The Horse Healer (23 page)

“I don't understand.”

“While he was in Marrakesh, our king met many albéitars, became convinced of the seriousness of your trade, and realized that you have an understanding far superior to what we are used to in these parts. He was moved by that, and since his return from those distant lands, he has tried to recruit some of your colleagues to care for our cavalries, but it hasn't been easy. The religious tension, almost warlike, that exists between the two cultures proves an almost insurmountable barrier. That's why, when I found out you were an albéitar, I had you come.”

Centurion approached his master and sniffed at him. Gómez Garceiz scratched his chin with satisfaction.

“Your friars have been hard to convince. I had already called for you on other occasions, but they prevented it before now. I imagine you don't know this, but I had to have King Sancho II himself sign my petition to get you here. The monastery couldn't hide you anymore, and here you are. Now go. Rest awhile and enjoy the festival. And another thing: this evening we will celebrate a great dinner in honor of our King Sancho. And before, they will proclaim the rules of the joust. I encourage you to attend. You will enjoy it.”

“Will the king be at the jousts?”

“He will preside. If you've never seen him, I assure you that you will be impressed.”

VIII.

T
he man shouted with all his strength without losing his dignity.

He was the herald, the figure in charge of protocol during the jousts and tourneys. A clearly recognizable figure, with his flamboyant tabard, an emblazoned garment with long, open sleeves. His mission was to oversee the rules of the game and to register all that happened in writing and, of course, the result of the competitions.

Diego and Marcos listened to him declaim the order of those who were going to participate the next day. He did so from a platform to the right of the tribunal where the religious authorities and nobles sat.

Before, they had witnessed a spectacular demonstration of falconry with six birds.

They marveled at their pirouettes in the air, at the rapid, enchanting flights they took when hunting the various pieces that the assistants threw up for them to catch. The beating of the birds' wings, their sharp shrieks as they attacked their prey, the hurrahs and applause of those present—the mere fact of witnessing it was a true joy for the senses, and another first for the young men who were attending the event.

Night fell. Diego and Marcos walked along the esplanade without overlooking the animated air of their surroundings.

“What is that one dressed as?”

Diego spoke too loudly and the person alluded to heard him. He was wearing a suit covered in colored patches and a hat with various points suspended with jingle bells.

“I'm a fool,” he replied in a strident voice.

He skipped three steps toward Diego and saluted him with a feigned comic reverence.

“I make women laugh and men grumble, because the women enjoy me more than they do their husbands.” He cackled to himself and garnered the applause of the onlookers.

Marcos tried to escape him, as Diego had already done, but he didn't manage to.

“You're so nice to me, I'll make a prediction for you. … May everyone hear!” The little man leapt around incessantly, circling Marcos. In one hand he held a wooden staff with a fool's head like his own at one end. “Years back I signed a secret pact with the fairies, and for that reason, whoever divines my riddles will win a marvelous night of love and joy. But I also signed a pact with a black dwarf of the forest for those who get them wrong …”

“And what?” an old, red-cheeked woman asked him with a beaming smile.

“What's the bad thing that will happen to him?” a young girl asked.

“A long stomachache that will last him a whole week.” He covered his nose, making exaggerated gesticulations to the laughter of all.

“I'm not playing at that,” Marcos protested, but then, from out of the crowd, he picked out the same blond woman who had interested him that morning. The fool, agile as a lynx, knew how to read his thoughts.

“Think it through … I am promising a night of passion. Can you imagine?” He winked.

Marcos looked at the girl's eyes and she went all red, flattered by his interest.

“Fine, say it.” Those gathered yelled out their support and broke into a round of applause. Diego stood to the side, smiling.

The fool shook his head and made his jingle bells ring out, as though inspiration would come to him better that way.

“My dwelling is not silent, but I make no noise. The Lord commanded us to be together. I am faster than my dwelling, sometimes stronger, but it works harder. At times I rest, but my dwelling never does. I will live there as long as I live; if we are separated, my destiny is death.” He opened his arms with a definitive gesture. “What do I speak of?”

Marcos began to think. He had it repeated twice. Then he scratched his head, looked at the floor, and covered his eyes, to shut himself out from his surroundings. He was worried about getting it wrong, and he felt the pressure of the public gathered there. He looked for the girl's gaze and was filled with pleasure when he saw a promising response there. And all of a sudden he thought of a possibility. He ruminated on it before responding. It seemed to work, although the answer could be something else as well.

“It's a fish, a fish in a river. It can't live out of the water, when it wants, it is faster than the current, but the current never tires …”

The fool did a somersault and applauded with rabid glee. Marcos looked for the girl and she replied with a generous smile.

“You've won! You did it!” He leapt and frolicked with incredible agility. “The fairies will look for you tonight and they will keep their agreement. Salute, and good luck, young man!”

The fool pushed Marcos, wanting to ask him another, and Diego rescued him, joking and congratulating him for his right answer. He couldn't avoid feeling a certain envy. He had see him playing the fool with that blond girl and wasn't able to do something similar; he always got flustered and was awkward with women, or maybe he was waiting for something different.

A few steps farther on, they stopped again to watch the jugglers show their talent. They were throwing up colored balls while never stopping their acrobatic twists and turns. One climbed under the other's legs and caught the balls he dropped with apparent ease. They changed these out for torches and managed to get six going in the air at a time.

Afterward they walked over to a large fire where large pieces of pork were being roasted, and beside them, on another fire, a dozen ducks crackled over the heat of the coals. Between the one and the other, the boys felt an enormous craving overcome them.

Seeing them wander around, a smiling woman with a thick waist came over to them with six clay jugs in each of her hands.

“How is it that these good boys are still not acquainted with my wine?” She passed them two jugs. “Try them, and tell me if you've had a better brew in your life for the price of a mere cent.”

They drank the wine, very bad, incidentally, and turned to an enormous tent of white cloth where the dinner was to be celebrated. At the entrance, two men asked their names and looked for them on a piece of parchment, then let them through without any problems.

Inside, there were four long tables arranged side by side as well as a small one that was undoubtedly being set for the king and his court. Since more than half the benches were already taken, they took their seats at the outer edge of one.

But as soon as he sat down, Diego saw her.

She was two tables away from him. She also realized he was there, but dropped her gaze immediately. For strange and irrational reasons, that woman with blond hair and blue eyes had Diego mesmerized, even though he still didn't know who she was.

Marcos spoke to him, but he didn't listen. He couldn't stop looking at her or hide his interest. He tried not to miss a single gesture or expression, however subtle it was. That got on the nerves of his table companion.

“You're going to force me to change places,” Marcos grumbled.

Diego tried to justify himself.

“I understand she's a jewel, but don't limit yourself to just one woman. Look how many there are!” Marcos winked at his blonde. He had just picked her out, not far from them.

“I'd like to know who she is. …” Diego leaned his elbow on the table and his gaze got lost again in that beautiful lady.

Then a chorus of trumpets broke out, attracting the attention of all present. And just after, the herald shouted out his announcement of the arrival of the king of Navarre. Everyone stood up to see him. There appeared an ample retinue and Diego recognized in its midst the ensign Gómez Garceiz. Full of interest, he asked his tablemate which one was the king.

“If you look up, you won't have any doubt about it,” he said, laughing.

Though at that moment he didn't understand, when he looked again, Diego realized. A gigantic figure stuck out from the group, with his hair in ringlets and a firm and serious face. He must have measured between six and seven feet and was almost two heads higher than everyone there. His vestments were regal, and his red cape had a black eagle in its center, the standard of the kingdom of Navarre.

As soon as they sat down at the table of honor, an orchestra of dulcimers and dulcians began to play. And almost at the very same moment the first plates began to be passed around, with roasted pork and large clay bowls filled with vegetables.

The four jugs of wine Marcos had drunk must have awakened his artistic side, because without warning he got up on the table and began to walk over it, gesticulating and narrating a made-up story to all present. It must have struck them as good fun, for not only did it attract the interest of their fellow diners, it also made them laugh and provoked a long string of humorous commentaries.

Diego decided to step away from the racket and find out more about the woman.

“Are you from around here?” he asked his neighbor on the bench.

“I live in Sangüesa.”

“I have a question and I don't know if you …”

“You want to know the name of that woman, right?”

Diego felt awkward.

“You haven't stopped looking at her for a second,” he explained.

“You're right.”

“I know her.”

“Then tell me who she is.” Diego's anxiety was eating at him.

“Where are you from?”

“Close to Toledo.”

“Now I understand. …” He slapped the table. “But if you're interested in her, you can get that out of your head. Her name is Mencía Díaz de Azagra, and she's the daughter of one of the most powerful noblemen of Navarre, Don Fernando Ruiz de Azagra, the second lord of Albarracín.

Diego remembered the other Azagra he had crossed paths with as soon as he arrived in Olite and also the wife of Don Diego López de Haro.
A big family
, he thought.

“The Azagras are well known in these parts because they govern not only Albarracín but also the territories of Calatayud, Tudela, and Estella. Their power and wealth go beyond anything you could imagine.”

Diego savored that name, Mencía, as though it were manna from heaven. Soon, his tablemate noticed Diego's absentmindedness and grabbed a pork rib in his hands, abandoning himself to it without saying another word.

Diego hardly ate a bite; he only watched her, over and over, so long as the heads of her tablemates made it possible.

In the meanwhile, Marcos had gone over to his blonde, and the laughter and warmth that crossed the girl's face suggested he was telling her something very funny or very piquant.

Once the dinner was over, a troubadour named Giraut de Bornel sang the adventures of King Sancho himself during his wars against France, extolling the aid he had given to his brother-in-law, the king of England, Richard Lionheart, who was married to his sister Berenguela. In Romanic and Latin, the troubadour emphasized Sancho's ferocity in combat, the fear he inspired in all his enemies, and the magnanimity of his heart when he had to pardon his enemies.

“Why did your king spend so long in Marrakesh?”

His neighbor turned his back without responding. He preferred talking to a girl who had been smiling at him to being bothered by the bore seated next to him.

“It was over a skirt. …” another said to him, in a very low voice, as though his words warranted great discretion.

“Tell me. I promise I won't repeat it.”

“They say he went there to solicit military aid and funds from the caliph, since his treasure chest was decimated after the conflicts from before. He received no soldiers, but he did get a considerable quantity of money. And it is said that while he resided in the palace something extraordinary occurred. …”

The man let them refill his wine and began to chew a golden, crispy duck leg with relish.

“Carry on, please. You've got me on tenterhooks.”

He spit out the bone and carried on while he chewed what was left of the bird.

“Someone informed him that the caliph's daughter was madly in love with him. Apparently the woman had heard marvelous things about our king from the lips of an Almohad ambassador who had come to Navarre years before. The princess, who they say is beautiful, had idealized him to the point he'd become a dream for her.”

“And he felt the same way?”

The man spoke more closely, into his ear.

“People say they had an intense romance full of passion and sensuality. A few months after he arrived, Caliph Yusuf died. His son, al-Nasir, who is eighteen years old, succeeded him, and he gave his blessing to the relationship as well. Some even state that he offered his sister to him as a bride, because her mother had been Christian and that matrimony could strengthen their ties against Castile, their common enemy. Others say that our King Sancho fell so deeply in love with her that it took him two years to come back to himself.”

“Is there anyone who doesn't become vulnerable when face-to-face with a beautiful woman?” With a certain bitterness, he remembered Benazir.

“You speak wisely, but even when he heard the king of Castile was attacking Vitoria, he didn't react, and he carried on with her. Those who have seen the Moorish woman say that her charms are many. Then, because of a severe rebuke from the pope, he had to return, and he did so without her. …”

While he listened, Diego realized that Mencía was speaking with someone he knew; the knight Luis de Azagra, he remembered. The latter must have felt his gaze, because he turned his head at that very moment. Diego tried to look away, but he was recognized immediately. When he looked up again, the knight was already at his side.

“Forgive me for bothering you, but when I saw you, I remembered that we had to cut short our conversation this morning, and maybe you would like to continue it over a jug of wine with my friends over at that table.” Diego accepted, nervous, imagining himself much closer to the woman.

Before he left, he looked for Marcos, but he didn't see him. He must be away with the blonde.

As he walked, he thought he was living a dream. He had hardly gone twenty steps, but they seemed like two hundred. When he got there, Don Luis presented him the people closest to him first, and then it was her turn.