by Luz Gabás
“It’s like we’re flying!” Brianda exclaimed, stretching her arms. “And our mountains, how far away they seem!”
“You miss them already?” Marquo asked.
“Of course! You don’t?”
“I hope I never have to leave them.”
“Why would you?”
Brianda looked into his eyes and then dropped her head, ashamed at her stupid question. As the second son of Bringuer, he could not inherit the house. His options were limited: the church, the king’s army, work for his brother, or marry an heiress.
“Would it make you sad if I left?” asked Marquo.
Brianda turned her back on him and concentrated on the caress of the gentle breeze on her face. Suddenly, her heart began beating faster. She had never been alone so long with a boy. With a man. With the handsomest man in all the highlands of the county of Orrun. He was strong, brave, hardworking, and from a good family. And her parents liked him. She wondered if she should begin to hope.
She did not know what to do next. They should go back with the servants, who would be impatient. On the other hand, what better opportunity to know if Marquo was the right choice? The girls in Tiles smiled like fools when they saw the valley boys, and more so when they were about to get married. Although, later, they changed; some stopped smiling. Her own mother hardly ever smiled. She did not want that; she wanted to always feel as she had since childhood: as light as a sparrow, happy as a nightingale, alert as a hawk, strong as an eagle, and quiet as an owl. That was her ambition. Marquo seemed brave and cheerful. It was not hard for her to imagine sharing her life and her bed with him.
She felt Marquo step closer. She thought about his curly brown hair, his inquiring eyes, and the tautness of his body, always alert to sounds, movements, and dangers. She wondered what it would be like to have his arms around her waist and his mouth upon hers.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she heard him whisper.
“Nor you mine,” she said, turning to look straight into his eyes. “Why would you have to leave?”
Marquo understood and came closer until his face was just a breath from hers.
“Have you been kissed before?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“May I kiss you?”
Brianda nodded and he placed his lips tenderly against hers for a few seconds. Then he backed away, looked at the girl’s face, and liked what he saw. Her flushed cheeks. Her closed eyes. Her calm and expectant expression. He waited for her to open her eyes and invite him with her eyes to continue. He then moved his body closer to hers, rested his hands on her hips, and kissed her again, this time parting his lips enough to dampen hers without forcing her.
Brianda responded by caressing Marquo’s neck, ears, and temples as delicately as she would stroke the fur of a newborn pup.
She contemplated the moment calmly, conscious that she would never forget it, even if the happiness between them someday ended. She allowed the kiss to go deeper and Marquo’s hand to audaciously run over her body. And when they finally separated to catch their breath, she responded to his satisfied smile with her own.
“And now?” she asked.
“When you say so, I’ll talk with our fathers.”
“Not here. Everyone is tense. We’ll wait until we get back to Tiles. Meanwhile, we can use the time to get to know each other better.”
“Good idea,” Marquo said with a mischievous smile. “I would love to discover your mysteries.”
They descended from the tower, casually describing the marvelous view so as not to make the servants suspicious.
As he helped her onto her horse, Brianda whispered, “Just one thing, Marquo. Whoever marries me also marries Lubich.”
“I know,” he said.
“Good. Because that commitment lasts forever.”
17.
Quite some time before Count Fernando was expected with the king’s document, Pere of Aiscle went out to wait for him. Impatient, he looked up and down the long, narrow street, deserted in the intense afternoon heat. A few minutes later, two figures appeared in the distance. Pere was startled to recognize his brother, even though Johan had told him the man was wandering around town under the name Surano.
Pere was moved to see him after three years, but his instinct told him his brother must be in trouble again. He shook his hand firmly.
“What are you doing here? Do you need more money? I hope it’s just that, although it will mean a drain on my estate.”
Surano looked at his brother affectionately. He found him changed—thinner and older. It was unsurprising, as there were fourteen years between them, which was evident not only in their physical aspect but also in their characters. Pere had always been more like a father to him than a brother, interceding prudently on every occasion—and there had been many—that Surano had gotten into trouble.
“No more money, I promise.” The costs of a company of soldiers were paid for by its captain, so Surano had had to rely on his brother’s generosity to keep afloat. “That’s over now.”
“Over?” Pere asked. “What do you mean?”
“I got royal permission to go to Rome and ask for forgiveness from the Pope, who granted it. One of my soldiers came with me.” He pointed to Corso. “I then asked to be transferred to Flanders, expecting a promotion that never came, and remained there a while. We headed back to Spain, but a storm dragged us to the Azores, and we were forced to wait there until a Spanish fleet coming from the Americas picked us up. On the way to Portugal, another storm wrecked the captain’s ship. We attempted a rescue, but could do nothing for them, so we pressed on to Lisbon. When we reported what had happened, the ship was accused of not offering aid, and the crew was sentenced to three months in prison and a fine. It was unjust.” He paused a moment. “So I fled. I left the militia.” He pointed to Corso again. “Him too. He declared in my favor. I had saved his life and he later saved mine. So now we are deserters.”
Pere remained in thought for a long while. He knew Surano well enough to know that he was telling the truth. His brother had never been an obedient man, rather the opposite, but it was bad luck that had gotten in his way once again. Perhaps he should not have been so impulsive. If he had served his brief sentence, he could have kept his post in the army. That is what Pere would have done, but now there was no way to change it.
“And what will you do now?” Pere finally asked. “What shall we do?”
Grateful that his brother was not going to give him a sermon, Surano hurriedly replied, “Set myself up in the mountains? Raise livestock? Marry and settle down?” The memory of a woman came to him and he felt a pang. Would Lida have waited like they had promised each other? Of course, then, neither of them knew it would take him so long to return. “With a little bit of luck, Lida will still be waiting for me—”
Pere shook his head.
“I’m afraid you’re too late. And I’m puzzled that you ask. Someone like you—” He did not finish the sentence. In the end, who was he to judge his brother’s heart?
Surano clenched his jaw. It took him some time to ask the next question.
“Whom did she marry?”
“Medardo.”
“That traitor!”
“Her brother didn’t stop pressuring her until he got his way,” said Pere. “Jayme has always wanted to be in with the most influential people.”
“Jayme of Cuyls,” Surano spat. “That jealous, wretched bastard!” He remembered the conversation Corso had overheard between the three men and rage consumed him. “Now I understand why he was conspiring with Medardo and the king’s secretary!”
“Johan’s daughter said you’d seen them together. I am eager to hear what was said.” Pere pointed toward the house. “It won’t be long before Count Fernando arrives with the written answer from His Majesty. Wait with us. Afterward, we shall all confer and decide.”
Surano took a deep breath and grunted. During his absence, the rebel Medardo had not only gained ground but
had married the woman he loved. He smoothed his hair and tried to regain his composure. He then turned to stone-faced Corso and muttered, “Corso, my friend, you should know that the people of the mountains resemble their land. They are hardy and hardworking, prone to worry and unease, but implacable in rage and revenge. If you are going to accompany me on this journey, don’t ever forget this.”
Corso was unmoved. He had seen too much blood spilled to fear petty squabbles between locals in a small, godforsaken place.
In the room, and at her father’s bidding, Brianda stood silently by the door leading to the patio in order to follow the conversation when the count came and to make sure that no one from the house came close to pry.
The door opened and Pere entered, followed by Surano and Corso. Pere motioned to his brother to sit down at the table and Corso to stand watch.
Corso obeyed and joined Brianda at the door. She had on a pumpkin-colored petticoat and a dark skirt in the same brocatelle as the jerkin hugging her bosom and highlighting her hips. Her hair hung loose, framing her pretty face. She was far more attractive than any of the women he had been with. The previous night’s woman had not been bad, but there was no comparison to Brianda, whom he had been unable to get out of his head even after several jugs of wine.
Corso stood so close to Brianda that she stepped away. She could not help it: the man caused an inexplicable sensation of alarm in her and, right now, he also needed a bath. His stare compelled her to look away, something that had never happened to her with any man, not even Marquo. She was afraid that if she had to talk to him, she would stutter; if she had to listen to him, she would be mesmerized by the movement of his lips; if she had to touch him, she would shake; if she had to kiss him, would it be like kissing Marquo?
She immediately put an end to these ridiculous thoughts. What the devil was happening to her? The future of her land depended on the imminent meeting, and there she was, unable to stop thinking about a murky stranger.
Just then, the Count of Orrun entered the room, his face and gestures betraying his bad mood. Without any preamble or greetings, he took his seat, grabbed a goblet of wine, and emptied it in one gulp. He took out a rolled-up piece of paper, unfurled it, and began reading in an irate tone. “‘That the Count of Orrun is to be put in possession of the county and those of the county understand it is the wish of His Majesty that the count be obeyed and paid his dues and that he be their lord until such time as justice declares the right of His Majesty over said county …’”
He paused and asked that his goblet be refilled.
“Given the circumstances, my lord, it’s the best you could have hoped for,” said Pere. “At least you gain time and, up to now, justice has always been on your side. We should trust in it.”
“Not so fast, Pere, my friend,” said the count. “Now comes the worst part.” He returned his gaze to the document and continued. “‘That the Count of Orrun treat his vassals well with no memory of past deeds, and that the execution of sentences and condemnations be suspended against those given—’”
“Pardon the rebels!” shouted Marquo, scandalized. “But, what is this? Don’t tell me he intends to leave Medardo free!”
The count passed the document to Nunilo, who read it in sober silence before summarizing it aloud. “‘His Majesty will give possession of the county of Orrun to the count in a short time, but in exchange demands the pardon of Medardo and his accomplices, and the Royal Treasury has the right to continue its action for possession of Orrun.’”
“Pardon Medardo!” repeated Pere. “Surano, tell us what your friend heard yesterday.”
Surano relayed how the Count of Chinchon had asked Medardo and Jayme to be patient.
“He said that the troubles would continue until Count Fernando got tired and was willing to sell the county at a good price.”
A long silence descended upon them. Brianda wondered if everyone else thought the same as she did: Was Count Fernando capable of selling? Would he deem it easier to take the money than to fight?
“The very presence of Medardo at parliament is provocation enough,” muttered Bringuer. “How can we trust the word of the king if he favors the rebels and his ministers honor criminals?”
“They are not all proven criminals,” Johan pointed out. “Jayme is of noble blood. And as for Medardo’s followers, if one noble sides with him, so will others.”
“Johan is right,” Nunilo said. “They will try to bribe us. All of us.”
The count looked at them one by one, searching his old friends’ faces for confirmation of their loyalty to his cause.
“According to the document,” Surano asked, “when will Count Fernando be put in charge of what is yours again?”
Looking over the scroll, Nunilo replied, “It says the count will receive credentials from the king addressed to the General Council of Orrun when it convenes in January.”
“Very well, then. We will wait until January.” Surano glanced at his brother. “I see now that my services are needed here.” He addressed the count: “In my friend Corso and in me, you have two valiant soldiers. If my instincts are right, this has just begun. I don’t believe the king will ever give up these lands. This matter of continuing the suit is only a ruse to gain time and wear you down. You must prepare yourself for a fight.”
Brianda was terrified to hear that war was inevitable. The General Council of Orrun had already rejected the count’s aspirations once; why would January be different? However, if Surano came to live in her mountains, the fierce and intractable Corso would too.
The count got to his feet and paced the room. His house had always been loyal to the king, so why was the monarch set on taking what was his? There were strategic justifications, perhaps. With Orrun, the king would control the mountain road to France and increase the extension of his kingdom. A sale would free Fernando of years of bitterness and gain the king’s favor for his family for generations. But the blood of his ancestors boiled in the count’s veins. And how could he desert the men standing by him today? In other baronies as well, the king was using these same tactics to usurp the rural nobles. What would become of them if he renounced his past? They would be relegated to their big houses and subject to the whims of people like Medardo.
The Count of Orrun stopped pacing and rested his hands on the back of his chair. “We shall do as Surano says,” he said at last. “Go back to your homes and await my instructions. We’ll travel to Aiscle in January. If the council sees reason, well and good. If they don’t, we’ll use arms. I’ll remain here a few more days. Next week, Prince Philip III will be sworn in and all and sundry will be in attendance. I’ll seek more allies among the nobles of Aragon.”
The men nodded. Count Fernando thanked them all and left.
There was a brief silence, then Johan sighed. “I hope it’s not too late. So many years of mismanagement cannot be erased overnight.”
Just then, Azmet burst in and shouted to Brianda, “Mistress! It’s Cecilia! They’re going to kill her!”
Brianda raced from the room without waiting for the men’s reaction. Corso followed.
Azmet guided them to a small square ringed by some run-down buildings. Brianda followed as Azmet pushed his way through the crowd, who responded with shouts and insults.
When they reached the front, Brianda nearly screamed. Two soldiers were holding Cecilia by the arms and getting ready to tie her to a post while a third was training his whip against the ground. The crack of the whip was violent and cutting. Three such cracks would surely be enough to kill the girl. Cecilia screamed and writhed, to the amusement of her torturers.
Brianda shouted with all her might, “Release her!”
But her words were drowned out by the mob. Some laughed, while others openly cheered on the captors. The majority, with anxious eyes, waited for the entertainment to begin in earnest.
“What has she done to deserve this?” Brianda shouted again. “Azmet, do you know what she has done?”
Azm
et shrugged. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
A woman carrying a baby said, “She is a gypsy! I hope they eradicate this plague.”
The man with the whip stopped practicing and ordered the multitude to be quiet. Then, he extended a paper and read: “His Majesty orders that male gypsies aged eighteen or over that are found in the kingdom using gypsy habits, speech, or customs shall be sentenced to the galleys; those under eighteen and over fourteen and women shall be whipped and banished from all the kingdom in perpetuity.” He rolled up the document. “This gypsy has been caught stealing in the market and will now receive her punishment.”
Brianda’s head spun. She looked around but did not see her father or the men of Orrun. Then she spotted Corso, standing a full head above the crowd two rows behind. She made her way over.
“Please!” she pleaded. “You have to help her! I know her! She is a good girl!”
Corso shook his head. “It’s none of my business,” he said simply.
Brianda felt rage rising from her stomach. “I beg you! I’m ordering you!”
Corso stared at her, puzzled that she would react like this over a simple gypsy, then shook his head again. “I don’t want problems.”
Brianda let out a howl and punched him in the chest with all her might before pushing her way to the first row again. They had already tied Cecilia to the post. Brianda thought of the conversation they had had they previous day, during Brianda’s bath. Cecilia only had one dream: to wear a dress as pretty as Brianda’s and get a boy to fall in love with her. But Cecilia wanted to know who would love a girl with dark skin. Brianda had told her that, given her beauty, more than one boy would love her in the mountains, where the peasants’ skin was deeply tanned in summer and beaten by the snow and wind in winter.
Now no one was going to do anything to save her. Not even that animal Corso!
The man with the whip tensed his arm, and just as he was about to let it fly, Brianda roared toward the post.
“Stop! There has been a mistake! This girl is my servant!”