‘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.
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.