Vivar stepped away from the box. “A thousand years ago, Lieutenant, it seemed that the Muslims would capture all of Spain. From Spain their armies would have gone north, across the Pyrenees, to assault the whole of Christendom. Their heresy would even now rule Europe. There would be no cross, only a crescent.”
A cold wind, coming through the unglazed lancet window, shivered the candles. Sharpe stood transfixed by the gonfalon as Vivar’s voice continued the old story.
“You must understand, Lieutenant, that though the Moors conquered nearly all of Spain, they were checked in these northern mountains. They were determined to break our resistance here, so they came in their thousands, while we were numbered only in our hundreds. We could not win, but nor could we surrender, and so our knights rode into unequal battle after unequal battle.” Vivar was speaking very softly now, but his voice held every person in the room motionless. “And we lost battle after battle. Our children were taken into slavery, our women for Islam’s pleasure, and our men to their fields and galleys. We were losing, Lieutenant! The light of Christianity was nothing but a candle’s dying flicker that must defy the light of a great, but evil sun. Then there was one last battle.”
Bias Vivar paused. Then, in a voice as proud as Spain itself, he told how a small band of Christian knights rode their tired horses against a Muslim army. He told the story so well that Sharpe felt he could actually see the Spanish knights lowering their lances and lumbering into a gallop beneath banners bright as the sun. Swords clashed on scimitars. Men hacked and gouged and lunged. Arrows hissed from strings and banners fell into the bloodied dust. Men, their entrails cut from their bellies, were trampled by war-horses, and the screams of the dying were drowned by the thunder of new attacks and the shouts of pagan victory.
“The heathen were winning, Lieutenant,” Vivar spoke as if he had himself tasted the dust of that far-off battlefield, “but in the last extremities, in the candle’s final flicker, a knight called on Santiago. It was Santiago who had brought the news of Christ to Spain; would the saint now let Christ be driven out? So the knight prayed, and the miracle happened!”
Sharpe’s flesh crawled. He had stared so long at the tapestry bag that the shadows in the chapel seemed to curl and shift like strange beasts all around him.
“Santiago appeared!” Vivar’s voice was triumphant and loud now. “He came on a white horse, Lieutenant, and in his hand was a sword of sharpest steel, and he cut his way through the enemy like an angel of vengeance. They died in their thousands! We filled hell that day with their miserable souls, and we stopped them, Lieutenant! We stopped them dead! It would take centuries to clear Spain of their filth; centuries of battle and siege, yet it all began on that day when Santiago earned his name Matamoros. And this,” Vivar stepped to the box and lightly touched the folded silk within the open bag, “is the banner he carried, Lieutenant. This is Santiago’s banner, his gonfalon, which has been in my family’s trust ever since the day when the first Count of Mouromorto prayed that Santiago would come to snatch a victory from the death of Christ.”
Sharpe looked to his left and saw that Louisa seemed to be in a trance. The priests watched him, judging the effect of the story on the foreign soldier.
Vivar closed the leather box and placed it carefully back in the strongbox. “There are two legends concerning the gonfalon, Lieutenant. The first says that if it is captured by the enemies of Spain, then Spain itself will be destroyed. That is why Father Alzaga does not want your help. He believes the English will ever be our enemies, and that the present alliance is merely an expedience that will not last. He fears you will steal the banner of St James.”
Sharpe turned uneasily towards the tall priest. He did not know if Alzaga spoke English, but he tried in a stumbling way to assure him that he had no intention of doing such a thing. He felt a fool saying it, and Alzaga’s contemptuous silence only deepened Sharpe’s uneasiness.