The Horse Healer (33 page)

Mencía preferred not to explain to her what Diego really meant to her. She knew her mother well; she would have to space out the bad news.

“I don't like how you've hidden that from me until now. Was it really by chance? You don't have anything else to tell me?”

“I have nothing else to say.”

“Are you sure, dear?”

“Of course, Mother. Certain.”

Once she was alone in her room, Mencía wrote the letter. She took care not to wound Fabián's honor, but she made it clear that, from that moment, their relationship was broken off.

But that missive never arrived at its destination.

Doña Teresa Ibáñez was able to intercept it thanks to the help of one of her daughter's ladies-in-waiting who was on her side. Instead, Fabián received another message, written by Doña Teresa herself in her daughter's stead. In it, she made him believe her love had grown stronger and that she was urgent to seal their relations. She ended the note with an invitation to meet in Santa María de Albarracín. And to deceive him further, she put a note beneath Mencía's name that read, “Your future wife.”

The same lady-in-waiting also told Doña Teresa where her daughter went every afternoon when she walked her horse and who she had been seeing for the last month.

The woman was greatly alarmed. She was well acquainted with the power of the heart and the difficulty of stopping its inclinations in time. For a moment, she imagined them madly in love, and the idea seemed so catastrophic to her that she decided to intervene. She wouldn't allow it, not with her daughter. She had decided that Mencía would have to marry, and certainly not a commoner.

She began to think. There had to be something that would separate them. She didn't know whether to speak about it with her daughter, but then she became convinced that in those circumstances, a prohibition would work against her.

After two days, all Doña Teresa's unhappiness and distress was transformed into hope. Chance and an occurrence at the border suggested an excellent solution. She saw it so clearly that now nothing would stop her.

On a hot sixth of August, the governor of neighboring Valencia, Abu Zayd, sent an urgent letter to the young lord of Albarracín.

That same afternoon, Doña Teresa gathered all the grandees and knights in the city, among them her brother-in-law, Don Álvaro López de Haro.

She told them that the king was looking for military aid to repel an unexpected attack from Pedro II of Aragon in the region of Rubielos de Mora, situated between the Aragonese border and Albarracín. It was a strategic commercial route for the economic development of the three areas.

Albarracín's position was very difficult. It was important to maintain good relations with the Valencian, whose friendship yielded enormous commercial advantages, but Aragon should be kept happy as well, in order to check its shameless desire to annex territories.

“An attack under your flag would not be good for you at all,” Don Ordoño noted.

The knight of Santiago and territorial administrator observed Doña Teresa shyly. Rather than the territory itself, he was more worried about the political repercussions for his order if he were forced to fight against other Christian soldiers.

“Better then for us to go with your men, the Knights of Santiago …” Doña Teresa looked at him sternly, putting the burden back on him.

“Can you imagine what the pope's response will be?” Don Ordoño gestured in horror.

“This territory was a concession of the Moorish king of Murcia,” Doña Teresa spoke again, now in a firm tone. “And the Azagras, with the blessing of the Navarrese crown, has governed it since. For its frontier position with Al-Andalus, it has long been a target of the ambitions of Aragon and Castile. Navarre has clamored for us as well, for if they expanded south, this would be their only border with the Moors.”

Doña Teresa knew that it would be difficult to respond to the problem without compromising the future of her lineage. She looked at everyone, disappointed. None of those present seemed to offer any solution. Almost all of them looked down.

“I will go!” Don Diego López de Haro rose and slammed a fist down on the table.

“I as well!” Don Álvaro de Lara followed suit, and then Don Sancho Fernández, his nephew and candidate to the crown of León.

“We can leave when you wish. We are ready,” Don Diego reaffirmed, proud of the reaction of his men. “Think it over well, Teresa. Our people will never compromise you. Both the Castilians and the Aragonese would justify our warring spirits after the siege we suffered in Estella and the subsequent refusal of asylum on the part of the king of Aragon. If we come out victorious, you will win the gratitude and the favors of the governor Abu Zayd. And if we don't, he will still consider himself well rewarded. In my case, whatever the result of our intervention, it will have been an honor to have tried to repay your great favor of sheltering us in this city as you have done.”

“What do the rest of you think?” Doña Teresa looked at the faces of the collaborators. “Do it then. With this, I consider the matter to be closed. You may leave.”

Those congregated there left the armory, each taking leave of their hostess. When Don Diego began to walk out, she asked him to remain a moment. Once they were alone, she had him sit and offered him a mug of wine.

“You have been very generous.” She approached him from behind and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. The man found that gesture strange.

“It is the least we can do for you, Teresa. …”

“That's not true. You can also satisfy me another way as well,” she finished, brusque and mysterious.

“I don't know if you mean …”

Don Diego remembered the mad and impassioned encounter they'd had years before. Something they had never talked of since. A fleeting adventure that never had further consequences. He saw her in his arms again, and she, guessing his thoughts, arranged her bodice coquettishly so that her gorgeous bust was pushed further into view.

“It could be … Why not …” she answered. She pulled out the pins holding up her hair and let her hair fall over her shoulders.

“I suppose you've held me back today for other reasons. What else can I do for you?”

She put her ideas in order and then set to explaining them.

“What I am going to ask of you is urgent, almost indispensable.” She tasted the wine and dried her lips with a cloth. “I need you to take the albéitar Diego de Malagón with you.”

Her brother-in-law remained silent to see what else the favor consisted of.

“And that is all?”

“See, it's easy!”

“May I ask what reasons have moved you to make me this second request?”

Teresa turned nervously in her seat. She wasn't sure if she should be more explicit.

“I believe I've heard Don Álvaro say the boy is expert in Arabic. He could be very useful in your discussions with Abu Zayd.” She knew that argument wouldn't be enough to satisfy her brother-in-law's curiosity, but at least it would win her a bit more time.

“I know you too well, Teresa. Your eyes give you away; you're not telling me everything.”

She sighed three times, feeling defeated.

“Do you promise to keep the secret?”

“You have my word.” Don Diego López de Haro began to imagine something.

“It's about your niece Mencía. From who knows what whim of fate, it seems she's fallen in love with that Diego de Malagón, something that I neither can nor should allow.” Her cheeks reddened from pure rage. “I've decided to break off their relation by putting many leagues of distance between them. If I separate them, his love may cease to grow while that of the person who really will benefit Mencía, Fabián Pardo, will increase. He will protect her welfare, give her an insuperable position and a fitting dowry. I suppose you agree with me. Am I right?”

Don Diego weighed the situation before answering. He couldn't accept that a commoner would try to win the love of a woman of standing either, even less when it came to his niece. The daughters of the nobility had always married men of illustrious background, and that was a sacred tradition that, naturally, he was bound to defend.

“Count on it, Teresa.” His sister-in-law smiled, thankful. “Tomorrow we will head east. I will do what I can to erase him from the life and heart of your daughter. Hopefully I manage to do so. …”

Teresa's breast swelled, excited at hearing his words. Even then, she didn't want to leave the possibility of a loose end.

“There is only one more thing I need. Don't tell anyone about this, not even your son-in-law Don Álvaro. I understand they have a good relationship.”

“I will keep the secret.”

She repaid his favor with a sweet kiss on the lips. To both of them, it tasted of forbidden fruit.

VII.

D
iego could not even say good-bye to Mencía, because he received his orders shortly before midnight. The note that called him to action was urgent and came to him in the hands of a page of Don López de Haro.

“Forgive the hour, but I bring orders to depart directly from my master.”

“Tell them to me, I will listen.”

“You should be present tomorrow in his residence before six in the morning to leave immediately on a journey.”

“Where? Do you know why?”

“I don't well know, but I believe it is an urgent military expedition.”

“War?”

“Forgive me sir, but I don't know anything else. I must leave.”

The boy ran to continue his mission and Diego closed the door, worried. Why did they want him if he wasn't a knight and had never fought in war? It didn't seem logical, unless it was for his skills as an albéitar, to attend to the horses if they were wounded.

He looked for Marcos to tell him what had happened but he wasn't home. Diego imagined he was with the daughter of Abu Mizrain, remembering that the latter had been around Albarracín.

Before he went to bed, he packed a bag with some clothes and a case with all his instruments. He also wrote two notes, one for Marcos, and one for Marcos to deliver to Mencía. In both he explained what he was to do, and to Mencía, he pledged his love.

He could hardly sleep. He couldn't understand what was waiting for him and he was tortured by the idea of leaving his beloved for an indefinite time. He got up before the hour, nervous, readied Sabba's saddle, and tried to make her eat some hay before they left.

The sun still hadn't risen when he arrived on the esplanade beside the palace where López de Haro and his people were residing. A hundred knights with their pages and squires were waiting there in silence.

As Diego arrived, the bells in the church of San Juan broke the silence, tolling six times.

They saw Don Diego López de Haro appear punctually, flanked by two men: Don Álvaro Núñez de Lara and his nephew, the prince of León, Don Sancho Fernández. Doña Teresa was there as well, to take leave of them.

They received the blessing from the archbishop of the city, said good-bye to the few people gathered there, and began their march, leaving behind the walls of the city, heading east.

Mencía awoke worried. When she looked for her mother in the castle, they told her she had gone out to say good-bye to her brother-in-law, who was leaving the city. That struck her as strange. No one had told her. She dressed quickly and left the castle to go to the square where the expedition was supposed to depart.

On the way she crossed the path of her mother, but she wouldn't answer her questions clearly and Doña Teresa's irritated face indicated that she was hiding something important.

Mencía sped up until she came to the square, but she didn't see anyone. Puzzled, she looked for Diego's house.

“The gentleman left a while ago,” his servant responded, still half asleep.

“But do you know where?”

“He told me he was leaving with the troops of Don Diego López de Haro and that he wouldn't be returning for days or weeks.”

Mencía sped over the steep streets of the city to the northern gate, where she imagined they would be leaving from. She needed to see Diego. She didn't understand why he hadn't told her anything, or what reason he had not to tell her good-bye. She lifted the skirts of her dress to go faster and dodged the still-fresh piles of horse manure on the trail, but she didn't meet the riders.

When she crossed the gate in the city walls, she looked east and saw a large contingent of horsemen a half league in the distance. They were too far to hear her, but she cried Diego's name several times as loud as she could.

“Why did you leave me …” She knelt, disconsolate, in a shower of tears. “My love … My Diego …”

At least a league outside the city, Don Álvaro turned back to find Diego. He saw him looking behind them. He had heard a rending cry from the city, but he didn't know where it came from or what it meant.

“I'm happy you're coming with us, Diego. You're going to be a great help.”

“I thank you, but I regret that I still don't know why I've been called. I've heard we're going to aid the governor of Valencia, Abu Zayd, and I don't understand why I've been asked …”

One of Álvaro's pages reached them with an urgent expression.

“The lord of Biscay requires your presence.”

Álvaro looked ahead and saw his father-in-law. He signaled to him and explained, before he left Diego: “You will be the interpreter for the Arab governor.”

Between the towns of Mora de Rubielos and Rubielos de Mora, two days away from Albarracín, there was more happening than just the coincidence of their names: it was also the place of a long dispute between the kingdoms of Aragon and Valencia. The first city had been conquered five years back by the Aragonese, and now Pedro II was trying to make off with the second.

Only a half-day's travel separated the two cities, though there were some narrow mountains. When Don Diego's troops reached their sullen contours, they knew they were close to the armies of Pedro II and the governor Abu Zayd.

The troops entered the Saracen camp on the southern side and were greeted with great enthusiasm and fanfare. Diego felt immediately affected. Those Saracen garments, the turbans, the curved swords—everything reminded him of the dramatic moment he had lived through in his father's house.

Without dismounting from Sabba, he was called by Don Diego to accompany him to the governor's tent. Both were impressed by its beauty when they saw it. It was grand, of blue silk, with designs embroidered in gold thread and soft and undulating profiles. Two black panthers protected its entrance along with two brown-skinned soldiers. When they passed by, the fierce beasts growled, showing their ferocious fangs.

“Salaam aleikum!” The voice came from a small man seated on an endless pile of cushions.

“Aleikum as-salaam!” Diego answered.

Abu Zayd greeted them, raising a hand to his turban. He showed them where to sit and had a servant come with a beverage, which he called
sharbat
.

Diego began to translate his first few words.

“I thank you for your assistance and your urgency, which is required, as the king of Aragon is seven leagues away.”

“Tell him that everything is thanks to the generosity of Doña Teresa Inbáñez and her son the young lord of Albarracín.” Don Diego took a long drink of the refreshing beverage, surprised by the presence of ice inside it, particularly given the heat that month. He asked Diego to inquire as to how they made it.

“He says that in wintertime they bring ice from the mountains of Granada and keep it in deep pits that they bore into the rocks. In this way, it lasts throughout the summer. And as far as its composition, it is an equal blend of orange, lemon, and pomegranate.”

“Delicious and refreshing.” Don Diego licked his lips.

After those introductory courtesies, Diego began to translate the tactic they had in mind to detain the advance of the Aragonese. Abu Zayd, dark faced but with smooth features, almost Castilian looking, had plans brought over where they could study the distribution and location of the various troops.

“He wants to show you”—Diego turned to the lord of Biscay—“that he has three hundred men on horseback and a thousand infantrymen. He proposes that his horsemen attack from the flanks and rear, while yours face off in a closed formation directly from the front.”

Diego listened to the governor again. He pointed to a specific place on the map he assigned enormous importance.

“He's pointing out a streambed just three leagues from here. He says it is the ideal place to defeat them if you can drag the troops from Aragon this far. The north face is high and steep, as are the east and west. Once they're there, they can't escape.”

“And how does he propose that we corner them there?”

Diego translated the question.

“He thinks you will figure out how.”

“Great. So he's leaving me the easy part.” His expression tensed. “Don't translate that please.”

“He's asking what you're thinking.”

Don Diego paused for a moment. He looked at the map over and over while Abu Zayd waited anxiously for some response.

“There it is! We'll set up tents inside with fires and horses, making it seem like we've camped out there. We'll also set up blankets, branches, and bundles to look like men. From their position, they won't see well and when they notice how hard that position is to defend, they'll strike. … The most important thing is to make everything look real, but I believe it will work.”

After listening to Diego's translation, Abu Zayd looked satisfied.

“He agrees with this idea and would like to know when the deception will begin.”

“Tell him immediately.”

“He thanks you again for your help and encourages you to rest awhile to recuperate from the long voyage.”

When they were getting up to leave the tent, Don Diego was struck by one last question that he had forgotten to ask.

“How many enemies does he think are with King Pedro?”

“Five hundred cavalry and two thousand infantry, he says.”

“It's a lot … a lot, by God. … Too many.”

They took leave of the governor with lowered spirits after hearing what the dimensions of the enemy's army were. They left the governor's tent and went to their own, where they could rest.

“Congratulations, Diego. You've been a good translator.” Though the boy was there for other reasons, Don Diego had to admit that he was skilled.

“It was an honor to be able to serve you.”

“Have you ever been in war before?” Don Diego asked.

“Never, my lord. I am the son of a modest commoner and I have never taken up arms.”

“War is a part of our lives. I don't remember five years going by when I haven't fought in one.”

“Pardon if my comment seems inopportune, but it seems incredible to me that you see it as something normal.”

“I never will. …” He stopped short and looked to the horizon. “How could I, if it's in war that you discover the very worst things about the human condition: hatred, vengeance, avarice, cruelty. In wars, all the mortal sins are combined, but it is true that the highest virtues are present as well. You would be surprised to see people as common as yourself, from the lowest groups, fighting with a valor worthy of heroes. In the heat of battle, generosity, disinterest, and bravery above all spring forth.”

The last of these—bravery—pierced Diego's heart. He thought that maybe if he participated in this war, he could cultivate that virtue. For a moment, he was tempted to ask, but when he thought of Mencía, he was afraid of never seeing her again.

A few hours later, the false camp had been set up. Two of Abu Zayd's men, who knew the terrain perfectly, hid close by to watch every movement the enemy made.

Diego used the tense wait to look over the contingents of troops, surprised by their remarkable differences. The Christians were equipped with heavy armor, maces, and swords and rode enormous, powerful, and fearsome horses. But the Valencians rode light coursers, wore thin cuirasses of leather, and colorful, cool clothes, and their animals were smaller and full of energy.

At dawn, they knew that the Aragonese had fallen into the trap. Abu Zayd's soldiers had seen them take the road to the streambed and they returned to the camp at top speed to inform them.

Shortly afterward, they began their march.

The central corps of the expedition was formed by Don Diego and a hundred horsemen. On the flanks, more disordered, were the troops of Abu Zayd.

After two leagues, they reached a broad, barren plain where they stopped. From there they could see the streambed. When they saw the enemy plunge into that hollow, they would attack.

Diego and Álvaro conversed at a distance from the rest of the corps. Neither of them was armed, and they would not participate in the battle.

Don Álvaro would take charge of the ordering of the troops and maintaining the attack plan they had agreed on beforehand. From where he stood, on an elevation, he could scrutinize the scene of combat, predicting any of the enemies' movements.

Diego, at his side, had taken over translating all the changes and new directives that would be issued.

“Doesn't it seem terrible to you, the idea of fighting other Christians?” Diego breathed in an aromatic scent of rosemary.

“We're knights,” he responded brusquely.

“So are the Aragonese.”

Don Álvaro remembered one of the first laws of chivalry.

“The knight should be loyal in all his pledges.” He gave a long sigh on finishing. “That is one of our commandments. That virtue is the mother of all good customs that a man should possess if he wishes to form part of the order of chivalry. Loyalty is what is owed to one's master. Necessary in these moments, however cruel the combat may be, and even more today, when our enemies may be, as you rightly say, our brothers.”

With the echo of his words, Diego heard a stern chorus of whinnying. Hundreds of horses, upset, began to smell the intensity, waiting for the orders of their riders. They were loyal to their masters too, and ready to face the unknown, perhaps to receive a lance in their breast or a fatal arrow in the neck, but always obedient. Diego's stomach sank when he thought that something like that could happen to Sabba.

“A knight lives loyally, heroically, for three reasons, Diego.” Don Álvaro counted them on his fingers. “The first, because he understands he has been chosen to watch over and defend others. The second, to preserve the honor of his own bloodline, protecting his good name and the memory of his ancestors as well as his descendants. And last, to avoid shame, which is what would come to us were we to falter in the duties we have contracted toward our master.”