The Horse Healer (25 page)

They arrived at almost the same time.

“A sliver of wood is stuck in his neck,” García Romeu confirmed, kneeling, watching the copious bleeding.

Giulio, the farrier, examined the damage. He was immediately alarmed, discovering that a pointed piece of wood as thick as a finger had perforated the horse's jugular. Diego came to the same conclusion.

“I'll pull it out as fast as possible, but I'll need the help of two strong men to close the wound right afterward,” Giulio said.

Diego thought he was crazy. If he did that, he would open a torrent of blood and the animal would perish in an instant.

“You'll kill him!” Diego's voice, which he had meant for only Giulio to hear, rang out too loud and too clear.

All those present, including Doña Mencía and the ensign García Romeu, heard him. Giulio did also; he looked at Diego with hatred and rage.

“What did you say?” García Romeu interrogated him frantically, wanting to hear his opinion. That horse was his finest specimen.

“It shouldn't be pulled out all at once. It will provoke a collapse and the hemorrhage will be irreparable,” Diego responded.

“You're saying nonsense; don't listen to him, master. I know what I'm doing. It's nothing more than one of those battle wounds that I've already dealt with. …”

“He'll kill him!” Diego insisted in a stern voice.

The nobleman from Aragon ruminated over his decision. He looked at both of them, regretted having to decide between them, but finally asked Diego to take charge of it. His hypothesis seemed the more realistic one.

“Let the albéitar do it!”

Diego knelt beside the horse and acted with enormous speed and efficiency. He made two pages hold its neck, and with a very sharp lancet, he cleared away the skin on top of the wood. He found the jugular. With a silk thread, he isolated it, tying it tight to seal off the flow. He knew he had little time for that operation. Mencía was at his side. Half hidden under her hood, she watched him, shocked by his abilities. He sliced the skin that surrounded the wood and asked someone to open the edges of the incision. To Diego's surprise, the hands that helped him were those of Mencía. No one recognized her, but he knew. He didn't want to even think about having her so close. … In that moment, he had to concentrate on García Romeu's horse.

Diego removed the splinter carefully in order not to tear the vessel, which was no longer bleeding, and sewed the outlines of the puncture, pulling it closed right afterward. Those present admired the speed and accuracy of his hands. No one saw the slightest tremor. Then he loosed the ligature around the jugular and the vein filled with blood, with life, without spilling a single drop.

They hurrahed and applauded him. By then, Gómez Garceiz had appeared as well as many nobles and judges, all impressed by his skill. Even King Sancho VII was informed of the magnificent feat of the young albéitar.

They clapped him on the back, smiled at him. Everyone seemed enthused by his actions, except for one person, Giulio Morigatti. He had hoped for, even wished for, the death of that horse in order to upbraid Diego afterward. He took advantage of a moment of distraction to approach Diego. He spoke very softly in his ear.

“I will never forget this humiliation. You're nothing more than a filthy and vile dog, Diego de Malagón. Sooner or later we'll meet again, and then …”

“What are you threatening me with?” Diego raised his voice, attracting the attention of those present. “Say it now, you rogue.”

Giulio felt himself surrounded by the gazes of disapproval of all present.

“Filthy Moor!” He spit at the floor, furious.

Diego leapt at him but was held back by two knights.

“Quiet, now!” The order came from García Romeu, now grasping Giulio's tunic. “I've always taken you for a man of integrity and skill, but today you have just demonstrated the contrary. Your attitude has stained the honor of my house and of the very crown of Aragon.”

The farrier's expression said it all. Ire, pain. He was clenching his jaw so hard, his face seemed deformed.

“From this moment on, you are no longer at my service. Get out of here! I don't want to see you again.”

Giulio did so, protesting between clenched teeth, and disappeared among the tents, swearing vengeance.

Diego heard García Romeu himself beg his pardon once the jousting was over. Still upset by the violent scene, Diego turned back to the tents to leave his instruments in that of the ensign. Mencía was there once more. She had taken off her men's costume and was again dressed as a woman. Diego didn't try to approach her and she could not come closer than what decorum demanded, but when she had a glimmer of opportunity, she didn't waste it and said, as though in a whisper: “I've never seen anyone work like you.”

“Thank you so much for the … compliment, my lady.” Once more he was tongue-tied.

They were almost to the tents when something unexpected happened. A furious shadow rose up at his back. Someone shouted but did not give him time to react. A dagger was seen seeking out the albéitar and striking him straight in the neck.

Diego looked at Mencía and fell right to the ground.

X.

F
or him, she was more than just another concubine.

Her undulating red mane, the fragility of her gaze, her elegant stride, each of her gestures was adorable, however subtle it seemed. She was pure magic.

“Swim with me, Estela.”

The young caliph al-Nasir lived captivated by that woman. Nervously he observed the elegance of her movements, her shyness as she undressed. He longed for her delicate body when he saw it nude.

Estela submerged herself in the warm water of the pool and went toward him. Al-Nasir grabbed her waist and kissed her lips, but he didn't feel passion from her this time either.

“Do you want me to perfume you?” She stretched her hand to a glass jar with floral oils.

“What I really want you won't give me. …”

Estela remained silent. He would never get it. How could she love him when he was nothing more than her filthy captor, a jailer she hated with all her soul every time he took possession of her body?

She spread aromatic oil on her hands and looked for his back. When she moved through the water, she felt too cold, and the hair on her body stood on end. She began massaging his shoulders, then his arms. He closed his eyes, trying to feel every last sensation.

“You know I never call any of the others anymore? That you're my favorite?”

“I don't deserve such an honor,” she lied.

She oiled her hands again and continued with his neck. She wanted to choke him. She would certainly have done so had she had the strength.

He leaned his head back and looked at her.

“I am the one who doesn't deserve it,” he said to her. “I want you so much.” Estela offered him a thin, insincere smile. He would never possess her heart, only her body.

She held her hair in her hands and wrapped herself around him, stroking him until she was in front of him. Insane with passion, the man's lips looked for her neck and then descended.

“You are perverse with me.”

For the first time since she was in the harem, Estela played along with his intentions. She needed to finish soon, and besides, she knew it would be the last time. …

The break between King Sancho and Najla had caused a great uproar in the caliph's court. Sancho had returned to Navarre and she had stayed, heartbroken and disconsolate. That separation had not only broken her dreams, but also those of Estela and Blanca. Their hopes of escaping that hell, of going with her to Navarre, had vanished.

Since that split, Blanca consoled Najla every day. She chose her words to try to heal the girl's wounds and also showed her tenderness and support. And yet, her charitable attitude toward the princess had other motives; she had achieved greater freedom of movement inside the harem, and that was just what she needed to carry out her plan. She had thought it through infinite times until making a decision. It would occur that very afternoon, when her sister returned from being with the caliph.

“You'll find another man, my princess. Don't let this embitter you so much.”

“No one will be like him, Blanca.” Najla took Blanca's hand and held it between hers. “You're a Christian; do you understand why he left?”

“The pope is the representative of Jesus Christ on earth. The rebuke the king received for your relationship is a very serious matter. Imagine that you had an equivalent figure in your faith and he took you to task. How would you respond?”

“We have one. He is the caliph, my brother, but he blessed our love. …”

Najla broke into unstoppable tears.

Blanca embraced her and cried as well, though her motives were very different. She imagined the pain her flight would cause. She kissed her forehead and then caught the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

“Be strong, be strong, my dear friend. …”

Estela lifted the false bottom of the trunk and took out two dresses, the least conspicuous ones she had in her wardrobe. When she had left the caliph, he was dressing for the reception that afternoon.

She heard the call to prayers.

Everything was going according to plan. She dressed in those garments and waited hidden behind a column until Blanca arrived.

When she no longer heard the potent voice of the muezzin, she discerned steps approaching. Her heart beat so hard it pounded against her ribs. The door pulled open and the hinges creaked.

“Estela, are you there?”

She came out from behind the column.

“Take this and change fast.” She looked into her sister's eyes, perplexed. “What's wrong? Why are you crying?”

“It's for Najla …” Blanca took off her tunic and put the new one on.

Estela folded the used clothes and hid them behind the trunk.

“There's nothing here that matters enough for me to shed a single tear.”

“Let's go now.” Blanca pricked up her ears but could hear nothing. “Once we're close to the reception room, we'll blend in with the group that the caliph's receiving. We'll do it when they're leaving. I've heard there are lots of women and for that reason, he won't notice.”

They took off their shoes so as not to make noise. Not seeing anyone in the hallway, they ran until they reached the steps. An Imesebelen was guarding the ground floor. They waited for him to disappear to the left and then rushed downstairs as fast as they could. They turned right and stayed close to the wall, never shifting even a moment from that spot, running until they reached an open room. They heard nearby voices but could see no one. They were close to the larger chambers.

Their breathing hurried and their muscles all tensed, they entered the small bedroom that would serve them as a hiding place until the time was right. Blanca confirmed that they were close to the hallway that led out, where the group was going to pass, and she left the door half open.

“We'll make it, Estela.”

“God willing. …”

A little while after, the doors of the great hall opened and a large group of guests began to file out. The moment had arrived. The sisters covered their heads with niqabs and crossed their fingers. When Blanca made the sign, they rushed out and turned right to reach the group, but in their hurry, they didn't see the Imesebelen. He, however, did see them. He grabbed them by the arms with incredible force. Those hands hurt. The African recognized the expression of panic in their eyes without knowing what they were trying to do.

“You shouldn't be here.” He heard the voices of the group and turned back to them. They were shaking with panic. Then he thought of something.

“I will not allow it.” He grabbed Blanca by the neck and began to squeeze with terrible might. She was choking. Estela felt his other hand, but she decided to act. She bit him as hard as she could on the wrist, and though he didn't let her go, she managed to drag herself to the side room where they had been hiding. The Imesebelen, holding on to them as best he could, tried to stop Estela, but she managed to pull away, and when he tried to grab her neck again, he felt a sharpened wooden stake plunge into his heart. He tried vainly to pull it out before falling dead to the floor. As fast as they could, they pushed him into a hiding place, cleaned the blood with a rag, and closed the door. They breathed in and out several times to calm their agitated state, and when they were calm, they looked at each other, still filled with fright.

“If we didn't do it, he would have killed us,” Estela said in self-justification.

“Let's hope they don't find him soon.”

The two sisters then hurriedly looked for the group and mixed in with the guests, trying not to look nervous. For once, they appreciated the obligation to wear the niqab.

They went outside with the rest and crossed the courtyard, looking for the exit of the castle. They looked at the door. It was protected by four well-armed Imesebelen. One of the men in charge came forward to count the women again before they left the palace. Estela and Blanca panicked. They were the only ones who knew why he kept counting them over and over again. They were only ten steps away from freedom.

“We're not going to make it, Blanca,” Estela whispered in her ear.

“When we make it through the checkpoint, run with all your strength. We'll hide in the alleys in the city. There's a market today, and they won't find us among so many people.”

“I'm scared. …”

“Me too, but we're going to make it.” Blanca stroked her chin.

“Stop!” the man shouted. “There are two extra. …”

Two Imesebelen came over to see what was happening.

Blanca understood this was their only opportunity to escape and shoved Estela violently.

“Now, run, and don't look back!”

The two sisters leapt into the street and managed to penetrate the gate, taking advantage of the guards' temporary confusion.

“Look for the narrowest alleys!” Blanca screamed.

“I'm so scared!”

“Run and don't think!”

The four Imesebelen gave chase, screaming and telling everyone to get out of their way. Whoever didn't obey and had the bad luck to get between them wound up on the ground. They ran a long while. The sisters came to a crossroads and were separated against their will. The guards split up as well. Blanca arrived at the market square. It was full of people, too many to be able to run. She crouched to avoid being seen by her pursuers, but bad luck made her trip against the supports of a stall and when she tried to stand, she knocked over a set of plates, provoking a great racket. Before she could react, the Imesebelen had caught her.

They threw her down and one stepped on her and pressed her ribs into the ground. Blanca thought of Estela. Might she have been luckier? She cried with rage at her failure and imagined the horrors those savages would commit. She began to pray for her sister, but for herself as well.

Al-Nasir was waiting furious on his palace's stairway. He couldn't believe what had happened, and even less that Estela was involved.

He saw his personal guard appear, dragging a red-haired prisoner. Her head was hanging down. The caliph flinched anxiously, not knowing which sister it was. He couldn't stand it anymore and walked forward to meet them. He knelt to look at her and sighed when he recognized Blanca.

The qadi, as the servant of justice, slapped her without pity.

“Do you know how a person pays for what you've done, filthy Christian?”

A trickle of blood slipped out over Blanca's lip. The man had just split it.

“No, sir, but I beg your pardon.” When she raised her head, she saw Princess Najla, red with fright. She looked for Estela and was glad not to see her there.

“The law says that all slaves who try to escape shall have their head cut off immediately. Did you know that?” He stretched a hand out so they could pass him a sword. “I will do it myself!”

“Nooo!” Najla couldn't bear it and knelt in front of the qadi, begging his clemency. Her brother interrupted quickly to save her the humiliation and commanded that they carry her off.

“Make all the slaves come,” the qadi ordered while he felt the blade of the sword. “I want them to see an example made.”

Al-Nasir seemed distant from the dramatic situation. He just looked at the castle gate, full of anxiety, worried about the future of his beloved Estela. He wished to see her, but in the case that they captured her, he knew she would suffer an identical fate.

The first women began to arrive and they were arranged in a circle around Blanca, gripped with fear. Some came close to console her, but at that moment she was remembering other times, when she lived with her father and her brother, Diego. Between tears, she asked herself what would have become of them, and also of Estela.

“We've captured the other!”

All turned to the entrance, including the caliph and Blanca herself.

Estela twisted and turned, held by two Imesebelen, and shouted, enraged. When she saw her sister, Blanca tried to pull away and embrace her, but they stopped her.

Al-Nasir didn't hide his anguish and looked away.

“Your error will be paid for with your life,” the qadi yelled in Estela's face. “Now, look at your sister. …”

He turned to Blanca and raised the sword over her head. Many of the slaves broke out in screams and closed their eyes, unwilling to bear witness to that dreadful spectacle.

Estela looked for al-Nasir's eyes, imploring him to intervene, but he stayed motionless and silent.

“What … are you going to do?” Estela stammered, infuriated with her captors, trying to bite them.

Blanca looked into her eyes, between tears, telling her wordlessly how much she loved her, and Estela shouted, with all her might, refusing to believe in what was about to happen.

The qadi looked at the caliph to get his approval, and al-Nasir lowered his head, conceding it.

The heavy sword whistled as it sliced through the air and separated Blanca's head from her body.

A murmur of fright coursed through the group of slaves when they saw her head roll past.

Estela sobbed, destroyed by the pain of it. She looked away from that horrible spectacle, hating them with all her soul.

“Now it's your turn.” The executioner, his sword stained with blood, turned to her to execute her as well.

Estela closed her eyes and asked for help from God.

An Imesebelen held her by the waist while another pulled her hair from her neck to leave it clear. The qadi calculated the force he would need to use if he wanted a clean cut and exhaled as he awaited the order.

He looked at his caliph.

“Stop!”

The man, disconcerted, kept his sword held high.

“Lower it, and don't execute her.”

“But, sir … Our law …”

“I am the caliph and I possess the prerogative to waive any sentence, including death.”

“You are right, but the crime is so grave that …”

“If you continue to disobey me, you shall be punished! Will you respect my wishes or no?”