by Luz Gabás
Amiably, professionally, and with a deep, persuasive voice, Angel questioned her about her family, work, and health. When Brianda detailed her physical symptoms, he frowned a couple of times, but made no comment. He just took notes in a black book until it seemed he decided he had enough information, and then he closed the notebook and looked directly at her.
“If you’ve gotten this far,” he finally said, “I presume you have done your research. Why do you want me to treat you?”
“Isn’t everything I’ve told you enough?” Brianda thought over all the promises written on the webpage she’d read on the subject. “I want to be cured.”
“Yes, but there are more mainstream approaches. This is something very specific and special. Let’s say that, normally, people try other therapies before coming here.”
Brianda felt uncomfortable. Since her one visit to Roberto, she had relied on the pills to keep going, but they weren’t enough, and she couldn’t keep recklessly upping her dosage. And he was right, she hadn’t done anything else; her stay in the country certainly couldn’t be counted as therapeutic. If not for Neli, she wouldn’t even be here. She chose to keep quiet.
“Have you had any strange experiences?” Angel prompted.
Brianda thought of the dreams, her visions of the angry mob in the church in Tiles, fainting in the graveyard, the decorations on the confessional in the monastery, and her inexplicable attraction to Corso—whose name she had somehow known without being told. She considered telling Angel everything, but was suddenly assailed by the same mistrust she had felt with the tarot reader: she didn’t want to give too many clues that could guide him.
“Apart from the nightmares, nothing at all,” she said.
Angel smiled strangely, as if acknowledging and accepting her lie, and she lowered her eyes, a little embarrassed.
“Fine,” he said, getting to his feet and asking her to move to the couch. “We’ll start the first session now. Do you have any questions?”
“Actually, I do. Will I get back to the way I was?”
“Brianda, you must be sure of one thing: we are always changing, every day of our lives. It’s impossible to be who you were.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Now lie down, close your eyes, and relax.”
Brianda heard Angel drawing the thick curtains and switching off the light. Then he adjusted a pillow for her to lie on, brought the armchair over to the sofa, and sat down beside her.
From that moment, the man’s voice became even deeper, even slightly stern. He began giving firm and methodical instructions for her to control her breathing, with perfectly measured pauses that reminded her of Isolina’s instructions that day in Aiscle. With studied slowness, Angel guided her thoughts around her whole body, from her little toe to her scalp. Finally, he asked her to visualize an intense white light at the top of her head, inside, and to make that light travel again over her whole body, through all the muscles and nerves under her skin.
Brianda felt her breathing relax and the tension leave her. Her body felt as light as a feather.
Nestled on the sofa, she began to lose perception of her surroundings. An intense light invaded her body, occupying all the physical spaces of her being and bringing a sensation of peace and well-being only interrupted by a voice she felt incapable of disobeying.
“I’m going to count backwards,” he told her, “from ten to one. When I get to one, you will be in a state of deep relaxation. Then you will remember nothing. You will live again.” A long pause. “Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one …”
14.
1585
Brianda crossed the paved patio, intending to take a stroll in the fields. She had heard that Nunilo was coming back that morning and she was impatient. When Nunilo or her father went to France, they always brought her something nice. She raised a hand to her neck and stroked the necklace that Johan, her father, had given her last spring as a present for her sixteenth birthday: a delicate glass-and-silver locket with beveled edges, filled with some dried edelweiss that looked like velvety stars. Johan had picked them for her in the mountains and gotten them immortalized at a jeweler’s in Toulouse.
She stopped for a second beside the improvised pen that prevented the cattle from straying into the main patio, and watched an enormous bull playfully butt several hens before plodding back toward the stables. After the freedom they had enjoyed that summer in the mountain pastures, the animals would soon have to make do with hay in their pens, although in comparison to other places, at least they could not complain of hunger. She looked around at the buildings that surrounded her house, the biggest in the valley, enclosed by a wall, protected by the natural moat of the precipice behind it, and guarded by a tower.
It had been a magnificent year for Lubich Manor.
At this point in September, not another wisp could fit in the hay sheds, the amount of wheat guaranteed an abundance of flour until the following harvest, the pigs had begun to waddle with difficulty, milk leaked from the cows’ udders, and the mares had given birth to many mules. Even the doves spent their days lounging lazily on the stone windowsills, too full to coo.
Brianda took a deep breath and followed the path that led first to the fields and then to the forests. Some servants were taking the oxen to plow the land not set aside for winter grains; two shepherds and several dogs minded hundreds of sheep; and, the harvest finished at last, the day laborers contracted from Tiles had begun pruning and collecting wood.
The only person with nothing to do was her. As the sole heir to Lubich Manor, her main task consisted of observing and learning. One day she would be the mistress of this old, solid, unshakable place; she would wear with honor the emerald ring of the first master, a ring presently on her father’s little finger; and all her forebearers would be proud of her, from the first Johan—whose name had been carved in the lintel of the door in 1322—to her own father. No feeling could be as intense as that of belonging to that place, that house, that family, that bloodline. For almost three centuries, in the hands of good masters, Lubich had gloriously resisted the passing of time. Brianda’s only wish was that, when her turn came, she would preserve it for the generations to come.
Absorbed in her thoughts, she walked to the top edge of the biggest field to the north of Lubich and entered the woods she knew so well. She could continue for half a league along the shaded path before it became one with the trees. At some point beyond that, the climb to the mountains and the pass to French territory began. Maybe one day her father would take her there. Johan never spoke openly about the trading business that supplemented their finances, but she had known about it for a while. Every so often, Nunilo and Johan took turns crossing into France with good horses and came back with young mules they later sold in the fairs in the lowlands, where they bought new horses. Once, she’d secretly listened in on their conversation and learned why they kept so quiet about it. The Inquisition did not hesitate when it came to persecuting horse smugglers. Any contact with France and its Protestant Huguenots, who stalked the mountains to sneak into Spain, was the same as dealing with the devil himself; thus, dealing in horses was regarded as a religious offense. She remembered how her father had trembled when recalling the interrogations Nunilo and he had undergone before she was born. If it had not been for the intervention of the king, both likely would have been hung. Now times had changed, Nunilo had said. They doubted whether the king would defend them again. And this comment had puzzled Brianda. Why would the king no longer defend his nobles?
She heard the horses’ hooves and smiled. It must be Nunilo and his servants. In the middle of the path, she waited to see the gray hair and beard of the Master of Anels. That tall, well-built man with a sharp nose was like a second father to her, even though he looked much older than Johan, despite being the same age. What a pity he had no children, she thought. He would have been a kind father.
Suddenly, she found herself surrounded by a half dozen riders she did not
recognize. Her first reaction was one of puzzlement. Strangers never came that way; otherwise, her father would have forbidden her to walk alone. The county was overrun with bandits, but they never dared come to the highlands of Tiles, and even less to enter the woods belonging to Lubich. For a moment, she feared they were Inquisition spies waiting to trap Nunilo. Then she studied them more closely. The men had a disagreeable look to them. Their faces were sweaty and their clothes dirty and worn. A wave of fear made them all look the same.
“You are the daughter of Johan of Lubich,” one of them said, bringing the nostrils of his mount to Brianda’s face. “How is it that you are allowed alone in the wood? Perhaps you don’t know of its dangers?”
“The wolves don’t come out during the day,” she said, trying to sound resolute.
“Some do,” said a man with very blond hair as he dismounted his horse and came over to her with a repulsive leer on his face. He spoke to the others, “We couldn’t have wished for better booty.”
Brianda looked around. She could slip under the belly of one of the horses and run, but she wouldn’t get very far. Her heart began to beat faster. No one in their right mind would dare touch the daughter of Johan of Lubich!
“Leave her,” said another. “We have clear orders from Medardo. For the moment, some pillaging and nothing else.”
“Exactly.” The blond took her by the arm and pulled her toward him, resting his other hand on her waist and running his eyes over her body. “Since we can’t enter Lubich …”
Brianda’s fear turned to disgust. The men exchanged sly looks, and she realized no one would come to her aid. She shouted in rage and, with a push, managed to get free for a second, but with a cackle, the man grabbed her tighter. She twisted around using her free arm and her legs to hit and kick him, but this only made him laugh more, and then a smack knocked her to the ground.
“Hold the horse,” he ordered another man. “I’ll open the way for you in this ambush …”
He took her by the wrist and dragged her toward the woods as if she were a hunting trophy about to be butchered. The rocks and dried branches on the ground tore at her flesh. The broken sky filtered through the treetops. Her eyes filled with tears. She knew what would happen next, and there was nothing or nobody to prevent it. Images of Lubich came to her mind, as if bidding her farewell. After this, she would only want to die, assuming these animals did not kill her first. She felt the man let go of her wrist and saw how he undid the cord that held up his breeches.
Brianda began to scream with a rage until then unknown to her while crawling away, desperately trying to get to her feet and run. But the man already had hold of her ankle. She crawled along the ground until her fingers bled, but it was not enough.
“If that’s how you want it,” the man grunted. He grabbed her long hair, wrapped it around one hand like a rein, and forced her head back while he raised her dress.
Brianda shouted again, her voice her only weapon.
Her sight blurred and her mind went black. Then, through the darkness, she thought she made out the sound of more hooves, whinnies, shouts, and footsteps. The pressure on her body eased, a steel blade whistled through the air, someone gasped, and hot red liquid fell over her. A moment later, someone was cradling her in his arms.
“Tell me I’m not too late, Brianda,” she heard a familiar voice say.
Brianda opened her eyes and recognized Nunilo. She hugged him tightly and broke out sobbing.
Nunilo helped her up and led her to the path, where his men had finished disarming the two bandits who had not managed to escape.
“Take his body!” he shouted, signaling to the woods where her slain attacker lay. “And display it in Aiscle as a warning!”
He and one of his men helped Brianda onto his horse, and he climbed up behind her. He covered her with his long cloak and, galloping, headed for Lubich. Minutes later, they burst onto the patio, calling loudly for the master, frightening the animals and the servants, all of whom came running.
Johan of Lubich, a tall, strong man with a beard and long dark hair, came out of the house followed by a thin woman with fair skin and a haughty bearing. He crossed to Nunilo and took the reins of his horse.
“I was about to go looking for you,” he said. Brianda, hidden under Nunilo’s cloak, trembled when she heard her father’s voice. “Was there any problem?”
“Our friend Captain Agut came to the agreed place,” Nunilo said. “But something else has happened.” He opened the cloak and showed Brianda, huddled and covered in blood.
“Brianda!” Johan threw open his arms and lifted her down from the horse. The girl ran to her mother sobbing. “What happened?”
Nunilo got off his horse and described the scene his men had come upon.
“Brianda has told me that he didn’t … you know.”
Johan’s face lit up in rage.
“It was them!” he bellowed. “Last week they tried to attack Bringuer of Besalduch’s house. At first he thought it was ordinary bandits, but we are convinced they were rebels incited by—” In four strides, he was beside his wife and daughter. “Did you recognize them? Did you hear any names?”
“I don’t know who they were,” responded Brianda, trembling in her mother’s arms, “but they named a certain Medardo.”
Johan roared.
“That’s him! Medardo has more supporters every day and our count has fewer. What is the king waiting for?” He ground his teeth, then began to give orders to the dozens of people around him. “You,” he said to some servants, “take extra care to secure Lubich while I’m away.” He pointed to a handful of men and said, “You get ready to come with me. And you”—he looked at the servants surrounding his wife, Elvira—“have my luggage and Brianda’s prepared within the hour.”
“What do you intend to do?” Elvira asked coldly.
“The king is holding parliament in Monzon. Pere of Aiscle went down a few days ago to accompany Count Fernando until the king deals with his complaints. For months, the rebels have undermined Pere’s role as justice of the county of Orrun and refused to carry out his orders as the count’s representative. As long as Aiscle continues to be the rebels’ camp, there will never be peace here. And I’m not prepared to wait any longer!”
Elvira stepped in front of him. “You’re not thinking of bringing Brianda with you? After what’s happened, I won’t tolerate you putting her through such a long and tiring journey.”
“Whoever attacks my heir attacks Lubich,” he replied in a tone that allowed no argument. He looked at his daughter and his expression softened. “You have to come with me and respond to the attack, child. The king will listen to your testimony. Go, wash yourself and change your clothes. And chin up. The people of Lubich are not easily humiliated.”
Nunilo came over. “One of my men is on the way to Besalduch to warn Bringuer. I’m going to Anels House now to tell Leonor. We’ll meet past the mill in Tiles.”
“You’ve only just returned,” Johan objected.
“I can’t ride as well as I used to,” his friend replied, “but I have no intention of letting you go alone. I also refuse to believe that someone like Medardo would have the nerve to claim in Monzon that he is acting in the king’s name. It’s high time they heard from the lords of the mountains.”
An hour later, Brianda, nervous and excited, said good-bye to Lubich and her mother. While they were waiting for the others at the boundary between Tiles and Aiscle, she gazed over the scattered country houses at the foot of Beles Peak. Each chimney represented a family that struggled every year to survive on a bit of land, with a half dozen cows, a bullock or two, a pig, some hens and rabbits and a pair of mules. This was unlike in Lubich, where no one wanted for anything. In the same way that Johan paid his taxes to the count, year after year, the peasants paid rent to Johan with hens, wheat, wine, and oil. Compared to many other nobles who oversaw miserable mountain villages and found themselves on the verge of ruin, the masters of Lubich and Anels enjoyed
a good income. For the first time in her life, Brianda wondered how many peasants from Tiles could be tempted by the promises of that Medardo to switch loyalties. The fear she had felt barely two hours ago made her see things differently. Tiles was no longer a quiet, peaceful, happy place. She did not understand exactly what men like her father were up against, but she had never seen him or thought of him like this before.
Johan paced on his horse. Not even when she was small and had to tilt her head back to look at him had her father seemed so big and terrible. He had put on a dark doublet, wide breeches, and a pair of high boots he only wore for important journeys. In the incipient wind, his black hair got tangled in his short chain cloak. Since leaving the house, he had barely looked at her, and his brow remained creased in a gesture of worry and contained aggression. When he saw the men from Nunilo’s house on the horizon, he set off at a gallop that the others matched. Brianda was grateful Johan had taught her to ride like a man. At this pace, she would need to make full use of her ability.
They took a long detour to avoid going through Aiscle and risking attack from Medardo’s men, and continued without respite for four hours. They then rested briefly beside the river and, at dusk, finally halted at the dam in the small village of Fonz, at the foot of some south-facing crags. Brianda, red-faced and exhausted from riding ten leagues, went to the river to refresh herself. She scooped water in her hands and poured it over her long black hair, which she had gathered in a tight braid. Her scalp was sore from the incident in the woods. Discreetly, she loosened her jerkin. Even though it was nearly autumn, it was so hot her blouse stuck to her body.
She heard hooves and, then, voices of greeting. She turned and recognized Bringuer of Besalduch, a thickset man of medium stature with small and lively, if baggy, eyes, and his son Marquo, whom she found as handsome as ever.
“Hurry up,” Johan said to them. “There are still two hours to ride.”
“We should spend the night here,” suggested Nunilo. “We can do nothing in Monzon until tomorrow morning.”