The Horse Healer (35 page)

A clamor of approval coursed through the crowd.

“Free her, then,” a boy shouted.

“Free her, free her,” a chorus started up.

“I cannot. …” the vizier concluded. “She must finish paying for her crime. She will go on tied to this wood for three days, as our caliph has demanded.”

The people, murmuring their disapproval, began to scatter through the square known to all of them as Jemaa el Fna, to the stalls where they sold their wares. The vizier, too, after giving his final orders, left the square.

All that remained was a guard of two Imesebelen to prevent the curious from meddling. One of them was Tijmud.

After a while, Estela turned her gaze to him and saw his eyes, as dark as his skin, with scarcely enough strength to bear the pain running through her body.

“Tijmud, I need to drink. …”

“My lady, I cannot. … You must understand.”

“Please, I beg you. I'm dying of thirst.”

Tijmud studied his companion's face and understood that he wouldn't approve. He went over to him and whispered into his ear in their language. Then he called a young girl and sent her to bring a pitcher of water. Tijmud himself helped her to drink.

“Thank you again.”

“Now rest, and don't speak more. Try to sleep so the pain doesn't sap your energy.”

“You're right. … I feel very tired and it's hard to speak. …”

“I'll try to help you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I don't know. … When I see you suffering, I feel something moving inside me, but I don't know what it is.”

Estela gripped the wood and closed her exhausted eyes. Her torment was so great that she didn't know what it was or where it came from. After a while she was defeated by weariness and fell asleep.

When the sun began to rise the next day, a warm light touched her cheeks and stirred her awake. When she opened her eyes, she looked for Tijmud without seeing him. He had been replaced by another soldier who refused to answer her questions. But Tijmud came back that afternoon, and then they were able to talk.

“My back feels like something is tearing at it from all sides,” Estela confessed. A hard crust of blood covered it entirely. “There are moments when I can hardly breathe from so much pain. …”

In midafternoon, a punishing sun fell like lead over the square, emptying it out. Tijmud took advantage of the circumstances to cool the wounds on her back with fresh water. Using a cotton cloth, he carefully dried them.

“Tell me about your family,” Estela said.

“An Imesebelen
does not have a family.”

“That is impossible.”

“No, señora, it isn't. In case you didn't know, as soon as we are born, we are separated from our parents and taken to a special school. There they prepare us so that one day, we will be the faithful guardians of the caliph. In my case, I learned that as a newborn, they left me in a stable where there was only a camel. I will never know how I made it, but it seems the animal raised me on its milk. That is usually the first trial they submit us to so that we become good Imesebelen. He who shows he has sufficient instincts goes for the camel when hunger strikes him. Those who don't, die. Some are not even capable of absorbing the camel's dense milk, and some get stepped on and killed. That is how we are selected. From the first day, there begins a cruel triage that follows an infinitude of harsh tests where those who are too weak are exposed and only the strongest are chosen to finally protect the caliph.”

“And the love of a mother, the protection of a father? How can someone live without that?”

“I don't know. I've never known what those things meant. Believe me. We Imesebelen live only for the caliph. He feeds us and we protect him; it is a simple and practical arrangement. During our preparation, those who show the most weakness, try to escape, or do not manage to get through the harsh circumstances of our training meet a harsh destiny.”

“I can't imagine.”

“They become targets for our exercises.”

“What kind of exercises?”

“We learn how to kill in ways you couldn't imagine.”

Estela curled up from fright.

“Then you have never known love, or the effect of a caress …”

“I was taught in another language, the language of duty, of loyalty, of total sacrifice. I belong to a unique breed, an elect group, and I am proud of it.”

“You aren't, believe me. You have missed out on the very best in life. One day I hope to explain it to you.”

That night, when he returned to the palace, Tijmud pondered what they had discussed. It had never occurred to him that his parents had been real, and the mere thought of it was causing him a strange disquiet. Might they still be alive?

Once he crossed through the gates of the Alcazaba, he found the ambassador Pedro de Mora. He was walking in the company of the vizier. Though he hadn't seen him for some time, there was something in his face that called his attention, blurring the outlines of his smile.

They looked at each other. The two men were talking.

Tijmud thought he heard something that piqued his interest even more. He hid behind a wall, with his back to it, and inched along it until he could hear them clearly.

“It was a little bastard who did it to me; he said he was the brother of that redheaded whore you just punished, Estela.”

“Be careful what you say about her, and to whom …” the vizier explained. “I will tell you in confidence, but before, you must swear not to repeat it to anyone.”

“You have my word.”

“Good. It is about our caliph. He is madly in love with the girl. There is no other woman in the harem who can make him happy, none. He loves her so much, in fact, that no one can understand what happened today.”

“Thank you for warning me. What you tell me doesn't surprise me especially, though it's been some time since I've seen them together, nor have I spoken with him of this matter. I will be more careful, but I will also tell you, I will exact my revenge on that woman for the evil her brother has committed. I will take it out on her one day.”

IX.

D
oña Teresa Ibáñez entered quickly into the music room where Mencía was playing a psalm.

“Run, run. Leave that, and go to the ballroom. A great surprise is waiting for you.”

Mencía left her instrument on the bench and got up mistrustfully. The rushing about, the change in her mother's tone of voice, her nervous stomping, all that made her suspect she was covering up something.

“What's it about?”

“Better if you see for yourself, darling. Come, quick.”

Mencía crossed the courtyard full of blossoming camellias and turned to the other wing of the castle. Her mother was following her, almost touching her. When she arrived at the sitting room, Mencía found a man with his back to her looking out from one of the balconies. She coughed delicately to make her presence known, and he turned.

“My beloved Mencía …” She was petrified when she saw it was Fabián Pardo, especially when he turned to her with an attitude that seemed so at odds with the contents of the letter she had mailed a few weeks back.

The man took her belt and pulled her to him, intending to kiss her on the lips. She avoided him as best she could.

“But why are you here?” Mencía put her hands between them to push away. “You are at war, you should be with your king, Pedro.”

“My calling is the law and not arms, and I wanted so much to see you …”

Doña Teresa interrupted their conversation.

“You can't imagine the joy your visit has brought us.” She moved around them like a sandstorm.

She offered him her hand to receive his greeting and returned the courtesy, kissing him on both cheeks. “Forgive me these confidences, but I almost consider you part of the family already.”

Mencía looked at her with horror.

Doña Teresa was receiving the Aragonese as if he were her son-in-law. Though this struck her as already audacious, the worst thing was that Fabián seemed enchanted with the idea.

“You are perfect,” he affirmed without warning, turning again to Mencía. “The greatest wife a man could ever dream of.”

She was paralyzed. She had rejected him in writing and yet his reactions seemed to indicate the contrary. In her letter, she had left things sufficiently clear, and for that reason, his presence was incomprehensible. She armed herself with her courage and decided to broach the issue, looking for some logical explanation.

“Did you get my letter?”

“Yes, of course I received it.” The Aragonese closed his eyes and made an ambiguous face. It could have been excitement, sadness, or even both. “That's why I made the decision to come. It moved me so much inside that I felt compelled to rush here and better understand your decision.”

From his words, sadly, Mencía concluded that he hadn't yet given up.

Hanging on their every word, Doña Teresa shook with fear. She needed to sidetrack the conversation immediately, before her ruse was discovered. Tense, but with a forced smile, she grabbed the invitee by his arm and almost dragged him away to show him her rooms.

“You must be exhausted from the journey. We understand you may want to rest a moment …” Fabián looked at Mencía with a frustrated expression. “We will dine at eight. You'll have plenty of time to talk at your leisure.”

Mencía, once alone, fell nauseated into an armchair without understanding how she would get out of this bind. Fabián was stubborn and known for not stopping until he had gotten what he wanted. If he had read the letter, he already knew her opinion. What more could she say to him but stress that she had meant it?

In her chambers, while she got ready for dinner, Doña Teresa was thinking. She needed to do something to transform her subterfuge into a promise, something that was definitive and could not be questioned. And then it occurred to her. The idea might be wicked, but it was all the same; it was doable, very doable.

She calculated carefully what her steps should be and how she would overcome the difficulties. She turned it over in her mind many times. The idea was good, she was sure of it. It could work.

She took a new parchment, a goose feather quill, an inkwell, and began to write.

Many leagues away, in the highest tower of the castle of Cirat, half a day on horseback from Mora de Rubielos, Diego de Malagón listened with a heavy heart to the new battle plans.

They had managed a first victory, nothing more. Both López de Haro and Abu Zayd knew King Pedro II wouldn't give up so easily.

“If he didn't reach glory this time, he'll ask the grandees of his empire to lend him new cavalry forces and soldiers to form a bigger army.” Diego was translating the Valencian governor.

“Besides cursing your behavior for allowing him to flee,” Diego went on talking, “he says that, in recompense, he will need you to stay with him another four months, until winter comes.”

“Answer him that I just sent a letter to Lady Teresa to inform her of what has happened and to solicit her blessings to achieve victory.”

Don Diego López de Haro took a drink of wine spiced with cinnamon poured by a servant with mysterious almond eyes. He hoped the translator would do his job without getting lost in the woman's voluptuous curves.

“He thanks you from the bottom of his heart and says he will be generous with you.”

“He already is. It has been some time since I've eaten delicacies such as these and received such attention. … Not to mention the beautiful company.” He studied the woman while she refilled his glass with that rousing wine.

“He says he will pay you in gold as well.”

Diego began to translate worse when, not long afterward, the fourth glass had been drunk.

“Excellent news then, Your Highness …” Don Diego's tongue was tied, and from that moment on he spoke rather little.

Diego continued to translate the words of the Valencian into Romanic, though it was now harder to understand him. Maybe it was due to the woman's presence, rare in the past few weeks, but he began to think of Mencía. Four months without seeing her would be hell. He drank another sip and began to feel bad, as if his stomach had been split in two. He heaved, but managed to keep it down. From then he decided to remain very still until the illness had passed.

Though he wanted to think of her, his body was too busy with more primary tasks to concentrate, and that only worsened when the dancers came in.

To the sounds of an animated music, they began a richly sensual dance. They seemed determined to use every one of their muscles. Their bodies, hidden behind fragile veils of color, were intoxicating and seductive, and the aromas they gave off were captivating. Diego let himself be distracted by that atmosphere charged with sensuality, because of the effects of the liquor and the charms of those five women. One of them pulled on him to get him to dance; the others did the same with the governor and Don Diego. That devilish dance required a great deal of skill, and they had to hold on to the women's hips to feel the rhythm and follow along. Amid laughter, blinded by the beauty of their bodies, Diego forgot his misfortunes.

They went on pouring that dangerous brew that confused the mind and gladdened the heart. They drank it until they were almost falling down, laughing boisterously. Diego blathered nonsense words instead of translating, and the governor seemed to have lost his head, since he was trying to dance while he was lain out on the floor, after his third fall, without any apparent desire to stand back up.

After midnight, someone proposed that they go to the bedrooms with the women. Don Diego López de Haro forced the albéitar to pick the most beautiful one. In secret, he offered Buthayna, which was the name of the concubine, fifteen
sueldos
to pass the night with the boy, and a hundred more if she would stay with him from then on. All this was done in the hope that he would forget his niece Mencía.

Buthayna accepted the challenge gladly and turned to Diego with a seductive look, offering him her hand and then taking him down a long hallway that led to the guests' area. Before arriving at the bedroom, she stopped Diego and kissed him ardently, rubbing herself against him, making him feel her body.

Diego's thoughts were focused on Mencía and he tried to reject the dancer, but the woman had great ability in the arts of love and managed to rouse his passion. They stumbled into the bedroom. Buthayna began to undress him amid caresses and whispers. Diego let her. Blood was rushing in his temples and his pulse sped up in time with his desire. When he then undressed her, he admired her body and pushed her down onto the bed.

“Your parents were wise to give you that name, Buthayna. It means woman with a beautiful and giving body, no?”

“Try and see. …”

The woman smiled, pulled him to her. Diego took refuge in her body, running his fingers over her warm flesh, feeling its softness. In a sudden reflection he thought again of Mencía—he could almost see her—and then he couldn't continue. This wasn't what he really wanted, nor what he should do. Stunned, he stopped moving his hands.

“Buthayna, you are beautiful and sweet; I like you, but I don't want to keep doing this.” She looked at him disturbed. “It's not you, it's my fault. I'm in love with a woman, the most sweet and sensitive being I have known, beautiful outside and in. I feel I owe her loyalty. She is my life, I breathe for her, I can't live without her.”

The woman, though she'd been rejected, was moved by his noble reaction and seemed to understand him, though she still inspired pity in Diego.

“Don't suffer for me. I promise you that you are beautiful and very appetizing, but …”

“That's not why I'm crying; it's from pure envy. I hope to God someone will one day feel the same for me. You have the correct attitude. … I can't help it, you've moved me.”

She sat up and looked for her clothing to dress while Diego put on his tunic, both of them seated on the bed.

She looked at him, doubtful, but finally decided.

“I have to ask you a favor.”

“I will try to do it.”

“Let me sleep here. I won't bother you, I promise. Understand, if they see me come back so soon, they will think I haven't made your night pleasurable enough, and they will throw me out in the street; I'll no longer have this job.”

“Of course. You can sleep here.”

She lay down on one side of the bed, and after a while, she noticed that Diego was still awake.

“What is the name of this lucky woman?”

“Mencía,” he answered.

“A beautiful name.”

The woman turned her back to him again and slept between tears of emotion and a little shame.

That same night, Mencía was thinking of Diego as she lay on her bed. The distance between them hurt her even more since she had seen Fabián. The pressure she was suffering from her mother and the indirect approaches of her suitor were in a maddening race to see which one would tire her out first.

She hid under the sheets as though there, nothing could affect her, but she did not manage to get to sleep. Her thoughts flew crazily and she couldn't stop sweating because of the enormous stress that was affecting her. As a consequence of all that, her eyes shot open against her will.

Someone called at the door to her bedroom.

“Mencía?”

“Mother?” She saw her enter.

Doña Teresa's expression showed an acute state of tension. She pulled the sheets and uncovered her daughter. Without giving another explanation, she covered her up again, satisfied.

Doña Teresa began to speak in a serious tone, assuring herself that her daughter understood every word.

“At midnight, he will come into this bedroom and you will let him. …”

“What are you talking about, Mother?”

“I am speaking to you of Fabián Pardo. He is surely reading your note right now. …” Mencía tried to ask, but her mother wouldn't let her. “Don't talk, and listen!” Her expression was firm. “I imagine that he will come here, because your invitation will excite him, and he will overcome his prudence. When he arrives at your bed, you will give yourself to him, with all the passion you can muster.”

Mencía rubbed her eyes and looked back at her, believing she was living a horrible nightmare. But now, there she was still. She couldn't understand how her mother could propose something so monstrous.

“But, Mother, that is … I don't know … Do you realize what you're doing?”

“Perhaps you will understand it better in time.” The mother wrinkled her brows, feeling agitated. “As absurd as it may seem to you, I've thought about it a great deal, my daughter, and I am sure it is what is best for you.”

“Don't expect me to let him in!”

“Not only will you do it, you will give yourself to him and you will like it.”

“Never!”

Mencía threw off the sheets and leapt from the bed, looking for her clothes. She wanted out of that bedroom, to get on her horse and leave the castle, the city; to flee from here, from this insane world, from her mother. She didn't care where to.

Doña Teresa stopped her. Her look was threatening.

“If you leave through that door, you will be condemning Diego de Malagón to death.”

That stopped Mencía in her tracks. She felt her legs tremble and was overcome by a feeling as if she was choking.

“What are you saying about Diego?” she panted nervously.

“I have informed your uncle of this little delusion of yours, and he agrees with me. I have a messenger on hand. If you don't accept the offer I have proposed to you, he will rush off like a lightning bolt in search of your uncle to give him an order.”

“And what is that order?”

“Diego will be sent to the front line of the infantry. With his lack of military training, it is most likely he will have a number of problems facing off against the enemy army. … So you understand, if my messenger has to leave this castle, something terrible could happen to your friend. It all depends on you.”