The Horse Healer (43 page)

Bruno ran to his aid.

X.

M
arcos couldn't believe what he'd just heard from Veturia's mouth.

“I was just trying to free my soul from the weight of those terrible doubts. How could I know they would arrest him right after?” She justified herself. “Supposedly if I confess to the abbot …”

“How could you, Veturia? How could you?” Marcos knew the abbot well. His presence made everything worse.

Marcos had just returned from Valencia, where he was with Abu Mizrain closing on a good deal. He hadn't even been able to sit down before his servant came over to tell him what had happened. She spoke to him nervously, stumbling.

“Poor Master Diego! I feel so guilty for what's happened. But put yourself in my place; what was I to think after what I heard and those strange things he was doing that afternoon with that magician. I imagined terrible things.”

“Anyone who would think Diego is responsible for those people dying is an idiot, insane, and doesn't know anything about him. But it looks like someone saw it differently.” Marcos came over to her. “And you, tell me, what kind of stupid proofs do you say you have against him?”

“But he said it!” She raised her voice. “I remember his words well. He affirmed that he knew how to make the disease.” She explained herself in a tone of protest. “I even saw him make the poison. He did it in front of my eyes, right here.” She struck the table with her hands. “And then he took it and I don't know, he started to do strange things with his hands and he was having spasms …”

Marcos dried the sweat that ran down his forehead while he listened. His anxiety was killing him.

“I'll see how I can help him …”

Mentally, he tried to think of anyone who could intercede with the lord of the town but nobody occurred to him. Of course, Marcos was the very worst person to do so, after leaving the lord's daughter heartbroken.

He thought the accusation against Diego, because it was so grave, would lead to an immediate trial. For that reason, he didn't have much time.

“What can I do? God, I can't think of anything!” he exclaimed.

“You should be careful; maybe they're looking for you, too.”

Marcos froze.

“Why do you say that?”

“When I was done confessing, the abbot asked a lot of questions about you. He even made me swear I would tell him when I saw you come back.”

That upset Marcos even more. The situation was getting very dangerous, and now it was affecting him as well. He was well acquainted with how the town's trials worked when they supposedly meted out justice. He'd had to settle numerous complaints there and could verify that they were far from aboveboard. He had seen evidence manufactured and witnesses paid off when the trial seemed to go against the interests of the presiding judge.

And if that wasn't worrying enough, it was even worse to have the abbot in the middle of it. Marcos knew that cleric had been after Diego for some time because of his relationship with the Jewish magician, whom he called a wizard, a demon, a deicide, and a long list of other lovely names. He had even spoken to Marcos before, knowing of his friendship with Diego, pressing him to influence Diego to bring that mad influence to an end. He still remembered the fury on the abbot's face, his viciousness, when he talked of how dark and malignant the magician was; a stealer of souls, he called him.

Marcos thought of visiting Friar Gabriel, the abbot's second in command and a person he trusted completely, because he had done business with him for some time, taking care of the purchases of wool and lamb for the church.

Two hours later, returned from speaking with his contact, Marcos felt hemmed in. Friar Gabriel had confirmed the gravity of the charges against Diego as well as the abbot's desire to accuse Marcos of the same. His protests were meaningless, since, according to the authorities, his close relationship with the accused was sufficient to consider him guilty. Nor would it work in his favor that the local lord considered him a lowlife, or that there remained several loose ends in his business dealings with the abbot.

Marcos came to the conclusion that Diego's situation was unfixable and that his own influence would be counterproductive. But what about him? If they arrested him, his luck would be no better, he was sure of it. He had too many enemies, and some would undoubtedly be part of that jury. The risk that he would be found guilty was as real as it was dire. He couldn't, wouldn't, let them capture him.

He thought of a solution, painful, ignoble, horrible, but maybe the only one possible. He looked for Veturia in the kitchen and sounded her out.

“You're not going to tell anyone I've come back. Do you understand?”

The woman imagined he meant the abbot.

“If you command it …”

He took out a bag of gold coins from his sash and gave it to her.

“This is for you, in recompense for your silence. With this, you'll be able to have a better life.”

She opened it, and when she saw its contents, she paid close attention.

“I'm leaving Cuéllar right now; I'm going to Burgos. If they ask you, tell them I had to leave urgently, but don't tell them where. I know I can do nothing for Diego, and if I stay, I'll end up rotting in prison beside him.”

An hour later, Marcos was galloping through a vast pine grove half a league from Cuéllar. When he looked at the tower of the fortress, he imagined Diego inside, and he felt like a dirty traitor.

Such a great pain in his stomach came upon him that he bent over in the saddle and turned to the side to try and relieve it. He also felt his throat burning. His head was about to explode. He felt ashamed, despicable, unworthy of Diego's friendship. In his grief, he could barely swallow. But he kept on. His only consolation was that he could do nothing for him, but save himself.

A cool breeze soothed his pain. Between tears, he tugged at the reins and pressed his knees into his horse's side, forcing it to head north. Before he got lost in the infinitude of trees, he wished Diego luck.

He even prayed for God to send it to him.

“Did I not tell you that I am also a Calatravan, a knight of Salvatierra as we have been called since the fall of Alarcos and almost all our castles with it?”

Bruno de Oñate didn't dare to try the crust of black bread that was the only food they had given him once he'd heard what Diego said.

“No, you didn't say that.” Diego looked shrunken. He had just returned from the tribunal and he was utterly desolate.

“What are they accusing you of, then?”

“They say I'm responsible for the death of all these people and more than two thousand sheep. They say they have proof I poisoned them. It's incredible …”

“And how will you defend yourself?”

“Tomorrow the trial will continue and if I don't prove the contrary, they'll declare me guilty. It's a complete farce. They're accusing me without any evidence and they won't listen to me. I think they see this accusation as a way to calm the ire of the people, because the administrators have done nothing. I don't know how this will end. …”

“Dirty bastards!” Bruno kicked the floor resoundingly. “If only I could help.”

“I wish it were possible, but you see how it is.”

“But how stupid of them. You're the only person who knows how to solve this grave problem that is devastating you all. Have you told them?”

“Yes, but they don't believe me. I've told them what to do. I even gave them as evidence the fact that horses don't get the disease because they only eat oats. Believe me, I begged them. I shouted for them to burn all the rye, but nothing.”

“What evidence do they have against you?”

“The testimony of my servant, Veturia. She heard me say I knew how to make the illness when I was poisoning myself. She must have misunderstood my words, and now I think they're forcing her to come and testify. I saw how the abbot looks at her when she is looking for words or changing the meaning of what she heard. I don't know what strange motives could be behind that priest …”

“And you don't have anyone who can testify in your favor?”

“A good friend would do it, but they already suspect her of being my lover and she's married. I could also call the Jewish magician, but I think he's on trial as well, or Marcos, my best friend. He could be my only chance. He knows me better than anyone and he can explain how I've always been, my morals.”

“If it was in my hands, I would do it.”

“Thank you, Bruno. But what could you do?”

“This morning, I've learned they will set me free in two days. I will try to help you from outside. Three friends I traveled with are waiting for me; we are going south, to Salvatierra.”

“The south …” Diego sighed. “How I would love to go with you.”

Diego explained to him why he said that.

Bruno de Oñate learned what had happened to Diego thirteen years before, when he was a boy. He heard the tale of the murder of his older sister, the kidnapping of the others, and the death of his father, aided by the Calatravan knights. He spoke to him of Sabba, that beautiful mare that he would never separate from, the only memory he had of his family. And then about Toledo, where he had learned Arabic and the albéitar's trade. Diego praised the figure of his master, Galib, without saying why he'd left him. Then he talked about Fitero, the books, and the appearance of his archenemy, Pedro de Mora, after an exciting but dangerous joust in Olite. He told him why he'd met him and why he hated him so deeply.

And last of all, what had happened in Albarracín, the loss of his only love, Mencía. Being abandoned, being wounded by her pregnancy. The overwhelming necessity to leave there, to leave everything behind. And he finished by telling him about those last few years in Cuéllar, the story of Sancha, of the girls.

In fact, he went over his entire life, summing it up in a number of stories.

“I wish you had killed that traitor, Pedro de Mora. … For some time now, I've dreamed of avenging his treachery. He's become a terrible nightmare for Castile and for all of us.”

“He was the one who took my sisters to Marrakesh.”

“They've been looking for him for years. King Alfonso VIII will pay a hundred thousand
maravedíes
to whoever brings him in alive, just to see his disgusting treachery repaid.”

That evening, the other Calatravan knights returned to visit Bruno. Diego couldn't hear what they said, but he thought it had to do with him.

XI.

“T
he accused insists he is innocent. …” The prosecutor looked at Diego, keeping a long and deliberate silence.

He was an expert orator and knew how to twist situations to his favor better than anyone.

“We've heard him say,” he continued, “that the only thing responsible for our misfortune is a tiny mushroom, and that we should be judging that today and not him.” Laughter circulated through the room.

The man walked from one side of the room to the other, pulling on a long curl of his beard. The silence was such that nothing could be heard but the shuffling of his feet across the floor.

“I forgive you for smiling,” he continued, “for I understand that his argument can only appear comical.” The public murmured in agreement. “But let us return to what is important. For these past few days, more than a hundred of God's souls have been sacrificed.”

He stood behind Diego and pointed his finger at him.

“You just heard him. During his testimony, he has tried to convince us of his noble undertaking, but who believes him? When he explained to us how he infected himself to prove the existence of this mysterious mushroom, he nearly made us weep with laughter.” Sarcastically, he took a pocket cloth out and pretended to dry his tears. “But let us not forget one thing. What is certain is we have a heartless assassin before us. …” He grabbed Diego's tunic and twisted it, spitting these last words in his face. “A man known only for strange behaviors ever since he set foot in this lands, yes, very strange behaviors indeed.”

The public was anxious to hear him. He punished them with a long silence.

“Are you asking yourselves what I am referring to?”

“Using witchcraft to cure animals!” a man from the public shouted. The rest turned to see who it was.

“If anyone interrupts again, I will have you all put out,” the lord of the town interrupted. “Go on, prosecutor.”

“That man was not wrong.” The person he referred to smiled, proud. “For the accused has been seen to engage in bizarre practices that he surely learned at the feet of his master, the Jew Efraím. He picks up dead animals and takes out their livers and even burns them, inhaling their fetid vapors. He has also practiced divination, using snakes and strange potions, as his own servant has told us. And besides, we have all heard how he performed strange acts with bread before making a potion which he then drank. …” He took another pause. “Is this the normal conduct of an albéitar?”

The masses followed his words with bated breath.

“I doubt whether we are judging an ordinary murderer or if he is not, in reality, a magician of the black arts, sowing terror in our villages, making our women miscarry and decimating our flocks—”

“You are twisting around everything!” Diego suddenly shouted. “Your words bespeak bad faith, and there is no proof that I committed this evil. You should listen to me and destroy the rye in the storehouses. That is the lone cause.” He looked around the room, searching for Marcos.

The lord of the town, who was presiding judge of the tribunal, admonished him, and ordered him to be beaten.

One of the bailiffs fulfilled his command so zealously that he split Diego's lip. When he saw the blood, he begged the pardon of the court for not removing his iron glove.

“You say that I lie …” the prosecutor continued. “I see …”

Another member of the tribunal passed him a paper and he read its contents aloud.

“They have just informed me that the lone witness the accused presents, Marcos de Burgos, not only has failed to show up to this tribunal but has also been seen fleeing Cuéllar.”

When he heard that, Diego felt despair for the first time. He couldn't believe Marcos would betray him; it couldn't be true. He was defeated, desolate. If that was the case, then no one would defend him, and he was surely doomed.

The prosecutor continued talking.

“Therefore, there is nothing left but to ask for a sentence from the court.”

The crowd began to shout.

“Hang him! He killed my wife,” a toothless man yelled, flames dancing in his eyes.

“Let him pay with his life!” an old woman shrieked from the corner.

“Death to the defendant!” the rest of the people screamed.

“You see…”—the prosecutor turned now to Diego—“it seems no one believes your mushroom story. …”

“Silence! Let the prosecutor speak.”

“Thank you, my lord. I shall. And I shall because all this would be funny did the souls of more than a hundred of our neighbors, all friends of ours, not weigh upon this room. I confess that I feel them calling for justice in my heart, for vengeance, they are begging us to make amends for their terrible deaths, indeed, they are shouting at us from their tombs. I hear them, we all hear them. …” He circled Diego. “The evidence, the witnesses, what we have heard up to now, all of it incriminates this man, Diego de Malagón, as the culprit of these terrible deaths.” He pointed a finger at him and raised his voice for the finale, full of gravity. “He poisoned them! He … along with that despicable Jew, Efraím the magician.”

The spectators began to murmur Efraím's name. His luck was going the same way as Diego's after he had been dragged before another tribunal.

The prosecutor continued.

“Not a single testimony we have heard has defended his arguments, not one has favored him. Are there any doubts left then?”

The lord of the town stopped him short. He wanted the trial to be brought to an end and a punishment to be decided on. It was best that way. The people needed their leaders to protect them from evildoers, and he needed someone to put all the blame on. He wasn't sure that Diego de Malagón was that person, but he would do it to give the people what they wanted.

“If you believe that the role of the accused has been proven in this case, and I have to confess that the tribunal shares this opinion, what punishment do you demand for him?”

“I ask the tribunal for the penalty of death!”

When they heard it, the public broke out in cheers and applause.

Diego felt knocked down and utterly defeated. He knew everything was lost. He looked at the five judges, seated behind a table, while they all consulted with one another. He saw them ready to impose an exemplary punishment on him. He felt a dreadful nervousness, an atrocious fear.

The notary was called over by the lord of the town. He heard the final sentence from his lips, and then approached Diego, ordering him to rise.

“Diego de Malagón!”

“Yes, sir …”

“This court, after hearing the testimony of the witnesses and studying each piece of evidence, accuses you of responsibility for the death of more than a hundred citizens of this community as well as an infinitude of animals. And for that, it sentences you to death by hanging.”

The room exploded in applause once more. Diego turned to those seated, not knowing where their hatred could have come from.

“Moreover,” the notary continued, “you must know that it is our will that the punishment be enacted tomorrow morning, before midday.” He looked into his eyes before finishing: “May God forgive you.”

Diego collapsed into his seat, nauseated and depressed. Two bailiffs had to drag him off, because he was incapable of standing, and thus he was taken off to the dungeons. In his cell, they pushed him so rudely that he fell onto the floor. There he could hear the laughter and insults of the two men.

“Sweet dreams, murderer. Tomorrow you'll go to bed in hell.”

Bruno de Oñate ran to his aid, imagining the very worst. Diego's breathing was frantic; he was sweating, and he looked like a corpse. He needed time to be able to speak.

“I … I …” He sighed, destroyed. “They're going to … hang me … it'll be tomorrow …”

“I'm truly sorry.”

“It's fine, what can I do? This is the end.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

“Leave me. … I need to think.”

“No, speak to me, believe me, tell me everything you're thinking. … I will help you.”

Diego felt all the muscles in his body cramp. He stretched out to relax and breathed slowly until he felt a bit calmer.

“Bruno,” Diego said bitterly, “I'm only twenty-seven and my whole life is ahead of me. It has taken so much effort to get here, so much work, so many dreams. I left so much of myself behind on the way, and I had to abandon people I loved with all my heart, and I did it to be able to keep my promises. That's why I still don't want to die. … I still have work to do.”

Bruno was thinking of nothing but how to help him. The situation was so critical that any possibility that occurred to him would have to be considered. And one thing did.

Diego went on opening his heart to him.

“But, all in all, what hurts the most is knowing that if I die, everything I've done has been for nothing, that I'll have hardly given back anything for all that's been put in my hands, all my understanding.”

Bruno answered him immediately with a deep voice, full of consideration.

“Death is a liberation. Be hopeful; maybe it's nothing but a path to a greater destiny.”

“Is that how you're trying to console me?”

“Yes, I think that's how I have to do it. Don't think more, Diego; trust in my words, and from now on, let things happen. Years ago, a man I considered my greatest master told me something that has been useful to me many times. He said that nothing is what it seems, that behind everything that happens there is always a meaning, though sometimes it's hidden. Maybe the same is happening with your death,” he concluded.

Diego's expression could not have been more incredulous.

“I never imagined you'd be so harsh …”

Bruno put his hand on his shoulder.

“Don't think I don't have feelings. Just listen to what I have to say. Maybe that harshness will become something peaceful.”

Diego heard him and prayed to God with all his might that the man was right, and that all wasn't what it seemed.