The Horse Healer (24 page)

“This is my cousin Mencía, Mencía Díaz de Azagra.”

“It's a pleasure, Diego the albéitar.” She offered her fragile hand, and Diego kissed it holding his breath, taking in its sweet aroma.

“Well … really, I'm not one yet …”

He stopped, quiet, doubtful. She helped him with another conversation.

“Did my cousin show you the horses he'll be competing with tomorrow? What did you think?”

“I don't know.” Diego was incapable of articulating words. He began to feel like a fool.

“Come and sit down beside me.” Don Luis showed Diego to an empty place, unfortunately far from her. “I have to ask you about something.” Diego begged her pardon before he had to pull away.

“I'm sorry, but … I hope … we'll talk at another …” He couldn't even manage to finish a sentence.

“Of course, of course.” She smiled at him and when she did, two marvelous dimples appeared in her cheeks.

Diego sat down with the others but he couldn't manage to pay them attention. He decided that was the most beautiful and perfect woman he had seen in his life. And he felt something new, very intense and intimate, a turbulent and frightening sensation.

Could that be love?

IX.

T
hat night, Marcos didn't sleep in the tent. Diego confirmed it when he awoke, very nervous, the memories of the night before still fresh in his mind.

When dinner ended, there had been an exciting torchlight procession, as was the custom on the evenings preceding a joust. At least four hundred people accompanied the knights to the tents were the arms were safeguarded. They were escorted by an intoxicating smoke cloud of burned wood and oil.

That ceremony was the one the town was most desirous of, since there they could see up close the great ladies, their knights, the members of the high clergy, and their governors.

Diego stayed close to Mencía for the whole of the procession. He hadn't been able to speak to her, since her family and her servants followed her, but he could admire her, sense her, smell her, and listen to her.

“Albéitar Diego!” The voice of Gómez Garceiz pulled him from his thoughts and out of the tent.

“Could you look at my horse once more? If he looks good, I'll get him ready for the joust.”

“I'm coming right now.”

Diego came out of the tent and up to his host, but a stern voice stopped him from behind. They turned to see who it was and when he recognized the person, Gómez Garceiz smiled.

“Wait a moment, you're going to meet my opponent in the joust, García Romeu, the ensign of the king of Aragon.”

Diego looked at the man. He had his coat of arms sewn onto his breast, a black eagle over a white background, and from his belt there hung a redoubtable sword. He came up to them and once again saluted his colleague from Navarre, with whom he had shared a table and food the night before. Gómez Garceiz introduced Diego as an albéitar, and Diego praised the man's horse.

“You've got a good eye, young man; it's the most valiant specimen I have.” He took off his steel glove and shook his hand. “This is my farrier, Giulio Morigatti, he's from Naples. Since your work is related, maybe you'd like to share your experience with each other.”

Giulio came over with a forced smile.

The two ensigns began to speak away from them. With a strong Latin accent, Giulio spoke to Diego. His voice was melodious.

“It seems odd to me to meet an albéitar in Christian territories.”

Diego wrinkled his brow, imagining the intention behind these words.

“And it's strange for me to meet a farrier. I thought that job only existed during wartime.”

“I detect a certain disdain in your voice. I suppose it's due to your ignorance.” He shook his vest. “I practice a kind of medicine that's not for everyone. I'm sure you wouldn't even know where to begin.”

“What are you referring to?”

“How to treat, diligently and efficiently, horses that have suffered deep lance wounds, severed tendons, skulls struck with maces, or how to sew up open stomachs …” Diego waited for him to finish without speaking. “We farriers have the noble task of caring for the cavalry of armies, like the sacred and ancient calling of the veterinarius that had such prestige among the Roman legions.” Diego thought of Friar Servando and his mania for using that name. “To say it in fewer words, we are part of a militia and we have the responsibility of looking after one of the greatest weapons: the horse.”

“I don't see them as a weapon.”

“They are one. Tell me one of the great horses that are still remembered by history, and you will see how they have taken part in famous battles, at the hands of their owners, who of course were valiant warriors. Like Bucephalus, the horse of Alexander the Great. A specimen from Thessaly, pitch-black, impressive in beauty and strong in battle. And what about Hannibal? Or Strategos, another from Greek Thessaly, with which he crossed the Alps, and that he said was unquiet and aggressive, of enormous stature, and black as well. Or who can forget Aetha, the horse of King Agamemnon in the Battle of Troy, or Julius Caesar's famous Genitor …”

“For me, the horse is something more, poetry, loyalty,” Diego replied. “And since I see that you enjoy history …” Giulio stood erect, proud, with that bearing so common in military men. “I will give you the example of other horses, also famous, but not for their warlike character. Surely you've heard men talk of Pegasus, the winged horse of Zeus. A cross of breeds from Persia and Thessaly, white. Raised on the very slopes of Olympus, he was said to be was the fastest creature on the earth, because he ran like the wind.”

“He never existed. You're talking to me of a legend, a myth.”

“And Lazlos. Does that ring a bell?”

“I have never heard that name.”

“It was the first horse of the Prophet Muhammad.” Giulio's brow wrinkled on hearing that name. “A son of the desert that he journeyed with on his first travels to Mecca, Lazlos was loved and respected as the highest of all earthly beings. It was such a noble specimen that Muhammad affirmed not even the devil would dare to enter a tent inhabited by its race, the Arabian.”

The Neapolitan was so offended with the example, for him almost heretical, that his face was inflamed with rage.

“Filthy albéitars! Sons of Islam! I see what you're about, very clearly. Stay with your Moors and pray with them. And while you're at it, ask your Allah to inspire you with a bit of science and not just poetry, if he can.”

The voice of García Romeu put an end to their conversation, though the Italian gave Diego a serious warning before leaving.

“I hope I can take your measure one day. And when I do, you'll see how little education you've gotten along with that Moorish apostasy you've taken on.”

After inspecting Centurion and making sure of his capabilities, Diego returned to his tent. He set to organizing the material that had been left at his disposal when Marcos appeared with a weak smile. His eyes attested to a long sleepless night.

“You've been inspecting some hayloft …” Diego held in his laughter when he smelled the intense female perfume that assailed him on all sides.

“You know the best thing about Bernarda?”

“I suppose you're talking about that blonde …”

“She's single, she's sweet as honey itself, and she lives in the village of Corella, only three leagues away from the monastery!” Marcos's eyes shone with excitement, as he knew he could go back to the girl whenever he wanted.

They joked a while about his nocturnal adventure and Diego told him what he had found out about Mencía, sighing with pleasure each time he recounted one of her virtues.

They were only silenced by three loud trumpet blows, the signal that the jousts were commencing. Nervous, Diego gathered together all the tools he would need to attend.

In two small boxes, he counted assorted knives and scalpels of different sizes, some iron files, a bone saw, and a lancet with three spare blades. He saw a wooden clamp used to immobilize the horses. Diego hated that instrument, which twisted the animal's lip, causing intense pain. In another box, he found silk thread and needles for sutures. And last, he took a small hammer and a very sharp adze.

When he was done getting ready, he left Marcos in the tent and went to find Gómez Garceiz. They told Diego the ensign could be found with the horses. When he entered into the makeshift stables, he saw him at Centurion's side. He was speaking softly into its ear, and the animal breathed softly with pure pleasure.

“I heard yesterday that from the six groups of horses, you will be fighting last. Where should I be if you need me?” Diego asked, simply to make himself noticed.

“You'll be standing on the track. You'll see two small blue tents set up for emergency services. You'll be there with the farriers and squires.” He took a cuirass in his hands and began to put it on. “Help me tie this, please.”

Diego was amazed at its thickness. Under it, the man had on a cotton tunic with the colors of his coat of arms, and on the helmet, two ferocious boars showing their long fangs. Diego left the ensign to finish getting ready and walked to the southern edge of the track. After he passed through the guards, he stood there, impressed by the fantastic spectacle taking place before his eyes.

An enthused public filled the stands completely. He calculated it must have been more than two thousand. In that moment, they were avidly applauding the abilities of three
saltimbanques
, cheering them on to do more risky somersaults and pirouettes. In the center there were stands ornamented with a colored cloth where the spurs of the combatants hung, left there as a proof of their valor until the duels were finished.

A sea of standards bearing the arms of the kingdom of Navarre and the town of Olite waved all around. Diego looked all over with an inexhaustible capacity for surprise.

On stepping onto the lists, the procession waved at the people and sat in their appointed spots. Still, the palfrey and the lady of honor gave one more turn before the applause and turned to the tribunal where they would preside over the joust. A trumpet blasted three times and everyone fell quiet. The king raised his voice.

“Let the jousts begin!”

A thundering shouting drowned out his words. The order allowed the participants to enter.

Each one of the twelve horsemen filed past on horseback, in the company of his pages and squires. All were adorned with the coat of arms of their masters.

Diego watched it all in excitement. He found Marcos among the public, seated beside his conquest, cackling. He also looked for Mencía, without luck. It was strange not to see her; her cousin didn't appear either.

When the opening protocol was finished, a long drum roll prepared for the first joust. The first combatants turned to the judges to get their approval.

“Albéitars …”

With that disrespectful tone, the greeting could come from none other.

“Farriers …” Diego replied with sufficient eloquence.

Three times the public shouted the name of the woman presiding over the joust, Doña Blanca, the princess of the kingdom of Navarre. Attending to their desires, the woman stood to wave from the tribunal, beautifully decorated with pink flowers and robes, to the judges' left. One of the judges came down to the sand to talk with the contestants. In accordance with the laws of chivalry, he made them show their arms to measure their correct length, apportioned the alternative posts, so that the sun would not unfairly disadvantage any one party, and made them swear to loyalty in combat.

When that was done, he returned to his stand and waited for them to get into position to finally give the signal to charge.

And charge they did.

Diego understood immediately the public's respectful silence. Nothing could be heard but the breathing of the horses, and then the thunderous clashing of their hooves on the soil, the clacking of the spurs, the blinding light of the armor. He saw them speed up and the lances descended until they were in line with the breast of each opponent. Breath held, maximum tension on the sand, not a single ovation for the warriors.

“The black one will win,” someone beside him said. Diego didn't turn. He didn't want to miss the encounter.

The lance of that knight stayed firm when he struck, a gnashing sound of broken wood erupted, and the other man fell. The horse, free, trotted off until it was caught by a group of pages.

Diego turned to his unknown neighbor and asked what had signaled the winner.

“He's my cousin.” A hood was pulled back and the blond mane and face of Mencía were revealed. He smiled, enchanted to see her.

“You disguise yourself as a page and you understand jousting. … You surprise me.”

“I enjoy risk. If I could participate in these games …” She smiled bewitchingly. Diego felt himself melt at her side. “And to answer your question, my cousin was holding his lance better. Man, weapon, and horse were a single thing. Faced with that much inertia, there is no one who can resist the attack.”

“And if they find you out?”

“Better if we don't press our luck and you be quiet. If we keep talking, they'll recognize me.” She covered herself again with the hood and observed the following jousters in silence. They weren't as quick as the ones before them, nor were their victories as clean. When one of the combatants didn't fall from his horse in a joust, the judges made their decision by counting the number of lances broken, and three was the minimum number to decide a victor. Mencía explained to him why the public never applauded until they knew the verdict. The rules of jousting mandated that whoever failed to respect the silence have their tongue cut out. The reason was none other than to preserve the honor of both knights until it was known which one had emerged victorious.

And the last duel came. The one that would pit Diego's mentor Gómez Garceiz, clad in red, against García Romeu in white. Two royal ensigns battling on the sand, as if their respective kingdoms were at stake. The black eagle of Romeu against the boars of Garceiz.

A complete silence accompanied their first two sallies. In each one, their lances broke into pieces without knocking anyone down. In the third, they were playing for all. The Aragonese had the advantage.

They began at a run. Maximum tension in the muscles of horse and rider. The wooden tips face-to-face, until they met in a brutal shock. The sound of the blow sliced the air and García Romeu and his animal fell in a mound over the sand. The lance of the Navarrese had knocked against his armor, and from there to the neck of the animal that had made him fall.

The ovation sounded throughout the stands. The Navarrese had won cleanly and would therefore be named winner of the sixth joust. Everyone applauded. Helmet off, smiling, he turned to the seat of Princess Doña Blanca to receive the honors.

But in the meantime, on the sand, things were going badly. García Romeu's horse was still grounded, and blood was spurting from its neck. Giulio Morigatti ran forth with his bag of instruments, and Diego went over to see if he could help as well.