Columbus is a sorcerer.’
Matthias deliberately stifled a yawn as this funny, rather nervous servant of Torquemada tried to bring the conversation to more topical matters.
At night Matthias was more circumspect. He dreamt scenes from his past and was fearful lest he talk in his sleep and thus provide fresh information for the silent watchers. In the middle of June, however, Torquemada came to visit him. The Inquisitor General was booted and spurred, ready to leave: his attitude to Matthias was one of bored indifference. He handed his English captive a purse of silver.
‘In a few days,’ he declared, after giving his final benediction, ‘you will be released. Soldiers will take you to the port of Palos.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, you are on your own!’ He was about to leave but turned, one hand on the door. ‘Of course, you might desert but that would be very foolish. If you are caught, and it would not be hard to hunt for an Englishman in southern Spain, we would certainly meet again. Goodbye, Englishman!’ And he slammed the door unceremoniously behind him.
Two weeks later an officer of the Santa Hermanda arrived late in the evening and announced that, tomorrow morning, they would leave. Matthias was to pack and be ready. Matthias was overjoyed but his happiness was soon marred by the long, bone-racking journey under a scorching sun to the small fishing port of Palos. There Matthias had been handed over to Columbus’ business partners and Spanish captains, the Pinzon brothers. They were tactful, but cold and distant. Matthias recognised the subtlety of Torquemada. Both men saw him as a mercenary, a creature of the Inquisition.
Columbus himself, who now had the title of Captain General, was even more cold and forbidding. The Genoese was tall, thickset, open-faced, with eyes heavy-lidded under a high, sweeping brow. In many ways he reminded Matthias of Torquemada: a man absorbed by dreams. When the Pinzon brothers introduced Matthias, Columbus hardly raised his eyes from the charts spread out on the table before him. He limply clasped Matthias’ hand, said that he should expect no favours, and then dismissed him.
Matthias moved against the ship’s rail. He’d also been given clear instructions about his conduct on board ship: the rigging of the sails, the navigation, duties on board were not for him. In the event of any enemy attack he would man the light cannon, four-inch bombards which fired a stone ball, or take one of the crossbows. Matthias chewed on his lip and watched the sailors scurrying like monkeys around the deck. Bare-footed, dressed in drab hose and ragged linen shirts, all were born sailors. They moved with the lightness of a cat despite the pitching deck and the constant sea spray which drenched everything from the huge square sail bearing a resplendent red cross to the small bumboat slung along the side. Matthias hardly knew any of the crew. He’d met the royal representative Escobedo, whilst the barber surgeon, a converted Jew, Louis de Torres, was amiable enough. The rest of the crew, however, regarded him as a foreigner.
‘Don’t worry,’ de Torres had confided. ‘I’m here to patch their wounds and, because I am fluent in many tongues, I’m to be Columbus’ interpreter for the Great Khan.’ He winked, a sign that he no more believed Columbus would meet such a great king than, indeed, any other of the crew did.
‘Columbus is a dreamer,’ de Torres hissed, ‘and every man Jack on board our three ships is only here because they have come from Palos. If it hadn’t been for the Pinzon brothers, Columbus would have had to paddle his own boat out into the unknown.’
Nonetheless, despite all this, Matthias had been pleased to be free of Torquemada. The Pinzon brothers kept an eye on him but he’d been allowed to wander the taverns and wine shops which lined the busy quayside. Matthias had caught the excitement caused by Columbus’ projected voyage. Many were doubtful, though, secretly, they nursed dreams of finding golden cities and mines rich with silver. Matthias had also kept his ears open for any strange occurrences. He still wondered if it really had been Morgana he’d glimpsed in Granada.
In the end, the days passed in humdrum fashion until on 1 August Matthias had been given his orders that, the next time he boarded the Santa Maria, it would be no exercise. He was to check the bombards and ensure that the strings of the crossbows were still dry. Columbus was determined to catch the easterly winds and sail out into the unknown.
‘Fitzosbert! Fitzosbert!’
Matthias broke from his reverie. De Torres was standing on the steps of the forecastle beckoning him over.
‘The Captain General wishes to see you.’
Matthias looked at the small, monkey-faced man, his friendly eyes and ever-smiling mouth. De Torres scratched his close-cropped hair.
‘He’s in a temper,’ he whispered. ‘He’s never in the best of moods so watch what you say.’
Columbus’ cabin was no more than a dark panelled closet under the stern castle. A small pallet bed in one corner, a collapsible table, a chair and two stools. Columbus was sitting, studying the charts spread over his lap. He was dressed in a light blue shirt, open at the neck. He’d kicked his boots off and his bare feet tapped impatiently on the wooden floor.
‘Sit down! Sit down! Sit down!’ Columbus wiped the sweat from his brow. He rolled the charts up and gently tapped Matthias on the cheek, forcing his head sideways. ‘The Pinzon brothers noticed that!’
‘Noticed what?’ Matthias replied.
‘The rope marks on your neck!’
Matthias nursed the small scar left by the rough handling of Emloe’s men on the Winchelsea road.
‘Are you a felon, Englishman? A gallows bird?’
‘I’m a soldier,’ Matthias replied bleakly. He regarded his life as a closed book, especially to this Genoese who studied him in such a hostile manner.
‘I know nothing of you.’ Columbus leant forward. ‘You seem to have an honest face. I received the letter from the Inquisition that you were to come, be part of the crew with the specific duties of master-at-arms. However, you are not on my manifest and I shall not mention you in my log. Most of the crew here are seamen from Palos, about two or three are from gaols elsewhere: people whom the authorities in Spain want as far away from them as possible. You are one of these. I am Captain General. I have the power of life and death over everyone in this fleet. You will carry out my orders and that’s all I care about. I don’t give a fig about your past or why you are really here. If we return to Spain, Torquemada wishes to meet you again. I expect you to obey my orders. Do you understand?’
