The Horse Healer (59 page)

In this way, if the Christians managed to break through the first wooden obstacle, they would then meet another one made of men, more vicious, and ready to die in their caliph's defense.

Sabba went up the hill, panting, trying to reach the top at the same time as the Christian monarchs and bleeding from a lance wound she's received in the thigh. Diego hadn't seen it and was spurring her on, driving his heels into her ribs to make her run faster.

The mare looked at her wound and saw that apart from the pain, it was bleeding severely. When she saw her master Diego, she clenched her jaws and pulled the last bit of strength from her heart to take him to where he'd asked.

The first monarch to arrive at the palisade was the king of Navarre. He saw the impossibility of leaping over the barrier and had his horse turn around, having it kick against the wood with its hind legs. After just three attempts, he managed to break the chains and knock down several posts. Inside, a human mass of raging Africans awaited them, swords in hands.

Apart from the king, three hundred knights burst in as well. There, a ferocious hand-to-hand skirmish broke out. Because the archers didn't have the necessary distance to fire accurately, they now had to face the Christians' swords. The Almohad troops, without the support of the Turks, began to fall at the hands of the crusaders' excellent weaponry.

A group of Calatravans also plunged into the interior of the palisade just before Diego. Many dismounted to engage with the black-skinned troops who were immobilized over the terrain.

Diego managed to glimpse al-Nasir seated on his shield, holding to his breast the Koran that Diego had hoped to get hold of in Seville. In anguish, Diego thought of the fate of his sister, whom he had previously seen peek from the caliph's tent. If the Christians mistook her for a Moor, they could kill her.

The only way to protect her, he thought, was to punch through those bloodthirsty guards and make it to the tent first. Without dismounting, he pressed his knees into Sabba and took his sword in one hand and his lance in the other. He shouted with immeasurable fury and charged at the men, striking them with his weapons until he knew they were dead. He pushed on as he could while Sabba bore the fury of their weapons. Some sliced her skin, others wounded her forelegs, and one stabbed her viciously in the top of a hoof. The same happened to the horses of the other crusaders who tried to reach the caliph from different angles.

At a certain moment, when the king of Navarre found himself close to al-Nasir, an Arab soldier approached his leader on a young mare and seemed to lift him on it in an instant, leaving his sacred book on the ground. That providential soldier prodded his animal to flee to the rearguard inside the palisade. Many others followed suit.

Diego saw a number of crusaders make it to the center of the caliph's encampment and head toward the tent. The infernal racket around them prevented them from hearing him when he shouted not to touch the women.

He saw that only four more soldiers stood between him and the center, and he pushed ahead, stabbing at them with his weapons without compassion. When there was just one left, he didn't see that the man wasn't buried to his thighs like the others, but rather kneeling.

Once he reached him, the Imesebelen leapt upward and faced Diego. Trying to avoid him, Sabba bucked quickly to one side. Diego fell to the ground. The guard aimed a long dagger at his heart and ran at him so he wouldn't have time to react. From inside al-Nasir's tent, Estela saw Tijmud and her brother and tried to stop them, but neither could hear.

The African's weapon was aimed to kill and he moved as fast as lightning. Diego saw it and knew instantly there was no time to react. But then, he saw Sabba's body suddenly come between him and the warrior, absorbing the mortal strike. The man's strength was such that the steel plunged straight into her heart. The loyal animal fell between them, looking at her master, her friend, and her only regret was that she couldn't protect him until the end of his days.

The Imesebelen was stunned at what had happened. Diego took advantage of that moment to pounce on him and slice his neck from one side to the other in a single agile movement.

“Nooo …” A sharp, painful cry called his attention. It was Estela, running to them with a completely broken expression.

“Tijmud!” To Diego's astonishment, she embraced that man, who had begun to drown in his own blood. “He wasn't like the others.”

Diego, without understanding, immediately approached Sabba. He looked at the wound in her side and understood, racked with dread, that it was fatal. His eyes filled immediately with tears.

She made a last effort to whinny; her face was happy. Diego spoke slowly to her, knowing this was a special moment, and he spoke to her with respect. He promised to remember her forever and caressed her as she'd always liked.

Leaning on her neck, he kissed her, and his kisses were laced with his own tears. The mare coughed blood and Diego understood that soon, it would be their last good-bye.

“Nothing has made these last years of my life happier. … You have been my tie to the past, the memory of my home, the greatest gift of my father.” The mare closed her eyes and sighed, with little strength left. Her expression was peaceful, and Diego understood. Sabba was happy because she had given herself completely to her master one more time, the last one.

The animal turned her head a bit to bring her nostrils to Diego's face and smell his breath so she wouldn't forget it on that long journey she was about to begin.

“We will ride together again, Sabba, I promise you. We will ride on the blue sands of heaven, leaping over the white clouds as if they were dunes, and we will feel the south wind at our backs, forever. …”

And Sabba died.

XI.

T
he wounded returned to the encampment by the hundreds.

Mencía, together with twenty other women, took them in, though often they had no idea how to treat their wounds.

One of them, very young, she recognized as soon as she'd begun to treat him. It was that boy she had met the night before hidden in his tent. He had a deep wound in his belly, and parts of his entrails were sticking out. Mencía knew he would die.

The boy recognized her and raised a trembling hand.

“You are my angel …” He coughed a mouthful of blood.

“You fought like a man.”

“Will I die?” His eyes begged her for sincerity.

She paused, not knowing what words to choose.

“Your silence answers my question.” A powerful jab of pain made the boy bend over the blanket that separated him from the ground.

Mencía cleaned his face with a cloth and stroked his cheek while the boy felt his soul drain from his body. His gaze clouded over, but then it glimmered again.

“I beg you, don't leave me alone.”

“I will not.” She kissed his forehead and prayed for him.

The boy felt like he was drowning, and in that last moment, he looked into Mencía's eyes. In their blue, he thought he saw the gates of heaven, and he died with a smile.

Mencía let him go and covered him with a blanket.

She looked around, frightened by so much pain. The worst face of war surrounded her, the senselessness of so much hate.

And then suddenly she heard something like a song sounding in the distance. At first nobody understood the words the soldiers were chanting, but then someone shouted “Victory!” with all his might, and the echo of that joy reverberated through the hospital tent. Some women ran out to see what was happening and immediately returned, overjoyed.

“They're singing the ‘Te Deum,'” one shouted. “We've won the war.”

Full of excitement, they listened in complete silence to the throats of thousands of men in the distance intoning that solemn chant of thanksgiving in a single chorus. Their voices rose to heaven from a tract of earth soaked with blood. Across the plains lay thousands of corpses, and with them all their hopes and dreams, now dead.

Mencía went out as well, overwhelmed. Her gaze ran over the battlefield first and then the neighboring mountains. Even they seemed to echo the collective joy and relief.

From the Christian encampment she saw a number of women running to a place where their husbands stood, still living, or else lay on the ground, already the heroes of legends. With the same impulse and intentions, Mencía followed.

She had to dodge men and horses, the wounded and the dead, until she reached the hill where she saw a large group of combatants reunited.

“Diego!” she began to shout, losing her breath as she mounted the slope. “Diego!”

Some soldiers turned when she approached them. In their faces was a mix of pain and joy, of deep grief blended with the sweet taste of glory. Many looked among the dead, trying to find some friend or companion, but no one could tell her how to find the person she was seeking.

“Dear God, please lead me to him. …”

Mencía rolled up her skirts and continued climbing until she reached what looked like a half-destroyed palisade. There, terrible human bloodshed had taken place. Mountains of corpses with no one to grieve for them. Alone.

“Diego!” she shouted again, horrified by all that she saw.

Suddenly she could make out a man crouching over a horse beside a woman who appeared to be Arab. Both turned to her. Mencía looked at him, and he at her. Diego stood up with an astonished expression and walked toward her, slow at first, then running to fall into her open arms.

“Mencía …” He embraced her fiercely, grasping her body without understanding why she was there. They spun over the earth, feeling immensely happy, though all around them, there was nothing but death and disaster. They couldn't help it.

Diego looked again, unable to believe it was her, his beloved Mencía.

“I only came here to find you, my love. …” She kissed his cheeks, his forehead, then his lips, passionately, infinitely, sunken in a sea of tears and feelings.

“Do you still love me?” Mencía sought his eyes.

“I never stopped. But … your husband?” He pushed her away, though that was the last thing he wanted, and listened with great relief to her tell him she was now a widow. Then he kissed her lips ardently, unrushed, savoring them forever.

Estela watched them, moved, though she still felt sad for Tijmud. Without knowing what brought them together, Estela embraced Mencía when Diego introduced them. And she saw Mencía's brilliant smile and her warm gaze. In her face she saw the traces of other sufferings, maybe similar to the ones she herself had undergone. Her brother was with her, at last, and no one and nothing could tear them apart. She embraced him again and cried out all her pain, feeling the warm throb of the blood that had united them forever, despite the long separation. And Mencía held them as well, now a member of that small family that had been so much larger long ago.

Diego felt his father's soul close to them, and the souls of Belinda and Blanca, of his beloved mother and also of Sabba. They were present there too, happy to the end, bound together by destiny, forever.

And beneath his feet, Diego felt the damp soil. When he looked, he saw it was blood, all that the mountain had been unable to absorb. And then he remembered those ominous words of the Jewish sorcerer:

“… And the mountain shall sweat blood, glory, and love.”

Hours later, Diego was called to a meeting in the tent behind the Almohads' palisade. He found it strange that the request should be so urgent.

In the company of Mencía and Estela, he walked to the outside of the tent that had belonged to the caliph and saw the three royal ensigns.

“Congratulations, Diego. …” The Aragonese García Romeu shook his hand and pulled him aside to make room for the Navarrese, Gómez Garceiz. His friend Álvaro Núñez de Lara also embraced him, then pushed him inside the tent. Without understanding anything, he went in and was instantly paralyzed.

Inside he was awaited by King Alfonso VIII of Castile, King Sancho VII of Navarre, and King Pedro II of Aragon. Diego knelt before them and looked to both sides to see who else was there.

“What is it that brings us here?” he whispered to Don Álvaro, who remained at his side.

“A small matter …”

“And what is it?”

“Diego de Malagón!” King Alfonso of Castile shouted.

Diego stood at attention.

“Despite your humble origins, throughout this glorious campaign you have accumulated more than sufficient merits to deserve the high honor of being named a knight. What do you respond? Will you accept the honorable but heavy responsibility that this title brings with it?”

“I … A knight?” Diego looked at Mencía and then at Estela. Though all seemed elated, he couldn't believe it. “Your words, Your Majesty, fill me with honor, but I don't know. … The truth is that what I love above all is my profession, and now that the war is over, I would like to practice it forever. To be a knight brings other obligations and I wouldn't want—”

“Wait, do not say more. We are still not finished,” King Pedro II of Aragon now spoke. “We understand that your case is not like others, and for that reason, we have decided to name a new title for your profession. Therefore, from today forward, you will be known all over as Knight Albéitar to the Three Kingdoms.”

Diego was overwhelmed upon hearing that and immediately accepted the honor.

“Dress him now with the tunic!” the gigantic Navarrese bellowed. Gómez Garceiz helped Diego don a white garment open at both sides. “This cloth represents the purity of soul your calling demands,” he explained.

García Romeu laid a red cape over his shoulders.

“The color red symbolizes that blood you will be pledged to spill henceforward for God and your king.”

And his friend Don Álvaro Núñez de Lara brought over a pair of brown shoes and told him to put them on.

“With these you shall touch the earth, to which all of us will return. They represent your willingness to die.”

Finally they put a belt around him and handed him a sword.

At that moment, the three monarchs unsheathed their weapons and dubbed him on the shoulder.

“I, Alfonso VIII, king of Castile, Toledo, and Trasierra, dub you, Diego de Malagón, a knight albéitar of Castile.”

“And I, Sancho VII, second him, as king of Navarre.”

“And I, Pedro II, do the same in my capacity as king of Aragon.”

Mencía and Estela hugged each other, proud of what was taking place.

With his head still bowed and bursting with emotion, Diego remembered his father lying on the verge of death on his bedstead.

He was transplanted to the inn, years before.

For a few moments, those words of congratulations and the wishes for good fortune that everyone offered were far away from him, and he only heard again the voice of his father when years back, he had made him swear he would seek out a better destiny:

“Dream high and fly like the eagles. That's what you should do, to reach life's highest peaks. Look for wise people, learn from them. Cleave to your ambitions, so long as you hurt no one. Always do your work well, never give anyone reason to rebuke you. And whatever the contest, play to win. Don't let anybody make you their vassal, and even if you were born into a humble home, don't think you're any less dignified for it. If you fight with valor, you will achieve whatever you go after. And last of all, take care of your sisters, protect them, your blood runs in their veins. … My son, never forget you had a father who loved you more than anything in the world, and who will one day look down on you from heaven full of pride.”

In front of everyone, Diego stood up, raised his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed:

“Father, it is all for you. … I owed it to you!”