by Luz Gabás
They mounted their horses and began distancing themselves from Monzon. After riding in silence for some time, Johan said to Father Guillem, “Pere of Aiscle has told me about your excellent preparation, unusual for someone as young as yourself.”
“That is thanks to my uncle, the previous bishop.”
“I hope you won’t think it wasted in the mountain villages.”
Father Guillem gave him a puzzled look, as if trying to decide whether Johan was being ironic.
“Do you know what my uncle said when he decided to send me to Aiscle? Knowing my wish to go off and follow in the steps of illustrious Dominicans like Bartolomé de las Casas and Francisco de Vitoria, he said to me, ‘I’m not sending you off to colonize and evangelize, as here in this very place there is a land that needs order and discipline.’ I suppose you know better than I the meaning of his words.”
Johan nodded slightly. Since the building of the cathedral and the founding of the bishopric of Barbastro fourteen years ago, territorial disputes had arisen between the new diocese and the monastery of Besalduch. The bishop had gone behind the abbot’s back and visited Aiscle, Tiles, and other villages in western Orrun to show them the documents that accredited the new boundaries, using as arguments the principles and canon law established by the Council of Trent. Abbot Bartholomeu of Besalduch and his monks responded fiercely to the attack on their ancient rights—not to mention their tithes—refusing to carry out their duties and even threatening those same villagers with excommunication. He refused to accept that the donations of the faithful would be taken by another. Just like the count’s lawsuit with the king over the county, the religious conflict continued. And the lords of Orrun defended the count and the abbot. Nevertheless, Johan preferred to act with caution.
“The lords of the mountains,” Johan said, “continue to pay dues for the benefit of our souls.”
“That is good, Johan, as the salvation of your souls is the one mission with which God and my earthly superiors have entrusted me.”
Brianda, who had followed the conversation with interest, suddenly felt a shiver run through her body.
19.
When they all met that night to pitch camp beside the dam at Fonz, Corso sensed that something was wrong with Brianda. The impetuous young woman’s eyes had dimmed, and she did not say a word before going to sleep or when the journey continued early the next morning. He deduced that there had been a disagreement with Marquo, who did not even deign to look at her, which was something he had done constantly in Monzon, with a glint of possessiveness in his eyes. Corso knew that if Brianda belonged to him nothing would prevent him from looking at her at all hours, and, instead of glinting, his eyes would gleam. But he knew a girl like her would never notice someone like him, a man brutalized by war with no profession other than killing for a living. Other soldiers fought convinced they were serving a land, a king, a god. He did not. He had never had anything personal to fight for because he had never had anything. When Surano had saved his life in a skirmish, it was the first time someone had helped him without demanding something in return, and that was reason enough to owe him loyalty. No matter what Surano did, Corso would accompany him, support him, and defend him.
They left behind the golden fields, and the air became fresher. By midafternoon, they began to climb a damp, rocky outcrop overgrown with ferns. The path was so narrow and steep that they had to ride single file and considerably spread out from one another. Without ever taking his eyes off Brianda, Corso made sure that Surano and he rode behind the lords and women and in front of the rest of the troop. He’d heard a servant say that many past travelers had fallen into the deep precipice on the left, and the little gypsy refused to ride at all, trusting her own feet over the bouncing horses.
Corso saw Brianda’s shoulders sink more and more, as if she struggled to remain upright. Her rocking on the horse became pronounced, a swaying he’d seen in wounded men about to faint. Without a second thought, he rode up next to Brianda and placed his horse between hers and the edge of the cliff moments before Brianda fell over. Corso held her by the waist with one hand and with the other grabbed the reins to stop her horse. Then, he lifted her in the air and put her in front of him on his horse, still unconscious in his arms. Surano came to his aid and took charge of Brianda’s horse.
“You have saved this woman’s life,” he said. “She and her family are much in debt to you.”
Corso used those moments of proximity to Brianda’s body to observe her closely. He ran his gaze over her face, her fine eyebrows, the line of her nose, the faint purple of her slightly opened lips. He remembered the forceful way she had pleaded with him to intercede for the gypsy and how she had punched him in the chest. He much preferred her awake, but he couldn’t help hoping she’d take her time waking up because he knew he’d never again hold her so close. He took advantage of the moment and caressed her forehead, noticing it was too hot, and he dared to run his fingers through her soft dark hair until a slight flutter of her eyelids told him the beautiful moment had passed.
Brianda slowly opened her eyes and discovered the sky above her. For a few seconds, she felt a pleasant tranquility and a comforting surrender to the rocking, the repetitive sound of the hooves against the stones, the fresh air on her cheeks, and the soft support under her neck. She turned her head slightly and met a man’s deep and penetrating stare. Then she began to remember. The exhaustion. The ache all over her body. The increasing pain in her head. The nausea. The distress at what she had seen in the hospital. The shivers.
“How did I get here, Corso?” she asked.
“You fainted on your horse when we were going along the precipice,” he answered, pleased that her first reaction had not been to pull away from him.
“And you got there in time to catch me.”
“Yes. I’m used to having to react quickly.”
“Thank you.” She sighed deeply. “I don’t feel well.”
“I think you have a fever.”
“Yes.”
Brianda closed her eyes and remained that way for a while, then grimaced.
“Do you need to change position?” Corso asked.
“I don’t know. Everything is sore.”
Gently, Corso helped her sit up. She rested her head against his chest, and his heart fluttered. He would have done anything to keep her there forever. But he also felt the excessive heat and weakness of her body, and it worried him.
“How far are we from Aiscle?” she asked after a while.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, of course. You’ve never been there. We must be nearly at the top. Soon you’ll see the mountains in the background and the valley at your feet, with all the autumn colors decanted over the forests. Let me know.”
Brianda fell asleep. For a second, Corso panicked, thinking now that he had just gotten to know her, that he had just saved her, she might be seriously ill or she might die. Brianda had spoken to him as if he were a man and not an animal. She had not shouted at him, and she had not been frightened. She had not shown displeasure at his appearance or the fact that he had her in his arms. The fever may have clouded her reactions a bit but not to the level of delirium. She had asked him to tell her when he saw the valley and the mountains, and he would, because from now on he would do anything she asked. It would not be much, unfortunately, as their paths would part at the end of the journey.
The ascent finally ended, but the lords riding far in front did not stop. Corso deduced that they were afraid of letting night fall on them during the descent, so they were attempting to reach the valley as quickly as possible. There they would discover Brianda’s illness and take steps to help her. Meanwhile, he could hold her in his arms a little longer.
He whispered her name several times until she answered.
“We are starting to descend, Brianda. I will have to hold on to you tighter as the slope is steep.”
“Tell me what you see.”
“On the horizon, high mountains
.”
“And is there snow on the summits?”
“Yes, some. And closer, a huge solitary mountain.”
“Beles Peak, which reigns over Tiles. Did you know I live in a place called Lubich? It’s very beautiful. You must come see it.”
“Maybe one day.” He would have to find a good excuse, he thought, and the sooner the better. “On the sunny slopes of the mountains, I can see small groups of houses among the woods and, at their feet, meadows, plowed fields, herds, and flocks.”
“They are now preparing to take the livestock to the lowlands. It’s sad.”
“Sad? Why?”
“The good-byes. The men won’t return until spring. The women are left alone. One of the servants in my house, Gisabel, got married two years ago, and most of the time her husband is gone. Thank goodness that won’t happen to me.”
“Ah, really? Why not?”
“Because I won’t marry a peasant.”
Corso remained silent. Or a soldier, he thought bitterly. After a few seconds, he said sarcastically, “Some women must be happy to see the backs of their men.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Brianda laughed, but the laugh made her cough so much that she was exhausted and fell back asleep.
Just before the end of the descent, she suddenly woke and said, “By the entrance to the church, one of the ragged boys came so close I could smell his terrible breath. He had black scabs around his mouth and spots on his skin. I might have caught the plague.”
“That’s not plague. If it were, the gates of the city would have been closed and the king would have left.”
“Well typhus, spotted fever, or whatever else that kills.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“In the hospital, I saw horrible things. The people were all dying in terrible pain.”
“And what were you doing in the hospital?”
“I went to look for my father because he was taking a long time. When was that? Yesterday. I got infected there. But you can’t tell my father. He told me not to go in, and I disobeyed him.”
“Illness like that doesn’t appear overnight,” Corso assured her. “What you have is a simple cold. Your father doesn’t have to find out about yesterday.”
“Have you seen people die, Corso?”
Many, he thought, and killed more.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I can’t stop thinking about what I saw. I’m too young to die. I haven’t even married, and I need to have children who can inherit Lubich.”
“You’re young and strong. Get those thoughts out of your head.”
“I can’t. Father Guillem told a dying man that it’s good because he was closer to God, but those poor people didn’t look happy. I wish there was something to make me forget their faces.”
He would probably regret what he was about to do, but Corso followed his instinct rather than his common sense.
“Look at me, Brianda.”
When she raised her head, he leaned down and kissed her lips, ardent and parched from the fever. The kiss was not sweet or gentle or delicate. What he wanted to do was to bite her, extract her heat, wake her from her lethargy, bring her back to a life where there would only be strength, energy, taut muscles, throbbing veins. Her body was not going to die, could not die, and her soul was not going to languish, not while he was near.
Brianda did not pull away. All Marquo’s kisses together did not equal the power of this one. Momentarily, she forgot her sore body, and her mind was emptied of fear.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, looking into his eyes.
“I know.”
“Now you’ll get sick as well.”
Corso laughed in delight. “If that’s all you’re worried about, I’m willing to risk it a thousand times.”
Corso leaned down and kissed her again, this time with a tenderness that surprised even him. When they parted slightly, Brianda rested against his chest and looked as if she had surrendered to a moment of happy stupor.
“Now when you close your eyes,” he whispered, “you will only see me.”
Just after reaching the valley, Johan turned and saw his daughter on Corso’s horse. He rode quickly toward them. He had not seen Brianda so feverish since she was a child. He gave orders to the servants to bring the large group to a halt, let the horses graze beside the river, and make up an improvised bed on which the girl could rest. Then he returned, lifted his daughter off the horse, and laid her down by the river. Cecilia, her feet destroyed by the hours of climbing the rocky path, forgot about her own pain and sat beside Brianda to dampen her face, wrists, and ankles with a cloth soaked in cold water. As Father Guillem murmured some prayers, Johan thought of the previous day’s last rites and shivered. Crestfallen, he sat down on a rock a few steps away.
“I don’t understand. When we left Monzon, she was like a rose. Maybe it’s just fatigue.”
Bringuer shook his head. “She has a high fever and we have nothing to treat her.”
Father Guillem came over and said, “They are the symptoms of the parliament typhus. I have been in the hospital for weeks and seen similar cases.”
“But many have had it and survived,” Bringuer hurriedly added.
“If she is ill now, we are all in danger,” Johan again intervened. “You most of all, Corso.”
Marquo took a couple of steps back. “I told her not to go in the hospital,” he said in a huff, “but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
Johan looked up sharply.
“She went in?”
“To look for you because you were taking so long. I warned her that nothing good could come of going in a place like that.”
“She told me she only peeked in the entrance,” Corso said to defend her. “Besides, you can’t get infected that quickly. With so many sick people in the streets, anyone could catch it.”
Nunilo rubbed his beard pensively and asked, “What shall we do now? It’s a short distance to Aiscle, but I don’t know if anyone would shelter us, given her state.”
“My house will,” Pere said.
“Thank you, Pere, but even so, it’s very risky,” Nunilo said. “Lubich is still far away, and she is very weak. If we stay here, we are exposed to Medardo’s bandits—plus, we don’t even have a goddamned jar of vinegar to help get her fever down.”
Father Guillem clucked his tongue in reproach, but Nunilo ignored him.
Then, Surano returned from surveying the area.
“Guess who’s coming.” He did not wait for an answer. “Medardo and his brother-in-law Jayme, with a dozen men.”
They all jumped up in search of their weapons. Pere calculated the distance that separated them and realized they would not have enough time to flee unless they abandoned the horses. They opted to face them head-on at the foot of the slope. Together, their group tripled Medardo’s in number.
Johan spoke to Marquo, “You, don’t move from Brianda’s side.”
“I’d prefer to fight,” Marquo responded, patting his arquebus.
Corso knew those words were not spoken out of bravery but from Marquo’s fear of contagion. He went to Johan and said, “I’ll take care of her.”
“You helped her just the other day, and today you saved her life.” Johan looked at him with eyes full of gratitude. He saw in the face of that rough, dirty, young soldier a certain nobility. “I hope her life is not in danger.”
“Not with me,” Corso asserted.
One of Medardo’s men, who had gone ahead to scout for any danger, had informed them that Pere and his group had stopped at the entrance to the valley. But Jayme and Medardo decided to continue on. They were convinced that, with the king’s resolution in hand, the count’s ever-cautious men would not risk getting blood on their hands—at least not for the moment. Nevertheless, they made sure that all their arquebuses were loaded.
Medardo cursed when he saw Surano. Where the devil had he come from? He noticed the sprig of boxwood in his jerkin
and frowned in disgust. He had come to hate that bush. The lords of Orrun were arrogant even in that: they had chosen as their emblem that immortal evergreen plant, certain that it would thrive even in the frozen inferno to which he would send them.
By the hatred in Surano’s eyes, Medardo knew the rascal had been informed of his wedding to Lida. Medardo wondered if they had told him how pleased she was to be the wife of the most famous man in the region. Lida valued his ambition, which was nothing but the defense of the people against the tyranny of a count who did not even live there. Bit by bit, his cause was gaining ground. He was the son of a peasant who now rubbed shoulders with the king’s ministers, something unheard of. He was close to achieving his dream of being the first commoner named justice or general bailiff of the county. And if he could do it, so could others.
Surano brought the arquebus dangerously close to his face, and Medardo realized that, if one shot was fired, even by accident, nothing could prevent a bloodbath. And, being so outnumbered, his men would be the losers. He signaled to his men to lower their weapons.
He found Pere and spoke to him. “We are not here to fight. Like you, we are returning from Monzon, and we want to get home quickly after having been away for these past weeks.”
“Your words cannot be trusted,” replied Pere. “The last time you promised peace, the count barely made it out of Aiscle alive.”
“That day he provoked the situation with his attitude.” Medardo leaned on his horse’s withers. “He came as lord to the place where he was least wanted. Each time he does so, he will get the same reception.”
“He says he doesn’t want to fight, and yet he threatens,” whispered Bringuer beside Nunilo. “We won’t have a better chance to be done with him than today.”