Return to Your Skin

by Luz Gabás

  “Be attentive in your daily conversations,” he concluded after a sermon of an hour and a half. “Words tie you and expose you.”

  He regarded them in silence for a few moments and then picked up a small sheaf of papers, undid the cord, and handed them to a young boy in the first bench. On the first page, there was a drawing of a tormented man writhing in a bed framed by demonic figures.

  “Every Sunday, I will tell you a true story so you can understand how important my words are. Observe the terrible images of the sinner.” He asked the boy to circulate the sheet. “Look at his blackened, purple, haggard, consumed body thrown on the dung heap by those he regarded as friends. He was left there to be devoured by dogs. Do you see? It is God who punishes him in this way. Divine Justice has punished the bad Christian—and I’ll tell you why—”

  A horse whinnied outside, making several parishioners jump. Father Guillem continued his story, but the horse did not stop stamping the ground so it disrupted the respectful silence Father Guillem needed for his words to have the desired effect. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw how the masters of the big houses exchanged worried glances, and, aware that he would not capture their attention again, he decided to wrap things up quickly.

  Nunilo and Johan hurried out, followed by Corso and Marquo. The rider was Surano.

  “What news?” Johan asked, holding the horse while Pere’s brother dismounted.

  When Surano saw the curious churchgoers behind them, he gestured for his friends to wait as he tied the reins to a tree. Once the church was empty, he led the lords of Tiles inside. Brianda tried to follow, but her mother stopped her.

  “In three weeks, Count Fernando will come to Aiscle to take possession of the county,” Surano told the men inside. “Pere has convened the General Council for the twenty-second of January.”

  Marquo uttered a satisfied exclamation.

  “And what is the mood like in Aiscle?” Nunilo, more cautious, wanted to know. The possibility of war was increasing daily.

  “Our men are still entrenched in their houses out of fear of Medardo.” Surano snorted. “Either this livens things up a bit or I’m going back to His Majesty’s army! Everybody seems to be holding their damn breath.”

  “Do you have any instructions for us?” Johan asked.

  “If you don’t hear otherwise from me, you and your men should be at the church in Aiscle at daybreak on that date. Come down together. Meanwhile, stay close to your families in case anything happens.”

  As the others left, Surano stopped Corso.

  “You’re looking well. What have you been up to?”

  Corso shrugged. “As long as you are here, I have nowhere else to go.”

  Surano raised his eyebrows. “You can’t fool me, Corso. Nunilo’s hospitality is not sufficient reason to keep you here. Be careful what you dream of—dreams are the work of the devil.”

  “Since I started eating better, my nights are more agreeable,” Corso said with an amused look. “And you taught me to not be afraid of even the devil.”

  Surano gave him a slap on the back.

  “Unless the devil takes the form of a woman. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Do you remember Lida? She promised she would wait for me, but she got tired and married Medardo. You should see how she looks at me now, with eyes like a lamb to the slaughter. I’d bet you anything she wants to ensnare me to give her husband an excuse to kill me. I never thought I would see the day when I couldn’t trust her. I’ve warned you before.”

  Corso thought of the day he had met Brianda outside the church in Monzon. It seemed as if centuries rather than a few months had passed. Surano had seen the look in his eyes and told him then that the women from his land were beautiful, but that their tears could not be trusted. Then he had added something about the blood of Lubich that coursed through her veins; it was the blood that prevented her from being with him. But if Corso was certain of anything, it was that he would never meet anyone so deserving of his trust as Brianda, who spoke to him frankly and renounced her feelings in order to meet her obligations. How could he not understand her when he’d spent his whole life obeying orders? Instead of doubting her, as Surano did, he would always stay close, hoping that the God Father Guillem talked about, or perhaps witchcraft—it was all the same to him—would change their destiny.

  “It sounds as if your fear of dying at Medardo’s hands is stronger than your faith in Lida.”

  Surano scratched his beard in confusion, but then immediately recovered his jovial spirits.

  “Let’s say I don’t know if it’s worth the risk. Also, it’s difficult for me to desire her after he’s been between her legs.” Trying to establish an exemplifying comparison, he added, “I just heard that Johan’s daughter is to be married to Bringuer’s son. So, it seems both of us are unlucky. Well, I’ve been unlucky; you just aimed too high. You’ve heard me say it before: maybe we should leave this place. I stay because I trust the count will pay us well for our services. Pere is a generous man, but I don’t like depending on him. If it comes to it, I assume you’ll come with me.”

  Corso did not answer, but he prayed that the moment would never come when he would have to leave that land, cold but lush, rough but patient, where Brianda lived.

  The lords of Tiles and Besalduch and their men trained with their swords in the yards until the heavy January snows drove them into the hay barns. The male servants tended to the animals, stables, and firewood; the women took care of laundering and sewing the clothes and of cautiously rationing the supplies. Meanwhile, Brianda was bored, and she was frustrated she was not allowed to take part in the training. How could she defend Lubich, if it came to that, if the men would not even let her practice shooting an arquebus?

  On a cold but sunny morning, Johan decided to improve Brianda’s mood by asking her to go with him to Tiles, to the house of the carpenter. Accompanied by Gisabel and Cecilia, they collected some mules and took the path that joined Lubich to the church before going down to the lower part of Tiles.

  “Why are you bringing an unladen mule, Father?” Brianda wanted to know. “Are we collecting someone?”

  Johan shook his head but did not dispel her doubts.

  When they got to the workshop, they found a small, wrinkled man contemplating a section of tree trunk about an arm in length. He greeted Johan amiably.

  “From this piece of walnut, I must fashion a Virgin for Father Guillem. I’ve never had such a difficult order.”

  “Not even mine?”

  With a knowing smile, the carpenter named Domingo signaled them to follow him to another, slightly bigger, room. On the table, he pointed to a small chest decorated with geometric designs and with handles at the sides. He opened the lid, and they saw small compartments and little drawers inside. It was a beautiful, delicate, and costly piece of furniture.

  “It’s for you, Brianda,” Johan announced.

  Brianda jumped into his arms.

  “It looks like yours but even prettier! Thank you!”

  “I thought you would like it as a wedding present. Although I expect to live for many more years, you will soon have to take charge of your own records regarding Lubich and its administration. I know Marquo will help you, but you will have to explain many things to your children, as we have done with you. You cannot and must not hold a sword, but you will govern my estate.”

  Brianda stroked the chest again and again and pulled on the small, hazelnut-shaped knobs on each of the drawers. Meanwhile, Gisabel and Cecilia amused themselves by touching the tools and small carvings strewn all over the place until they stopped in a dark corner.

  “And this strange wardrobe?” Gisabel asked.

  “It’s for the priest,” Domingo answered. “It’s a confessional.”

  “To keep his clothes?” Cecilia asked innocently, and the others smiled.

  Domingo opened the lattice door, went in, and sat down.

  “From now on, Father Guillem wants there to be a physical barrier
during the sacrament of confession. He will sit here, and we will kneel in front to confess our sins.”

  “How uncomfortable!” Cecilia exclaimed.

  “It’s not finished yet,” added Domingo. “It still needs to be decorated.”

  “How do you do that?” Brianda asked, still admiring the workmanship of her chest.

  Domingo picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a small birch leaf on a piece of wood. Then, he took a small chisel and hit it with a mallet so that shavings, looking like bread soup, flew off.

  “I can carve in the leaf or around it if I want it in relief,” he explained. “It’s not so difficult. It only takes patience. Do you want to try?”

  “I do!” said Gisabel. She picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a flower. “That’s dreadful! How did you learn to draw?”

  Domingo shrugged. “One day I just started, and I wasn’t bad at it.”

  Cecilia copied Gisabel, but found she could not draw either.

  “You know who draws really well?” Cecilia asked. “Corso!”

  “Corso?” Brianda regretted her anxious tone and tried to hide it with derision. “Who would have thought someone like him could draw.”

  “I stumbled upon him drawing when you were ill in Anels House. He showed me some of his drawings and made me promise not to tell anybody.” Cecilia raised her hand to her mouth. “And now I have! Promise you won’t tell him!”

  “Of course not, Cecilia,” Brianda assured her. “And what were the drawings of? I doubt they were flowers.”

  “Horses, forests, faces … A little bit of everything.”

  Johan grinned at Domingo. “So, if you don’t know how to decorate the confessional, just appeal to Corso for help!” he joked. “Well, we’re off. Can we load up Brianda’s piece now?”

  Domingo nodded, and Johan asked Gisabel and Cecilia to bring the blankets that were with the mule.

  Then, Domingo turned his attention to Brianda and the chest. He opened the door to the biggest compartment, and asked her to put her hand inside.

  “Can you feel a little notch?”

  Brianda nodded, and Domingo handed her a key the size of a pin nail.

  “We all should have a place to keep our secrets,” he said. “There is a false bottom inside.”

  Brianda smiled and thanked him. She took a gold chain from around her neck, hung the small key on it, and made sure that it was well hidden under her blouse.

  “Domingo’s secret drawers are difficult to find,” Johan said. “Where have you put the mark on Brianda’s piece?”

  Domingo held the lid and ran a finger along one of the hinges.

  “Here, do you see it?”

  Brianda leaned down and looked closely until she saw a small notch shaped like a boxwood sprig, the emblem of the count’s followers.

  “I hope that nearly all of your orders come from our side,” Brianda commented.

  Domingo picked up the charcoal, crouched down, and drew a small gorse flower and a boxwood sprig on the back of the confessional.

  “I thought about putting both symbols.” He gave Johan a meaningful look. “What do you think, sir?”

  Johan frowned. At his age, he had learned that some changed sides with the same ease as pulling a weed. He had faith in his own loyalty and that of the count’s other followers, but sensed that difficult and very distressing times lay ahead.

  “You’re right, Domingo,” he finally answered. “We will all kneel here and only God will know our true intentions.”

  Gisabel and Cecilia returned with the blankets and helped Domingo to wrap up Brianda’s delicate chest and tie it to the mule with ropes. When they got on the road home, it was almost time to eat.

  Brianda rode in silence. Her father’s comment about true intentions, which only God would know, mixed in her head with the teachings of Father Guillem. The day she had to explain herself before the Creator, she would probably receive the most terrible of punishments. When Domingo had shown her the false bottom, she had immediately been taken with the fear that no hiding place was safe enough for her greatest secret. All her thoughts, from dawn to dusk, revolved around one person, the person with whom she maintained a running dialogue in her head through all her daily tasks. As if he could hear and understand her, she explained how she felt when the snowflakes covered the roofs and courtyards of Lubich, she told him how many stitches she still had to embroider to finish her monogram on the soft linen that would cover the bed she would soon share with another, she described the enjoyment she got from the slow expansion of Gisabel’s belly, she offered him the first bites of freshly baked bread …

  She was lying to Marquo, to her friends, to her parents, and to God because she desired Corso more than she ever thought she could desire anything. She had even imagined, in that moment before sleep, that Marquo and her parents died and Lubich disappeared and then Corso appeared and carried her far away, so desperate was her yearning.

  Yes. The lie, the unfaithfulness toward Lubich and toward Marquo, and the images of carnal contact with Corso would sentence her to hell. But …

  Could there ever be a worse sentence than having to renounce Corso?

  22.

  It was still dark on January 22, 1586, when Brianda, her body taut with fear, hugged Johan under the stone lintel at the entrance to Lubich Manor.

  “Be very careful, Father.” Her teeth chattered from the cold and the nerves. “Are you sure the king’s credentials will be enough to ensure your safety?”

  Johan stroked her hair, as black as the snow on the roofs was white.

  “Fear is the proof of low birth, Daughter.”

  He placed a light kiss on his daughter’s cheek, mounted his horse, and, followed by his men and servants, rode toward the mill in Tiles, where he had arranged to meet Nunilo and Marquo.

  An hour later, Johan, Nunilo, and Marquo, accompanied by Corso and a dozen men, entered the town of Aiscle. The streets were deserted, feigning a sleepiness betrayed by the flickering shadows of candles behind the windows.

  Instead of crossing the main street, they took an icy path to the upper part of the town where the church was located. There, horses tied to the wall of the abbey told them the count had already arrived. They knocked at the door, and it was opened by Pere, who received them with the same expression of relief as the count.

  Count Fernando, looking thinner and older since they had seen him in Monzon, was seated at a large table near the altar. He greeted them warmly.

  “I have sent for Medardo,” he told them. “He won’t be long.”

  “How do you know?” Nunilo asked.

  “Father Guillem has offered himself as mediator to guarantee his safety,” responded Pere.

  “The town is too quiet, sir,” Marquo said to the count. “I find it strange that both you and we were able to enter without any problem.”

  “I do too,” said Surano, calculating that between the lords of the valleys and the count’s soldiers they did not even have thirty men. “We are well armed, but we are few.”

  “Maybe they have realized that they can do nothing against the king’s orders.” Johan pointed at some papers on the table. “Are those the credentials?”

  The count nodded. Then, two of their men warned them that some men were approaching. They opened the door, and Guillem, Medardo, Jayme, and a fourth man, who Medardo introduced as his brother, entered. The priest remained beside the door and the others strutted arrogantly toward the count.

  Without greeting him, Medardo declared, “The local council will meet in the square in one hour to hear what you have to say.”

  “We had agreed to meet in the church,” said the count.

  “Either you come to the square or you will have wasted the journey.”

  Count Fernando looked dubiously at Pere and Johan.

  “And what guarantees do you give that there will be peace?” Pere asked.

  Medardo kept his gaze fixed on the count. “Nothing will happen if your nobles do nothing. You have
my word.”

  “Your word is as weak as a beggar in February!” Marquo shouted.

  Father Guillem stepped forward to intercede, but Medardo was unperturbed. “We will be there in an hour. If we had wanted to attack you, we would have already done so.”

  Medardo turned around and left, followed by his brother and Jayme.

  “You are not thinking of going, are you?” Marquo asked.

  The count looked at him, trying to place the young man. Pere came to his aid.

  “He is the second son of Bringuer of Besalduch,” Pere whispered. “He was in Monzon. The heir of his house did not wish to come, but this younger son’s loyalty more than makes up for the elder’s indecisiveness.”

  “Do you have a better idea, lad?” Count Fernando asked Marquo.

  “What if we finally confront them once and for all?” interrupted Surano, resting his hand on his sword. “We are few but well trained.” He pointed to Corso, who nodded in agreement. “We know who they are and we know where they live. Let’s go after Medardo. Our justification is in those papers.”

  With his hands nervously fingering his sword, the count paced the room for a few minutes.

  “It is not my wish that this land be upset anymore,” he finally said. “When they hear what I have to say, they will know that I have right on my side—that the king says so. What sort of master would I be if I whipped those I ask to serve me? Let’s go and get it over with.”