The Horse Healer (57 page)

Alfonso III's second in command, Don Diego López de Haro, had led a quick expedition in the company of his son, his nephew the prince of León, Sancho Fernández, and ten other men to the high point of Muradal Pass. There they had faced the first bands of Saracens and recognized the enormous difficulty they would run into when it was time to begin their descent. To reach the flatlands to the south, they'd had to pass through a narrow defile, one man at a time, without any protection. All the while, a multitude of archers spread out at different heights along the walls rained arrows on them; they could annihilate half an army and barely budge from their locations.

When they'd returned, they met in the tent where the three kings and their ranking men had spoken before. Archbishop Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada was also there, and the archbishop of Narbonne, as well as three commanders of the military orders.

“Your Majesty, we can try Muradal Pass, but I warn you the descent could be hell on earth. The first part won't be too problematic, until we arrive at a fortified tower halfway through. There we can arrange our positions. But somewhat farther down, the road narrows, and there's a gorge where only one horse at a time can pass through. And there, they can massacre us. I assure you that place could provoke a terrible bloodbath if they come after us with arrows. We were able to see a good number of archers hiding out there.”

“Al-Nasir doesn't want to cross the mountains. That way he risks little, keeps his rearguard well covered, and his territories intact,” the archbishop of Narbonne commented.

King Pedro II proposed crossing over through another route.

“Let's try first to send a hundred men through the Muradal and see what happens, and we'll decide after.” Sancho VII of Navarre thought they should try it, since no one could think of a better place.

The king of Castile had just found out that his cousin Alfonso IX of León had taken advantage of his absence to attack a number of Castile's positions.

“I don't see a clear solution …” Alfonso VIII intervened. “As my second in command says, in La Losa we'll be fodder to their arrows. I propose we wait here and provoke them into coming after us. Or maybe we can delay the action and prepare ourselves better, or look for another place. … In the meantime, I would like to punish my ungrateful cousin.”

“I understand your anger,” Pedro of Aragon replied, “and I share your desire, and it is true that he deserves a vigorous response to his villainy, but we should concentrate our anger on the caliph. He's fewer than two leagues away, and we have never gathered an army such as this. Maybe we never will again.”

The archbishop said the Aragonese was right and gave his support to a solution in between: some would look for another pass while another detachment would try to get through La Losa. They all agreed with the tactic and immediately set to work.

But half a day later something unexpected occurred. The troops that had gone to see the viability of the pass returned decimated and with their morale wrecked. And those who had explored the terrain looking for another route returned crestfallen as well, completely unsuccessful.

But then there appeared an old pastor from the area who wished to speak with the king. He assured them he knew of another way, a safer one that he would only show them if the king himself asked for it.

The man, very humble in his manners and sparing in his words, explained drily where another route could be found. It was to the west, he said, three leagues away, and he swore there was no one watching over it, as he had been there with his goats that very morning.

“Will you show it to my second in command, Don Diego López de Haro?” the king asked.

“I will do it with pleasure, sire, if you ask it.”

“Then make it so!”

IX.

T
hey embraced until it hurt.

Estela cried onto his breast, mad with emotion, and Diego did the same, though he was laid low by the news of Blanca's death years ago.

Najla watched them with envy.

“My dear Diego …” Estela caressed his face, trying to memorize it with her fingers, as if that way, she could read his memories.

“How many years since I've seen you, how many things I have to tell you …”

“You don't have much time,” Najla warned them, for though she had paid the soldiers generously, she knew that she and Estela couldn't be there much longer. “Today the guard changes before midnight.”

“Thank you, señora, for your …” Diego couldn't finish the phrase because the woman had already walked out of the tent.

“During all those years, I never forgot you.” Estela grabbed Diego's hands and invited him to sit on some wooden boxes. His face changed when she told him all she'd been obliged to do since her capture. “I've achieved a good position at the court for the sole reason that I'm the caliph's favorite concubine. You can't imagine how many times I wanted to die …” Diego kissed her forehead, understanding her pain. “They have abused my body however they've seen fit, and not only the caliph and his father before him, but also that Castilian who was in charge of our capture, Pedro de Mora; how I hate him in the deepest part of my soul.”

Diego clenched his fists with infinite rage when he imagined the torment she'd suffered through.

“I almost killed him …”

“I found out from someone else. That was the only time I heard anything about you. And I remember how relieved I felt.”

Diego caught one tear on his finger and told her of his life during those seventeen long years.

“You're out of time.” Najla peeked through the tent after a moment, giving them their last warning.

“I heard them say Pedro de Mora is coming tomorrow,” Diego told her before they separated. “And al-Nasir will send him to speak with us. Estela, you have to understand, that man cannot see me. If he does, he will kill me straightaway. I need to see him in private, and with a weapon.”

“I though perhaps you could use these …” She raised her skirt and he saw the two sharp daggers hidden inside.

“Perfect, Estela! Now listen close, because what I have to say is very important. Could you convince Najla to get me out of this tent, with any kind of excuse, before Pedro de Mora comes to visit it?”

“I will try …”

“I know you will. … Ah, wait,” he said, grabbing her elbow. “I will also need a preparation of herbs, they're not hard to find, as you'll see.” He passed her a scrap of cloth where he had written down the ingredients. “And I need to talk to some of the leaders of the troops from Andalusia. Can you manage all that?”

Estela promised to do everything she could before she left.

“When will you get me out of here?” For the first time she felt confidence in her fate. “Why not tonight, Diego?”

“We will do it, don't worry, but first I have to complete a mission I agreed to carry out. Then we'll leave this hell, I promise you, Estela. Trust me.”

“I never stopped. … Never.”

No one saw the pastor again, but he was right: There was a lone path to the west that ended in a broad plateau facing the enemy positions and was perfect for setting up camp. Some thought the man had been sent by God and others even affirmed it was Saint Isidore himself. For Diego López de Haro and García Romeu, his help was providential. They thanked him for his enormous favor before returning to the Christian positions euphorically, and at the best possible moment, given the sorry state of the soldiers who had returned and the calls from some to abandon the entire enterprise.

When they decided to try that new pass, the Christians' front lines had to pull back from positions they had taken before. The Saracens interpreted this as fleeing. But only a few hours later they saw the other crusaders coming down from a route they knew nothing of. There were thousands of them and they came so quickly that the Saracens couldn't react in time. Even so, al-Nasir's army launched a severe attack with its best archers and a detachment of Arabs. Still, the Christians managed to repel them without great difficulties and improve their position.

The Almohads burned the grass and bushes they found in their path, trying to confuse their enemies with the smoke and keep them from taking the plateau, but a fortunate change of wind sent the smoke cloud over the Saracen camp.

Once the place was in their hands, the Christians decided to rest two days there to recuperate. The men and the animals were both hungry and exhausted by the arduousness of the expedition and the effects of the intense heat.

It was Saturday, the fourteenth of July, when the three kings crossed the sierra and descended to what would be their final encampment, on a broad plain between two riverbeds. The place could not have been better, thanks to the abundance of water for the horses and the men.

Just outside their tents, the three kings observed the Muslim encampment atop a hill in front of them, with another plain at its base. They were separated by a long esplanade bordered by the two rivers. That would be the battlefield, the
Navas
, as those flatlands were called, that would attest to the definitive showdown between Christian and Muslim. History would bear witness to this grand encounter between the troops of Alfonso VIII of Castile and those of al-Nasir, but for now, the protagonists were content with studying which would be the best strategy.

For the following hours, they met to discuss the mobilization, the location of the different troops, and who would form the front line and the rearguard.

While they discussed tactics, inside the camp a tense silence reigned. Soldiers, squires, and knights—all were readying their weapons. Some polished their helmets and sharpened their swords and lances. Others covered their maces in nettle sap and marked their arrows with Christian crosses, hoping that the symbol of their faith would pierce the flesh of the infidels.

Mencía walked among the tents observing everything, trying to comprehend the sentiments of those men who seemed to have fallen mute, though they were sure of the cause they were fighting for.

She asked a horse groom if he knew where the chapel and the hospital had been set up, and he pointed to the middle of the encampment. According to his words, when she saw a long trail of soldiers waiting for confession or a group of women caring for the wounded, she would know, because they were located close together.

When she passed by an area of more modest tents, she heard someone grieving inside one of them. She wanted to know who the sounds were coming from, and looked inside, finding a boy of no more than sixteen huddled under a cloth.

“What's happened to you, boy?” Mencía lifted the cloth to see him better.

The boy, embarrassed, lifted his head and when he saw the woman, he hid again, letting out a loud hiccup.

“I'm scared, señora …”

“That's natural, but you must know you are part of a mission that will free your sons when you have them one day, and your friends and family as well.” Mencía pulled down a bit of her sleeve to help dry his tears.

“Where are you from?”

Mencía took pity on the boy, who could only be called a man because of his size.

“I belong to the militia of Medina and my parents couldn't pay the tax to keep me from going to war.”

Mencía tried to comfort him.

“I will pray for God to protect you from the enemy's swords.” She kissed his forehead. “But you have to promise me one thing.” The boy nodded. “You will not let fear make a coward of you. Do it for me!”

The boy saw her leave his side, believing he had spoken with an angel.

Mencía headed to the makeshift chapel, and close by, she saw women wrapping the handles of swords and lances so the men wouldn't blister their hands. Others reinforced the seams of the leather on the shields and waxed their surfaces to deflect the enemy's weapons. She also saw a woman hammering sharp iron spikes in the center of a shield, so that it would serve for more than mere defense.

Beside her she found a larger tent that a soldier had just set foot into. Inside she saw boys cleaning the wounds of a dozen soldiers with oil and cotton cloths. They were the first victims of the Saracen raids.

When they saw her, they asked for her help. Without hesitating, Mencía rushed to the aid of a middle-aged man who had an arrow stuck in his shoulder. His whines became wails as the doctor tried to extract the tip. She took his hand in hers and looked at him tenderly. That seemed to comfort him, because his protests ceased just before he lost consciousness.

When they were finished with that one, she helped another soldier, writhing in pain from colic, and then a group of women trying to repair a boy's dislocated shoulder.

She promised she would come back the next day when the first arrivals from the front showed up, and then she continued walking through the camp.

There was a general atmosphere of unease.

Mencía had her own pain inside, when she imagined the terrible dangers her beloved Diego would be facing at that moment.

She saw a long line of penitents and awaited her turn to confess just as they were. When she could, she opened her heart absolutely to that man of God, and he gave her absolution and with it, peace.

Before she entered her tent, she stopped five more times to console other terrified boys as well as some older men.

One of the things that most impressed her was seeing how many of the men embraced their wives, promised them eternal love, undoubtedly thinking that those might be their last caresses and kisses.

She wished she could be one of them.

She also witnessed how some soldiers called the scribes to write out their wills, many of them crying as they did so. And she could hear others swearing to take care of each other's family's if someone should fall.

Amid such emotion, Mencía entered her tent, and she burst into tears, unable to hold back another moment, grieving for the enormous built-up tension. Despite her mourning, she heard a strange clanging sound close by. Someone was repairing his suit of armor, that vest woven with rings of steel, useful to stop a sword but pointless against a lance or a crossbow.

“Diego, you can come out from under the tent,” Estela whispered. “The guard knows and he won't do anything.”

It was nighttime.

Estela was hidden beneath a dark dress and a matching niqab. She took his hand, and together they ran behind the tents, hiding as best they could. They came to one where she had hidden what he needed, and they entered carefully. Estela looked through a pile of straw and took out a long black cloth and other objects wrapped in fabric.

“It's the first time I've ever put a turban on someone …”

Diego lowered his head and Estela wrapped it, knotting the cloth firmly. After she opened a flask full of dark cream and spread it on his face to cover his skin. She did the same with his neck, arms, and hands, and then had him put on a blue tunic and boots.

“With this disguise, we shouldn't have too many problems moving freely through the camp. When we get out, I'll take you to one of the main leaders of the Andalusians, someone you can talk to without problems. But we have very little time. Therefore I have to ask you to be brief and get right to what interests you. Then we'll go toward the twelve tents that surround the caliph's. Pedro de Mora sleeps in one of them. I hear he's just arrived from Jaén.”

“I'm proud of you, Estela.”

“I owe everything to Najla. Without her, it would have been impossible.”

“Do you know why she's doing it? Isn't she al-Nasir's sister?”

“She is, and I imagine she's doing it out of spite. Without being a fanatic herself, she's had to witness terrible decisions made by her brother. Years back, al-Nasir ordered them to whip me for punishment for something I'd said. When I returned to the palace and she saw me wounded and half dead, Najla was incredibly angry with her brother. She insulted him and scratched him. … I still remember it. Sometimes Najla seems like those birds that live all their lives in a cage and lose their ability to sing along with their freedom. The love she professes for poetry is nothing more than the listlessness of a person who has lived without liberty and tries to find it in rhymes and feelings.”

“I see she's someone very special to you.”

“She is; without my asking she's bribed one of our best spies, a person she's dealt with frequently, to convince her brother your intentions are good, and it appears that it worked.”

“It couldn't be better!” Diego smiled, enchanted. “Now let's go find this man.”

The conversation with the Andalusian was brief; very quickly, they came to an agreement. As they had imagined, the feeling of ill will after the death of Ibn Qadis ran very deep. His compatriots wanted to make them pay, both the vizier and the arrogant Almohads, for the endless humiliations they had been subject to for years.

Both knew what could happen that night, but neither of them wanted to say it. Diego and Estela just wanted it to be over with and to repay the debt they owed their family. They wanted to avenge the blood of their people, spilled so many times by the Almohads.

As they climbed the southern slope of the hill where al-Nasir's red tent was located, they could see the fires of the Christian camp, less than a half league away. The coolness of the night brought aromas of burned firewood, but also of incense. Despite the distance, they could hear occasional notes of the Christians' religious chants.

In both camps, their respective gods were sleeping, but soon they would see how their sons would face off until the last drop of blood was spilled.

“It's that one in front of us, the one with the light inside.”

Estela squeezed him when she saw a patrol of soldiers close to the entrance.