Return to Your Skin

by Luz Gabás

  The soldier sized her up coldly, and Brianda’s heart skipped a beat. There was no going back now.

  “I don’t know what happened. They must have confused her with someone else. This girl has lived with me since she was born!”

  What luck that Cecilia was wearing the blouse and skirt Brianda had given her the night before. In her normal rags, the argument would have lacked any credibility.

  Corso cursed Brianda’s foolishness. If she thought that the protestations of a girl, no matter how nicely dressed, could divert a soldier from his task, she was very wrong. Then the soldier pushed Brianda to the ground and, in four bounds, Corso was there, lifting her up.

  He turned toward the soldier, who had been joined by two more when they sensed trouble, and put his hand on the hilt of his new sword so they could see its quality. Corso introduced himself in a stern tone, using the name of an infantry company he knew but had never belonged to, and telling them he was second-in-command to a captain who had come to present some delicate issues to His Majesty.

  “And this,” he said, pointing to Brianda, “is the daughter of one of the noble benefactors of my company. The girl you intend to whip is her servant. I don’t doubt your good intentions, but believe me when I say that it is not in your interest for the king to receive complaints. They say he is already in a disagreeable mood, what with the pretensions of that embittered lot from Orrun.”

  While the three soldiers conferred among themselves, Brianda saw Johan, Marquo, and Surano entering the square. She gestured firmly for them to stop and wait for her. She rushed over to them and, after explaining the situation, asked that they not intervene unless things got more difficult.

  “Your actions are laudable, but I have no intention of letting you go back there,” her father said.

  “Forgive me, Father, but I have given Cecilia a reason for hope, and I cannot abandon her now. It would be crueler than having done nothing at all.”

  Surano came over and put a hand on Johan’s shoulder. “With Corso here, there is no reason to be afraid. Three soldiers are nothing to him. And if necessary, we will intervene.” Brianda took the chance to slip away and did not hear his last words: “I don’t know how your daughter convinced Corso to help her. That man only listens to me and the devil.”

  Marquo felt a stab of worry. During the meeting with the count, he had noticed how the dark-haired man had looked at his newly betrothed, gazing at her body from top to bottom. Marquo knew men like him. If he was such good friends with Surano, it must be that they were cut from the same cloth: both quarrelsome, loose-living, and contemptible. Fortunately, he and Brianda would soon return home. The sooner, the better, he thought. And the sooner the wedding could be arranged, the sooner Marquo could solidify his hold on Brianda and on the extensive properties of Lubich.

  After much deliberation, the soldiers decided to free the girl rather than risk the displeasure of the king. Cecilia ran over and threw her arms around Brianda. Her sobs shook them both.

  “Come, come,” Brianda said to her. “Head up and walk with dignity. We have to get out of here as fast as possible, and you must behave like one of my servants.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Make your back so straight that it hurts, raise your chin, turn your head slightly toward them, and glare at them out of the side of your eye. Then maintain that posture, a step behind me, until we leave the square. Can you do that?”

  Cecilia nodded and took the role so seriously that Brianda could barely keep from laughing. Johan, Marquo, and Surano were waiting for them at the edge of the square, along with Azmet, who was bursting with joy. The crowd began to disperse sluggishly, irritated that their fun had been spoiled.

  On the walk back to the house, Brianda turned in search of Corso, who trailed them with his head down.

  “So, you can talk when you want to!” she crowed. “What was it? Ah, yes!” She imitated his deep voice: “‘The pretensions of that embittered lot from Orrun.’”

  “I only speak when necessary.”

  “Well, today you saved a life.”

  If you knew how many I’ve taken, he thought, your voice would not sound so light.

  “And you got me out of a serious mess.” Brianda laughed. “Well, two. Yesterday and today! The two times we have met!”

  “Surano warned me that mountain people are restless and rowdy. I’ve now seen it myself. I’ll keep my distance.”

  “But aren’t you going to live there now?”

  Brianda regretted her impulsive question. It revealed her interest in the man’s future.

  Corso shrugged.

  “Well, in case we don’t meet again,” she rushed to add, “thank you for your help.”

  Corso did not answer. He quickened his step and came level with Surano.

  “The soldiers accepted my story,” he whispered, “but if they just investigate a little bit, they’ll discover the lie. We should go.”

  Surano agreed.

  Corso turned and took a last look at Brianda, who was happily laughing with the gypsy.

  Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming need to distance himself from her.

  What strange substance was that woman’s soul made of? Although there were hundreds of people in the square, only she had risked her neck to save an insignificant girl no one would miss. If she had done that for a gypsy, what would she do to defend what was hers?

  18.

  Surano and Corso left town immediately, agreeing with Pere that they would wait for the others on the outskirts of Fonz. Now that the count’s decision was known, there was nothing keeping the company in Monzon, and it seemed prudent to leave at dusk, taking advantage of the return of the farmers to their homes, the departure of merchants, and the line of mules going to collect firewood. The lords of Orrun ordered their servants and men to gather together the horses they had bought and they began their return journey to the highlands. But when they tried to leave through the same gate in the city wall they had galloped through on their arrival, two soldiers stopped them and asked for their papers.

  Johan handed over the documents that showed the sale of animals and the resulting payment of the corresponding taxes, but the soldiers did not seem convinced.

  “We will have to count the heads,” said the youngest one.

  Brianda saw Johan and Nunilo exchange a meaningful look, and she understood that the figures on the papers were not the real ones. She thought of the Inquisition’s punishment for the trafficking of horses and became frightened. She turned to Cecilia, but since it was the girl’s first time on a horse, all her attention was focused on trying not to lose her balance. Then Brianda realized that Bringuer, Marquo, and their men had their hands on their swords.

  Pere motioned to them to remain calm.

  “They would catch us before we got a league,” he whispered. “Leave it to me.”

  He went over to the soldiers and said, “They’re waiting for us at Saint Thomas Hospital.” He pointed to the other side of the river. “We’re late.”

  “Who is waiting for you?” asked the soldier, eyes narrowed.

  “The nephew of the recently deceased Bishop of Barbastro. You can come with us to verify if you’d like.”

  The soldier raised an eyebrow and, after looking at his companion, nodded his head. The change of guard was about to take place, and it would be simpler just to let them pass. He returned the papers to Johan and waved them on their way.

  “Is that true?” Brianda asked her father once they had crossed the bridge.

  “Yes,” was all he said.

  They stopped in front of the big building Brianda had noticed the morning of their arrival in Monzon. Azmet had told her there were other hospitals in the city, but this one exclusively treated servants of the king who’d come for the parliament meeting.

  “Take the others onward without me,” Johan said to Pere as a servant tied his horse to a ring in the wall. “I won’t be here long.”

  “May I come in with you?” B
rianda asked, seized by curiosity.

  “It’s not a place for a young woman.”

  “Then Marquo and Cecilia will wait with me.”

  Marquo was annoyed she had not consulted him, but he obeyed. Johan entered the hospital, and the rest of the group left. Brianda dismounted and tied her horse and Cecilia’s to other rings on the wall. The little gypsy slid off the back of her horse to the ground. Her face, still damp from the tears she had shed when saying good-bye to Azmet, reflected a mixture of sadness and nervous excitement about her new home. Brianda smiled, watching Cecilia peek through the slits in the building’s closed shutters. She’d been overjoyed when Johan agreed to bring the girl with them to the mountains, where she could live a safe and peaceful life. She had always regretted not having a sister to amuse herself with during the long winter evenings, and she suspected she had found a loving and loyal companion in Cecilia. She would teach her how to ride and many other things, such as read, embroider, set traps, tell a bird by its trill, rear pups, arrange flowers …

  The minutes went by and Johan did not return. Brianda began to grow impatient and she went over to the door.

  “You heard what your father said, Brianda,” Marquo warned her. “Don’t even think about going inside.”

  “And if something has happened to him?”

  “What could happen?” he snapped, revealing his irritation.

  He was still shocked at Brianda’s behavior the previous afternoon. Defending a gypsy in public was not an act befitting a young noblewoman. And truly, she had warned him that her father had educated her in a peculiar manner. Seeing her ride like a man, dominating her large horse with mastery, was terribly attractive, as was her enjoyment of his kisses, and her desire to find out what men talked about. However, a small doubt clouded his feelings. On no account did he think of renouncing the opportunity to marry her, but his ideal woman was rather more docile, obedient, and disciplined, like his own mother. And possibly someone slightly thinner than Brianda, who, compared to the exquisite, stylized, and fair-skinned ladies of the court of King Philip, sometimes looked to him more like a pretty house servant. He let out a frustrated sigh. If Johan had not been so free with his daughter, it would not be up to Marquo now to repair the damage.

  Cecilia came over to Brianda.

  “I only know that people who go into places like this never come out,” Cecilia said in a low voice.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Marquo. “Those people are the sick ones.”

  “There are illnesses that appear in seconds,” said Cecilia with conviction. “You’re fine and the next minute you’re dead. I once saw a man with maggots in his guts who didn’t know it, because normally they are peaceful guests until something upsets them and then they begin to multiply and run around inside the stomach. This man was talking and, suddenly, he fell to the floor and began twisting in pain, as if he was possessed by a demon or under a spell. Soon afterwards, the worms began to spill out of his mouth and he died.”

  “You’re just making that up!” Marquo shouted at her. “Look at Brianda! You’ve frightened her!”

  “No, I saw it,” Cecilia insisted, looking intently at Brianda. “And he died. I swear.” She moved her head haughtily from side to side just as her new mistress had taught her, and said to Marquo, “And I never lie.”

  “How do I know you haven’t cast the evil eye on me, gypsy!” snarled Marquo.

  Brianda shivered. As far as she knew, intestinal worms were not life threatening, but she could not tell if Cecilia’s story was true or false. In any event, the way she had told it had been upsetting. Just the thought of never seeing her father again frightened her terribly.

  She turned around and marched into the building before the others had time to stop her.

  The first room, small and square, was empty and bereft of furniture. A penetrating and disagreeable smell stopped her for a few seconds. Brianda took out a handkerchief and held it to her nose, then decided to continue through the only door that she could see, which led to another, bigger room that seemed to lead to many others like a foyer. Several figures crossed in different directions without noticing her presence, concentrating on their overloaded trays full of jugs and cloths. The smell here was even more repulsive: it reminded her of the butcher’s in Tiles on a hot day. She almost retched and wanted to run away, but the desire to find Johan drove her forward.

  She peeked into the first room, and what she saw paralyzed her.

  She had seen beggars, people in rags, starving men, deformed bodies, and one or two dying people in her life, but always one at a time. They had not caused the same chilling effect on her spirit as the sight in front of her now, which her eyes felt incapable of absorbing.

  Scattered on the floor on straw mattresses were weak and wizened figures, tormented and moaning in pain. Some moved their fingers as if looking for a hand to hold; others opened and shut their mouths when they heard the scrawny monk doling out water from a bucket. The most unfortunate ones had not even the strength to shoo away the flies sticking to their wounds.

  Brianda backed out quickly, tears in her eyes. Then she heard her father’s voice at the far end of the long room. She felt a sharp pang of relief, wanting to throw herself into his arms, but caution held her back—she had again disobeyed him.

  And this time she was really sorry! Her father had wanted to spare her the horrible sights inside the hospital and the possibility of catching something from that foul air. If this was a hospital for servants of the king, she did not dare imagine what one for the poor, the abandoned, and the lepers would be like!

  Beside her in the foyer was a tall, carved cupboard, and Brianda leaned against its side, where she could listen without being seen.

  “Finish your task, Father,” she heard Johan say. “I can wait. Everyone needs a good death.”

  “I won’t be long,” said the priest. “If you wish, you may accompany me.”

  They entered a room opposite her. Brianda waited a few moments and began walking quickly toward the exit, but the sound of a strong and perfectly modulated voice reached her from the room that Johan and the priest, who carried a bundle of books, had gone into. “Illness is a sacred path that leads us to heaven to enjoy the Divine Essence. We should not deny or lament it but instead welcome it with virtuous acceptance. Dying has its good side; it is not something to fear.”

  After what she had just seen, it was difficult for Brianda to believe those words.

  The priest continued. “You should know that those who are about to die, when the last moment comes, have greater temptations and incitements from the devil than ever before. They are tempted to renounce God even though faith is the foundation of all salvation, to despair because of the rigors of divine justice, to be arrogant and look out for only themselves, to express impatience and disaffection with God because of the severity of their pain, and to be greedy due to their excessive attachment to family and estate.”

  Then he began to read the Passion and Death of Jesus Christ. Brianda had never heard anyone read with such perfect diction, clarity, and rhythm. She crept to the door and peeked in.

  A gaunt man with greenish-yellow skin lay on the floor. To his right, a crying woman dressed in rich clothes stroked his hand. To his left, a man with a tonsure and wearing a habit, whom she could only see from the side, held up a book. Johan, his head bowed to his chest and his hands clasped, stood a few steps away. The weak light of dusk, creeping in from a patio, cast a straw-colored light over the scene.

  “The power of Divine Mercy to forgive is infinitely greater,” continued the priest, “than man’s power to sin.” He leaned toward the dying man. “Do you believe that Jesus Christ, Our Lord, died for you?”

  “I do,” the man murmured.

  “Do you give thanks for this with all your heart?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you believe that you cannot be saved except through your death?”

  “I do.”

  “Then give thanks while
your soul is in your body. And put in this death all your solace and strength.” He paused. “Shroud everything in this death.” Another pause. “Now, be of good heart and good faith and give thanks to Our Lord God because you are in a state of grace. And firmly believe and say and confess that He alone is all your succor, all your defense, all your remedy, refuge, repair, redemption, remission, reconciliation, and all your salvation. And only in the Holy Cross and in the death of the Son of God be your heart, affection, and faith. Repeat with me: In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum.”

  With a faltering voice, the woman helped her husband repeat the act of deliverance: “Into your hands—O Lord—I commend—my spirit—”

  The priest then said to her, “If he has answered with true faith, you may have complete certainty of his salvation. Ensure that you comply with his final wishes over his spiritual remains for burial, masses, and donations. In the meantime, pray to the Holy Trinity, to God the Father, to God the Son, to the Virgin, to the guardian angels, and to the saints to whom your husband professed his devotion.”

  Brianda sensed that the ritual had reached its end and went outside before they saw her. The priest’s elaborate words echoed in her head. It was the first time she had heard a man of God take such time and care in seeing off a dying man.

  Outside, Cecilia threw her arms around her.

  “Why did you take so long? Is your father all right? And are you? What did you see?”

  Marquo, sitting on a rock, was sharpening a stick with the blade of his dagger. Without looking up, he said angrily, “You shouldn’t get so close to her. Who knows what plague she’s caught.”

  Brianda was going to answer in kind, but she heard Johan coming out, accompanied by the priest and his bundle of books. She went over to Marquo and whispered, “If you say anything to my father, I won’t kiss you for a year.”

  “Good. That way you can’t infect me with anything.”

  “I warn you that I mean it.”

  Johan apologized for taking so long and introduced the monk as Father Guillem, the new parish priest of Tiles, whom they would escort on his first trip to the mountains. He was a young man of little more than twenty years, not very tall but good-looking, of timid and modest appearance but with a subtle look of severity. In Brianda’s opinion, the voice she had heard fitted him perfectly. He was dressed in a linen tunic and a short cloak with a hood. From his waist hung a large rosary.