Return to Your Skin

by Luz Gabás

  Several soldiers approached with torches.

  “Medardo!” repeated the count. “We are going to burn the house!”

  After a few moments of silence, Medardo peeked around the chimney, then hid again. No way could he get out of that situation alive. Nobody could come to his aid, and even if they did, they could do nothing against the count’s men. How naïve he had been to think that they would not take reprisals after the last confrontation and the hanging of Nunilo of Tiles! At first, his men watched the roads day and night, but for the last month, they had let down their guard, believing that the count must be off relating his problems to the justice and the king. Medardo saw that he had no option but to surrender. He fingered a fine leather bag inside his breeches and breathed in relief. The count’s weak character would spare Medardo, and afterward, the king’s minister would get him out of this bind. The papers he always carried would save him. It had been a good idea to get them in Monzon.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “If I can trust your word, I will surrender!”

  “Come down; nothing will happen to you!” Count Fernando assured him.

  A few moments later, Medardo quietly came out the front door. They dragged him to the same square where the council had been disrupted in January and exhibited him as proof that the ringleader had been captured and the uprising was over.

  “Do you see that despicable smile?” Marquo asked the others in a whisper. “He still believes he will be saved.”

  Pere gritted his teeth. As much as he wished to support the count, it was difficult for him not to shoot Medardo down. Images of what he and his men had done to his wife, Maria, and his friend Nunilo flashed through his mind. It was also Medardo’s fault that Surano had been sent for reinforcements and died. Pere knew Medardo would try to use his contacts in court to save himself and restart the rebellion. As long as that traitor was alive, there would be no peace. An idea came to his mind. He wondered whether to share it with Johan and Marquo, but feared they might talk him out of it. So, he called one of his men over and whispered in his ear, “Go over and stick a dagger in him. I’ll reward you better than you could ever imagine.”

  The man nodded. He approached Medardo from behind and stuck the blade into his kidney. Medardo let out a cry and fell, and when they realized what had happened, several of Nunilo’s soldiers joined in, plunging their daggers into Medardo repeatedly.

  The count gawked at the lords of Orrun.

  “I gave my word!” he exclaimed.

  “And how many times did he break his?” said Pere.

  “You—”

  The count did not finish his sentence. What good was it now to confront his own followers?

  Before the terrified stares of the townspeople, the soldiers tore off Medardo’s clothes and dragged his corpse through the square until they tired of it. Then, one of them took out his sword and sliced off Medardo’s head with one blow. The head rolled, spitting blood, while being kicked from boot to boot like a ball, until the count, horrified, ordered that it be taken to the entrance to the town and stuck on a pike as a warning.

  Johan noticed a pouch among Medardo’s clothes, and inside it, letters. He read one, then went over to the count.

  “Here you have the proof. His Majesty’s minister urgently requests him to make the towns of Orrun rise up and to foment disobedience toward your person.”

  The count read all the letters one by one, turning red with fury. It was one thing to suspect foul play in the king’s entourage and a very different one to confirm it with his own eyes. No matter how much he still wanted to defend the king, it was hard to believe that the monarch was not aware of such machinations. He realized then how stupid he had been to believe in justice and in recovering what was his peacefully. The letters showed that his attack on Aiscle had been more than justified. What could they do from Castile once he had taken legal possession? Nothing. The scales had finally tipped in his favor.

  He sent a soldier to ring the church bell as a signal that they were finally going to hold a General Council, and ordered everyone to stand with him. When he considered that the square was sufficiently full, he spoke:

  “Today, sedition in these lands has been suffocated, and I take possession of the lands of Orrun, of the ninety leagues, the seventeen towns, the two hundred and sixteen hamlets, and the four thousand inhabitants. I am accompanied by the lords of the main towns, and I delegate civil and criminal administration to them. Pere of Aiscle will, from now on, be my deputy in the county; Johan of Tiles, the general bailiff; and young Marquo of Besalduch, the justice.

  “As requested by His Majesty, you will obey me as your lord. It is my right to receive four hundred and fifty sueldos annually on Saint Martin’s Day, with the outstanding amount from previous years, plus maintenance when I am in the town, the maravedi tax every seven years, five sueldos for grazing rights, and nothing more.

  “I swear the laws, privileges, and liberties of the Kingdom of Aragon and of the county as those before me have been accustomed to swear, keep, and obey. I shall suspend the sentences of those rebels who desire peace and hold no prejudice against them. It is time to forget the past and move forward together.”

  The count finished his speech by putting his signature to a prepared document he had brought with him and made his new administrators sign as well. He gave each a firm handshake and bade them farewell, intending to return to Zaragoza immediately to personally inform the viceroy.

  Jayme of Cuyls, hiding out in the hills near Aiscle, heard about the attack from his sister Lida. Disguised as a peasant, Jayme crept into town and learned that Medardo had been killed in cold blood. He took a small alleyway toward the square, arriving just as a soldier swung Medardo’s bloody and blackened head in the air, exhibiting it like a hunting trophy.

  Jayme felt like vomiting and, then, launching himself against the count and his men to erase the smug expressions from their faces. Did they really think it was over? From the count’s words it seemed so. He spoke arrogantly of his rights to Orrun, how they would resume paying unjust dues to an unknown person far away. Had the revolts of the previous years served no purpose? The count was a fool. Pardon the rebels and reward his own men? Jayme himself would show him that Medardo wasn’t the only one who wanted him gone. The king favored the rebellion for his own interest, of course, not for the well-being of the territory, but the king would never bother to visit such distant lands as long as they did not disturb him. With or without Medardo, the only way that Orrun would be governed by the people was by finishing off the count and his followers.

  And he knew exactly where to start.

  He returned to the hills and sent for Medardo’s loyal men. He explained his plan and convinced them of the need to avenge Medardo’s death and of the great reward they would receive from his own hands.

  Drunk on victory and convinced that the land was now peaceful; nothing would be easier than finishing off Johan of Lubich in his own house.

  However, Jayme would not go with them. No one must connect him to that matter, as his dream was to occupy Johan’s place in his house and in the county.

  Pere and Captain Agut remained in Aiscle. The former because he wanted to restore his house after so long away; the latter because his men had earned a good rest of wine and women.

  After saying good-bye to Marquo, Johan first took the road to Tiles and then the fork for Lubich. He was tired and hungry, and he only wanted to get home, take a hot bath, have dinner, and ask Elvira to share his bed that night. The day had been long and intense, but there had hardly been any deaths. Medardo’s death had surprised and weakened his followers and relieved not only the nobles but also the many peasants and artisans tired of the revolt, the pillaging, and the uncertainty. Like Domingo the carpenter had admitted on one occasion, it made no difference to him whether he paid dues to a count or a king; what really worried him was bringing up his family in peace and enjoying good harvests. Of course, Domingo had not been educated in the noble concepts of ho
nor and loyalty of one lord to a higher one. It had been so since the time of Ramiro I of Aragon, five hundred years ago, as attested in the documents compiled by Pere in the marvelous archives Medardo’s savages had destroyed.

  He tried to put aside his mistrustful thoughts on the count’s economic requests and his rapid departure, and to enjoy the grayish colors of the dusk.

  Suddenly, a strong smell of burning wood came to him from Lubich. A terrible foreboding gripped him. He spurred on his horse and set off at a gallop, shouting like a man possessed for the men with him to hurry up.

  Flames were coming from one of the hay barns, but no one was working to put out the fire. Johan entered the house shouting out for his wife and his daughter.

  “Johan,” he heard Elvira yell. “They have locked me in! They have Brianda! Run!”

  “Who has her? Where did they take her?”

  “To the tower!”

  Johan unsheathed his sword and charged out to the patio.

  “Look!” His men pointed upward in the direction of the tower.

  Johan looked up and saw his daughter, gagged, dangling by one arm from the window.

  “Johan of Lubich!” a voice shouted. “Come up alone or she falls!”

  His men surrounded him.

  “A dozen of them have occupied the tower,” said one. “We could confront them, but your daughter—”

  “I’ll come up!” he shouted.

  “Throw down your sword!”

  Johan did so, and Brianda was pulled inside. Johan ran to the base of the tower. He burst through the door and some men pushed him up the narrow stone steps until he got to the landing where two men were holding Brianda. His daughter’s eyes reflected terror and terrible sadness. Why did you come? they seemed to say. Now both of us will die.

  “You have me now,” said Johan in a firm voice. “Let her go!”

  They did so and Brianda ran to his arms. Johan removed the gag and caressed her face. She did not scream or cry. She just kept her eyes fixed upon her father’s in a silent dialogue. She memorized the shine of his eyes, the first white hairs in his bushy eyebrows, the fine lines around his eyes. She felt like when she was a child and he used to comfort her after a nightmare, but this time she did not think she would wake up.

  “Let her go before we change our minds,” said one gruffly.

  Johan rested his hands on his daughter’s shoulders.

  “Go to your mother, Brianda.” He tried to keep his voice steady but could not stop it from breaking when he pronounced her name. He took off his emerald ring and handed it to her. “Mind it. And mind yourself. No matter what happens, keep the name of Lubich alive.” He kissed her tenderly and gently pushed her away. “Remember the motto of our family since the time of Prince Peter, whose father, James II of Aragon, granted him the County of Orrun in 1322.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Here I take all. With me.”

  Brianda gave him a final embrace and barreled down the stairs, squeezing the ring so tight her palm bled, not hearing the laughs and vulgar comments of the men who ran their hands over her, not caring about bruising or scratching her skin against the stone walls. She stumbled out to the yard and grabbed a sword from one her father’s soldiers with the idea of fighting herself.

  “Get up there now!” she roared. “Do something!”

  The man took the sword from her.

  “If anything happens to you, your father’s act will have served for naught. Hide yourself in a safe place, and we will do our job.”

  Brianda ran toward the house, but at the last second, changed her mind. She followed the narrow path behind the tower and sat down on a rock. There, where Corso had kissed her, where she had come so many times in search of peace, she now heard the shouts of the soldiers, the clash of their swords. She covered her ears with her hands, but the sound of her panicked breathing was more upsetting than the sounds of the fight. She cursed her servants, who had hidden when they saw the men. She cursed the count for having taken all his soldiers with him. And she cursed her own weakness. If only she were as strong as Corso, she alone would have defended Lubich. Tears rolled down her cheeks when she remembered Corso. Everyone she most loved was disappearing. First Nunilo, then Corso, and now her father’s life hung by a thread. A few months ago, everything was happy and new for her. Now, the world seemed worse than Father Guillem’s hell.

  Suddenly, the noise stopped. Puzzled, she looked up just in time to see her father’s body and hear his voice as he fell past her and continued to fall, smashing against the rocks of the cliff, spilling his blood at the feet of unperturbed Beles Peak, and disappearing into the abyss.

  For a month, Brianda was incapable of pronouncing a word. She locked herself in her room and refused to attend the funeral of her father, Johan of Lubich, whose remains took a week to recover. She would not talk to Marquo, for whom Johan’s death had increased the urgency of the wedding. She rejected condolences, even from Leonor, and even more from that shady cousin, Jayme of Cuyls, who consoled her mother too ardently while publicly proclaiming his acceptance of the count’s rule. She could not stand to meet Gisabel’s infant son, no matter how Cecilia insisted there was no better cure for grief than to embrace the newly born.

  To Brianda, nothing mattered.

  The same tears she shed for her father also served to unleash her grief over Corso’s death, for which she had not been able to cry in order to keep up appearances.

  The same pain that racked her heart for the loss of Johan brought back memories of her encounters with Corso, few but deep, fleeting but eternal. She would give her soul to the very devil to see his penetrating gaze, to hear his deep voice, to feel his rough skin, to taste another kiss, just one …

  The only thing that prevented her from throwing herself into the same abyss where Johan had died was her father’s last words. If nothing mattered, if she could hardly breathe, how could she keep the name of Lubich alive? But he had not forced a promise out of her, he had simply asked. How could she ignore his request? Ending her life would mean letting her father down and dishonoring everything he had fought for, forfeiting Lubich.

  Her life did not belong to her alone.

  She finally swore one day that she would pull through this grief, never suspecting that what awaited her was much worse than anything her aggrieved mind could imagine.

  24.

  2013

  A persistent, loud, and repetitive noise, as if from a strange bell, snuck into Brianda’s dreams and urged her to wake up. Esteban groggily answered the telephone, and she sat up, turned on the lamp, and looked at the time: six in the morning.

  When Esteban hung up, Brianda asked, “What’s going on?”

  “It was your mother. I don’t know how to tell you this—”

  “Tell me what?” The faces of her loved ones flooded her mind, and she cringed.

  “Your uncle Colau died.”

  “But how?” Brianda blinked several times, stunned.

  “She said they don’t know. He went to bed before Isolina like always, and when she got upstairs he was already gone. He was a heavy smoker, right?”

  Esteban took her in his arms to comfort her. She appreciated the gesture, but no tears came to her eyes. Colau had always frightened her, and on her trip to Tiles it had been clear that he did not like or trust her. She felt guilty, but her only real sadness was for her aunt Isolina.

  “Did she say when the funeral is?”

  “Tomorrow, in Tiles. They’re getting on the road right now.” Esteban rubbed his brow. “I have court all week. I can talk to my boss about some time off tomorrow, but today—”

  “I can catch a ride with my parents,” suggested Brianda. “You don’t have to worry. Call my mother back, and let her know to pick me up in half an hour.”

  Brianda showered and packed quickly, remembering to include warm clothes and something dark for the funeral. She wondered whether to bring the emerald ring. Dozens of times she had thought about calling Colau and confessing, but was
too ashamed. In the beginning, she could have explained that she hadn’t meant to steal it, but the more time passed, the harder it got. She put the ring on now and stroked it. She felt impossibly attached to this small and valuable object. The only way to rectify the situation was to return it to its rightful place without anybody noticing, but Colau’s death changed things: if he hadn’t asked for it, maybe he hadn’t missed it. She placed it in a cloth pouch and hid it among her clothes in the suitcase. She wondered if Isolina knew of its existence.

  In the kitchen, Esteban was making coffee and she accepted a big cup. Then she said good-bye, not daring to look him in the eye so he wouldn’t see her excitement at the possibility of seeing Corso again, and went downstairs to meet her parents.

  During the journey, she thought of her trip to Tiles at the end of October. Then, she had been fleeing from her nightmares, from physical contact with Esteban, from herself. Absorbed in her own problems and in driving, she hadn’t paid much attention to the landscape. Now, it wasn’t like her problems had vanished—she was still depressed, she was unemployed, her relationship with Esteban was strained—but something was different. An inexplicable, bittersweet nostalgia began to flutter in her chest as she recognized the outskirts of Aiscle: the small clay hills, the loam gullies, the rocky course of the river, the hairpin bends before the wide valley at the feet of Beles Peak, the graveyard, the fork to Lubich, and the great linden with the fountain near Anels House.

  The reason for her return was sad, yet she sensed a welcoming salute in the rustling of the leaves on the bushes, in the crunch of the pebbles under her feet after they parked the car, in the dampness of the yard in front of the old manor house, imagining a scene from centuries ago in which someone like Corso combed a magnificent black horse while a convalescing girl emerged after a long illness …

  She shook off the vision.

  Her parents hurried into the house, but Brianda lingered outside. In October, she had been greeted here by blows from a punishing wind. Now, with spring timidly showing its first growth in the fields, the breeze was strangely warm for the end of March. The wind wrapped itself around her, swirling in her hands, on her face, and in her hair, and then went away for an instant before returning to lick her again. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation until a prolonged howl startled her. It seemed to be coming from the shed.