by Luz Gabás
Johan reluctantly acceded. He ordered the servants to dole out bread, cheese, and bacon, and then to lay out blankets on the ground around a fire. Brianda ate greedily. Without any doubt, the day had been the longest and hardest of her life. She closed her eyes and remembered in anguish what she had suffered in the forest, but the change of scenery and the exhaustion made it feel very distant in time, as if it had not happened that very morning. Perhaps her father’s energy and his capacity to overcome all adversity were also in her blood. She had left her tears in her mother’s lap.
Marquo sat down beside her. Brianda had met him on several occasions at the highlands fairs and when the nobles gathered at Lubich. He was slightly older than she, enough for her to feel embarrassed in his presence, and she thought him very handsome, perhaps the most handsome man in the valley of Tiles, but arrogant. He had brown curly hair, big expressive eyes, and an elegant and determined manner. The way he spoke made him sound more like an heir than a second-born son, which he was.
Just that week, Brianda had heard her father telling her mother that Bringuer complained his sons had been born in the wrong order. Marquo would have been a better master than his older brother, yet his future was uncertain—unless he married well. Brianda remembered the silence that had followed.
“Is this your first time out of the valley?” Marquo asked, looking at her directly.
“Yes,” answered Brianda, not knowing what else to say.
“It’s not mine,” he bragged. “I’ve been to the Catalan valleys. And a while ago my father took me to France.” He paused, then added, “You ride very well. It’s rare in a woman.”
“My father taught me,” she answered proudly. “As he has no other children, he’s taught me to do everything. I can also read.”
Marquo, slightly surprised, tilted his head. “And embroider as well?”
Brianda detected a note of mockery in his tone. She blushed but was undaunted.
“My mother saw to that, but I don’t like it. I prefer riding a horse.”
Marquo guffawed, openly and with satisfaction, which pleased the girl. More than once, her mother had insisted that she should curb her masculine impulses or she would never find a good husband. These impulses included her habit of walking alone in the woods, hunting with her father, collecting taxes, and visiting the fairs, where instead of looking at the merchants’ brocades, she preferred to admire the qualities of a good mare. Brianda had told her mother, insolently, that as the only heir to Lubich, she would not have to try very hard to get suitors. A shiver went down her spine. If that disgusting blond man had carried out his intentions, things might now be very different.
“I heard what happened today,” Marquo said in a serious voice, looking at her intently. “I would have liked to have killed him myself.”
“Thank you,” she responded, wrapping herself up in her blanket.
Marquo nodded and got up to go speak with the men. Brianda looked at him one last time and settled down to sleep. Despite the unfortunate reasons for it, this journey had just become much more promising.
As soon as dawn broke, Johan woke everyone and urged them to be on their way. He led the way through the vast, flat, vine-populated landscape, so different from the mountains and forests of Orrun, with its bad roads and sparse population. They passed by muleteers and mule trains laden with firewood, farmworkers carrying tools to the fertile fields, and merchants and artisans leading their carts, arriving at last in the town of Monzon, fortified at the base of a hill on which stood an enormous castle.
They passed a huge monastery outside the walls, and then, when they reached a big building with a sign announcing it was a hospital, Johan, without slowing, led the company over a bridged stream toward one of the entrances to the town. The merchants, artisans, courtesans, and bystanders that filled the narrow streets were forced to move aside to avoid being knocked down by the riders whose long cloaks flapped in the wind.
Brianda noted the confusion on the faces of the townspeople. With the passing of her party, the festive atmosphere on the streets disappeared. With them came the fury of the mountains, the anxiety of uncertainty, the fear of paid assassins, and the constant threat to the townspeople’s families.
They went to the main square, where the Royal Palace was located. It was empty. Johan looked toward the arched galleries, also empty, and realized that the royal party was already in the place where parliament was being held. He raised his hand to signal his group to follow him up a steep lane of tightly packed houses until a crowd blocked their path.
“Johan!” shouted Nunilo. “We have to stop! The guards will arrest us!”
But Johan spurred his horse forward, shouting at the people to get out of the way. Brianda had never seen him like this. Her father was a well-mannered man. Now, the fury burning in his eyes said no one would prevent him from getting to the king. The people stood aside to let the angry group through and they reached the square where the Moorish tower rose over the sober church of Saint Mary’s. Johan did not stop until he got to the first of the building’s wide steps. Then he jumped triumphantly from his horse, tossing the reins to one of his servants. A deep silence descended on the square, while, a few steps higher up, some soldiers crossed their lances to deny him entry.
“I am Johan of Lubich, master from the highlands of Orrun, as are these who come with me, and I must see the king!” he declared, resting his right hand menacingly on the hilt of his sword.
Without waiting for an answer, he gestured for Brianda to come beside him and began to ascend the steps confidently before hundreds of attentive eyes.
“Women cannot enter parliament!” one of the soldiers shouted.
“The heir to Lubich can!” Johan replied sternly.
The soldiers exchanged nervous looks and finally moved aside.
Brianda made an effort to stand tall beside her father. Although the galloping had ceased, the muscles in her body remained tense, preventing her from collapsing. They entered through a high wooden door, followed by the others in their party. The sound of their boots on the flagstones echoed off the church’s stone columns before rebounding against the vaults of the high ceiling. A murmur of surprise and indignation accompanied them up the wide aisle, along whose sides long benches were occupied by royal officials and men from the different kingdoms. They were arranged according to their rank in the ecclesiastic, noble, or military branches or membership of city and town corporation. At last, they arrived at the sumptuously decorated high altar. On a large platform, built for the occasion and decorated with rich and beautiful tapestries, was the canopy and, below it, the seat occupied by the king.
Brianda took a deep breath while the sweaty and tired men around her knelt down, without forfeiting an ounce of the pride and dignity that characterized the lords of the mountains.
15.
The bow seemed eternal to her. At last, when a movement from Johan signaled she could stand, Brianda got a good look at King Philip II of Spain, who was the very same man as King Philip I of Aragon. The man was dressed in black from head to toe; fatigue and tedium showed clearly on his face. He scowled at the rough men who had interrupted parliament with their loose clothes, long hair and beards, and weather-beaten skin. The king’s own skin was pallid, almost sickly, Brianda thought, and his short gray hair, long face, wide forehead, pointed chin, and grave, composed expression all combined to chilling effect. Her knees began to shake, and she wished she could hide behind her father.
Beside her, Johan kept his shoulders straight and his bearing calm, even when one of the king’s secretaries, a balding man with a goatee and mustache—the ends curled to his fat cheeks—demanded, “Who do you think you are to appear like this?”
“I am Johan of Lubich, from the lands of Tiles, in the north of the county of Orrun. I am accompanied by Nunilo of Anels and Bringuer of Besalduch with his son Marquo. I am here to set forth to His Majesty the reality in which we live. Criminal representatives of the commoners have taken over
the government, justice, and rents of the county. Over time they have organized to such a degree that they have their own squads and lackeys. Nothing is done there without their say-so, to the extreme of committing vile attacks such as the one my daughter had to suffer yesterday and that she herself will relate.”
Resting his hand on his daughter’s back, Johan motioned for her to step forward. Brianda felt the eyes of all the court boring into her back, but she was determined neither to be intimidated nor to offer a pitiful image of herself that would shame her father. She took a deep breath and concentrated on setting out the facts in a clear and concise manner. When she finished, a slight pressure on her arm let her know that Johan was congratulating her for doing so well.
“His Majesty has rather more important things to listen to in this parliament than the upsets of your daughter,” smirked the secretary.
“Your Majesty!” Nunilo exclaimed. “These rebels are nothing more than bandits who defend their actions by claiming royal privilege. They are prepared to use arms in support of it!”
The king straightened in his seat while the secretary shouted, “Measure your words! Do you dare accuse the king of connivance?”
“Ask Count Fernando!” Bringuer shot back.
The secretary looked at the king, who nodded his agreement. A murmur extended throughout the church as everyone waited for Count Fernando of Orrun to approach the altar.
Brianda had seen Count Fernando in Lubich when she was small. She remembered him as thin, with a big nose and thick lips. He had said something to her then that now took on a new meaning, “You are Johan’s daughter? If it were not for the blood of people like him … I hope you never have to regret being born in Lubich.”
The count walked up the main aisle and greeted the men from the mountains warmly but also with the distance expected from someone in his position. Though he was gracious, the difference between them was illustrated by the contrast of his rich and elegant clothes to their traveling garb. He wore a quilted velvet jerkin with a high collar and a small ruff and a belt adorned with garnets. Like the majority of those present, he wore his hair short and his mustache trimmed. He was accompanied by his representative, Pere of Aiscle, a tall, thin, blond-haired man, who looked serious and tired.
Pere came over to Johan and whispered in slight recrimination, “You’ve been bold, Johan. The count has been waiting days to be received.”
“He should be thankful, then.” Johan’s expression darkened. “If someone had tried to defile his daughter, he would also have brought forward his reception.”
“Who is secretary to the king?” Nunilo asked, also in a whisper.
“Diego Fernandez de Cabrera, Count of Chinchon,” said Pere.
“Not good,” Johan said.
Nunilo groaned at Johan’s comment.
Brianda would have liked to ask her father what he meant, but the Count of Chinchon interrupted.
“If you all have finished with your little reunion,” he said bitingly, “His Majesty would like to hear what the Count of Orrun has to say. But first, Johan of Lubich, be so good as to remove your daughter from here.”
Johan moved forward, putting one foot on the altar steps. Two soldiers hurried over.
“My daughter stays with me,” he said firmly. “One day she will be defending the interests of Lubich.”
Pere grabbed him by the arm. “The king is being extremely patient with you, Johan. I will tell one of my servants to escort her to the house where I am staying.”
“If she goes, we all go,” said Nunilo. “Maybe the count would prefer to continue speaking alone?”
The king sidestepped the matter by greeting Count Fernando informally and fondly invoking his friendship with the count’s father when, as prince, he had accompanied him on his travels to England, France, Italy, and Flanders. He also reminded everyone that, for his merits and feats in war and other services, the count’s father had received various compensations. Finally, gesturing with his hand, the king invited Count Fernando to speak.
“Concerning the county of Orrun,” Count Fernando began, “there is a dispute between Your Majesty and my person. More than twenty years ago, my father, then count, was dispossessed of the county, and it was incorporated into the Crown with its fortresses, jurisdiction, and rents, based on the allegation that the original fiefdom had expired.”
“His Majesty knows those facts, Count Fernando,” interrupted the Count of Chinchon. “I would counsel brevity.”
A new murmur rolled through the crowd, and the secretary called for silence. Count Fernando took a deep breath and continued.
“My father appealed and, as you know, the court of justice found in his favor. Since then, this dispute has kept the land in constant turmoil. When my father died four years ago and I inherited the title, I asked the Viceroy of Aragon to grant me the investiture and possession of the county, admitting all homages of a feudal prince. I only got excuses. I came to you again three years ago—”
“Excuses, you say?” the king boomed. “Did I not ask my ministers to go to this land and gather information?”
“Your Majesty, the reality is exactly as Johan of Lubich has described,” Count Fernando said. “Your royal ministers do not dare go to Orrun for fear of attack. This dispute does nothing but encourage those lawless criminals who want no master.”
The Count of Chinchon counterattacked. “And what do you say about your own attitude? Are you unaware of the accusation that your lords exploit the towns with abusive taxes? And what do you do? Nothing! When the petitions of the people are not heard, will they not resort to arms?”
“We commit no abuses!” Nunilo retorted. “It is they who violate the rights of our land by preventing the General Council from meeting. Why do you now want to end our rights? Have we not always served Count Fernando and His Majesty?”
“His Majesty respects your rights and privileges!” roared the Count of Chinchon. “But he must also be mindful of the will of his subjects. How do you expect him to ignore the wishes of commoners to emancipate themselves from petty masters? We do not recognize the perpetuity of fiefdoms or manors. What interest can the inhabitants of Orrun have in following you when they can serve their king directly?”
Another murmur, this time louder. The secretary called for silence several times, but the crowd paid him no heed. At last, a man dressed in a purple habit and seated on the first bench of the ecclesiastical estate with the prelates and ecclesiastics of the Kingdoms of Aragon and Valencia, shouted, “Your Majesty, stop this nonsense immediately! First they enter without being summoned and then they force us to accept the presence of a woman! How many are like her, heirs to their houses? Must we then let them all in? Unless you remove her, we shall leave!”
Thunderous applause. The Count of Chinchon, the king, and other secretaries exchanged indecisive looks, but before they could decide how to resolve the issue, a group of men approached the altar in a threatening manner. Brianda clutched her father’s arm.
Bringuer turned to his son. “Take her to the street and wait for us there!”
Marquo looked at Johan, who nodded. Marquo led Brianda to the side of the church, the aisle packed with men who had risen from their benches to block their way.
Brianda was roughly separated from Marquo. Dozens of men’s arms buffeted her, pushing her body as if she were a filthy sack they wished to be rid of. The shouts and insults stunned her. The heat and the stench were overwhelming. A final shove pushed her out of the church. She fell onto the steps she had so proudly climbed on her father’s arm. The doors slammed with an insulting bang. Some laughter came from the square, and she realized people were enjoying the show. She looked around, not knowing what to do or where to go, and her eyes filled with tears. One day, she would have to take charge of the lands and income of Lubich and defend her rights as if she were a man, so why should she not be permitted to learn about the affairs of the county that affected her so directly? She thought of her father’s words and got to h
er feet, beating the dust from her clothes. The people of Lubich were not easily humiliated.
Three ragged young boys slipped under the guards’ lances and approached her. Brianda noticed that one of them did not take his eyes off the jewel around her neck; she covered it with her hand, but that did not stop them from accosting her with dirty hands and a string of dirty words. They had black scabs around their mouths, stinking breath, and spots across their skin. The boldest extended a hand toward her neck and tried to snatch her pendant. Brianda slapped him and ran down the steps; the hateful laughter of the people increased. It seemed to her that even the guards were smiling. She tried to escape through the crowd, but was dogged by the beggars at every step. She just wanted everyone to shut up and keep their hands off her.
Suddenly, she bumped against something hard and metallic, and her knees went weak. Strong hands supported her. She looked up and saw a military uniform and then a broad, weather-beaten face with a light brown goatee and mustache. She did not know this man, but could have sworn his features looked familiar. She pressed against him for refuge, certain that a soldier must defend a young woman of noble birth.
Then a shadow appeared and confronted her pursuers. The shadow said nothing; he simply stood before them with a hand resting on his sword, his figure dark and daunting. The beggars stopped, looking annoyed that the fun had ended. They let fly a few curses and then melted into the mob. The laughing in the square stopped too. The shadow turned, and as he approached Brianda, she saw a tall, strong man with long black hair, also dressed as a soldier. He walked with a slight stoop, as if unaccustomed to raising his eyes from the ground.
“My poor Italian friend!” the first soldier teased. “Just can’t wait to try out the new sword given to you by His Majesty yesterday, can you? Next time.”
Several passersby started to whisper that this man had been champion of the important foot-and-horseback race held during the festival of Saint Matthew. Brianda studied his face and felt such an intense shiver that she crossed her arms to stop her body from trembling. No powder from tree, plant, insect, mollusk, or stone could achieve the black, rabid, stormy color of the man’s eyes. No sculptor could ever faithfully carve the proportioned tension over his brow, his jaw, and his lips. No painter could capture that uncertain, opaque expression, in which she thought she read a small glint of expectation.