by A Werner
With Blassilo, Pero learned to soldier.
Pinna Fidelis, Penafiel Castle, was the whole world to the knights of this region. It was a mammoth landlocked, stone-framed, ship-like edifice built on a rocky outcrop high above the Duero River. The castle was one of the most strategically important strongholds in the province.
As a child, Pero de Alava had the run of Penafiel Castle. He knew every nook and cranny, every gate and watchtower. He memorized the honeycombing caves beneath the rocky outpost. Summer was a time for bullfighting, roping steer, hunting wild game, fishing streams and racing jennet ponies across the open steppes. And because of his time limitations, Pero took turns attending his father’s nearest and dearest companions. These companions were strong and hearty caballeros with names like Bent, Kingfish, Condor and Zor.
Pero learned all about decency and respect, oaths sworn before Almighty God and passion for the current day’s affairs. They were more than virtues to be written and talked about. They were deeds that must be done. This was honor.
When the colder months came, Pero found himself in Valladolid with his mother. Maria Alava vowed to provide her son with a proper education in the finest schools. Pero attended Mass daily. He learned the liturgy backwards and forwards. By twelve, he was fully versed in Spanish, Latin and Berber, his academic circle of friends a sort of human stew, replete with Latins, Muslims, Jews, French, Visigoths, Portuguese and Normans. In the course of his studies, Pero de Alava developed a profound respect for the beliefs of others, the idiosyncrasies of their cultures as well as their personal dreams. They were not unlike his own.
11 – La Torre Market
Anthea Manikos tenderly rubbed a swath of the red sindon against Pero’s clean-shaven cheek. The gentle touch was not enough, however, to retrieve him from his lapse. He merely smiled without comment, his blue eyes and vexations still roaming far away.
Anthea peered unhappily towards the dark skies in the west. These disengagements were frustrating. These were too many shadows in the world, too many deceptions and lies. Five months ago, at a banquet held in Pero’s honor, Gherardus Fabbro spurned him. The High Court of Parthenope had since refused to reply to any communication the Lord of Capua attempted to have with them. Pero was isolated and alone. There was only silence. Anthea had hoped this morning stroll from the fortress at Capua to the market at La Torre might distract him a bit, take his mind off the foolishness of the politicians.
There had always been a market at La Torre comprised of local fare. But today was altogether different and unique. Today, thanks to Pero’s connections abroad, a host of traders, vendors and hawkers from Spain and Morocco had arrived in Italy. These merchants brought with them massive stands blossoming with cheerful colors and unusual odors. There were strange spices and rare foods, exquisite furniture, durable cookware and fashionable dress. On the main road to La Torre, just beyond the city proper, because the courtyard was too small to contain them, large stalls displaying enormous rugs and tapestries from Marrakesh had been erected. Anthea had every intention of backtracking later to more closely scrutinize the artistry. They were all so beautiful.
Anthea Manikos took a moment to ponder the faces in the crowd that had gathered to watch them browse. Most were dirty, scrawny, with torn shirts, patched knees, and seams sewed together with mismatched thread. Only a few appeared to have the coin necessary to take advantage of all these exquisite wares. Most of them were simple country farmers, serfs and shopkeepers. Their lot in life was often tragic and bitter.
Anthea knew Pero de Alava was revered in these parts. He had proven to be a just and capable administrator. Well-wishers often sent him gifts, tokens representing their admiration and gratitude. They had been so poorly treated in the past. Pero was a breath of fresh air. And when Capua and its satellite towns heard their lord was engaged to a beautiful young woman from Greece, the gratuities came fast and furious.
Daydreaming about her wedding, Anthea Manikos accidently let a giggle escape. Her unguarded mirth brought out a similar response from the spectators standing nearby. It seemed that nearly everyone in La Torre started laughing with her and no one knew why.
Gradually, the merriment eased Pero back to reality. His reawakening eyes scanned the cheerful crowd. Soon he was sharing a laugh with them.
Anthea pressed the soft linen to his face once again. As a gentled horse, Pero’s head careened ever so slightly towards her beautiful face, his lips gently kissing the knuckles of her hand. The crowd sighed.
Anthea rose up on her toes and pressed her lips softly against his. “Welcome home, my husband.” Anthea continued to stand on her toes, gazing at Pero in sparkling wonder. Pero de Alava was just so handsome. She knew every line, every crease, and every expression.
Satisfied that order had been restored and Pero would cease his wanderings for a spell, Anthea pivoted away and placed the red sindon back down on the vendor’s table, gracing the old woman behind the table with a courteous smile and nod. All was well in the world. Everyone was happy again. Laughter won the day. But by the time she turned to reconnect with her fiancé and continue their journey through the market together, his thoughts had fled once again and he was back out there in the darkness of the west, wandering alone in his mind, worried and scared.
Since the Emperor died, no one in Europe felt safe. News of skirmishes and battles for the crown came flooding in. There was treason in the wind. There were riots and famines. There were rumors of civil war, brother killing brother. The shifting of control in the upper tiers of the empire had everyone on edge. Anyone with even the slightest claim to power feared assassination. There seemed to be no justice anymore, no law and direction. It was as if the world had gone mad and Pero was going with it.
“When kings die,” Anthea recalled her father instructing her once, “Instability becomes a way of life.”
Snatching a smile from the gloom, Anthea Manikos suddenly whirled about in dramatic fashion, her hands snatching some sheer white silk from the vendor’s table. She placed the material over her short brown hair, dragging it behind her as a bridal train. “Look!” She yelled to the crowd, her nimble steps dancing out into the open street. “Look at me! See what I have! ‘Tis a swath of clean white silk as transparent and as true as Lord Pero himself! What say ye all to this? Shall I purchase this material for my wedding dress?”
The multitude cheered their approval.
Pero returned from the abyss, his head shaking almost in disbelief. Nothing Anthea did failed to impress him.
Seeing she had regained his attention, Anthea rushed to his front and grabbed his soft shaven face. Her grey-green eyes peered deep and directly into his soul. Her words were crisp and commanding. “You will not run off on me again, husband.”
Pero let her have this moment. “No, my love, I will not leave. I’m not going anywhere ever again. I promise.”
The couple embraced and kissed again, this time for a long time; passionately.
Anthea had heard enough about the world’s problems. Her joy would trump it all. She was beautiful and she was radiant and right now, they were together. Let the whole world wait. Let emperors wait. Let kings wait. They were going to be married. How could the people not cheer? How could Pero not smile?
Chapter 12 – Eyes Closed, Heart Open
The crowd stirred and parted, branching out to form a makeshift path for a hasty horse and rider. The rider halted in a huff near the vendor’s stand where Pero de Alava stood. He offered Pero the reins to a dapple-brown horse he held in tow. “My Lord, there is news from Parthenope. A messenger has arrived. You must return to Capua at once.”
The fair-haired courier was a muscular, handsome man in his forties with broad shoulders, sporting a clean white shirt with an orange griffin embroidered across the chest. He smiled and tipped his head in a very respectful manner. “Good morning, Anthea.”
Anthea Manikos was hardly ever terse with anyone, especially Pero’s estate steward and best friend, but right now all she co
uld manage to give him in return for his courtesy was a half-hearted pronunciation of his first name. “Francis.”
Anthea’s mind was focused on Pero. He had turned his back to her and was mounting the vacant horse. She brushed her fingers through his long black hair. “You promised you would never leave.”
Pero immediately halted his mounting procedure in mid-saddle. He turned back to Anthea. Her expression was painful to look upon. There were tears hiding behind her grey-green eyes, much grayer now than green.
Pero touched Anthea’s hands that had grown noticeably cold. He tried his best to warm them with his. “I promise; I will attend you the moment I adjourn this meeting. It has been five whole months. Gherardus finally speaks to me. I am anxious to learn what has been decided.” He paused and scanned the watchful crowd. “We all are.” Pero leaned in close to Anthea’s ear so only she could hear him speak. “We will spend the evening alone. You may speak to me of the wedding and of your dress and of anything else you wish. I promise. I will be attentive. I will not leave you.”
Anthea hated to hear him make this promise because she knew better. The duties of state were heavy. Whatever news came from Parthenope, be it good or bad, joyous or heartbreaking, it would sully his mind and trap him. Even if he did direct his feet to her door and sit in her bower, his well-intended pledge would still go unfulfilled. His thoughts would be elsewhere. Pero couldn’t help it. He would drift from her lips and disappear into whatever shadows haunted the corners of the room. The darkness had become his mistress. She had to fight back. Anthea decided then and there to have more than a dozen lighted candles in every corner. There would be no shades to tempt him tonight.
Anthea placed her right hand on Pero's heart, on the Star of House Velez. She rubbed the blue and silver tail of the badge and felt a familiar bulge beneath the supple leather, a metal clasp he kept secreted on his person in a hidden pocket sewn inside his shirt. Pero had commanded that all his shirts have a pocket sewn inside of them directly over his heart. The clip never left him. It was the first trinket exchanged between them, a golden clasp she once wore. She was relieved to find it still there, still on his person.
Pero smiled wanly before mounting the horse again. He too realized how questionable his pledge to her was.
Disheartened, Anthea slowly wheeled around and searched the crowd for a show of optimism and support. What she saw vexed her. The spirit of the people was one of fear. Everyone was concerned. The rumors of war and bloodshed, starvation and famine were taking a toll.
As Anthea Manikos continued to examine her subjects, they examined her back. They were waiting for something. They were waiting for a show of strength and faith. Anthea was never one to shy away from a challenge. These were her people now. She was going to wed the man who ruled them. If there was ever going to be any optimism in this land, it had to start with her.
The Greek princess bravely dismissed her own personal demons and made a merry and humorous face for the whole population to enjoy. And then she defiantly jutted her long pink tongue out at Pero’s back. Everyone knew she wasn’t pleased with him and was mocking him for all to see. She was sharing her pain with them.
Pero did not witness this but nearly everyone else in La Torre did, including his best friend and estate steward, Francis. The prank was potent and the people busted out in laughter. Again, it was a relief to laugh.
Pero hesitated a moment as he glanced down from atop his horse. He wondered why the crowd was suddenly so boisterous and joyful, so encouraged and hopeful, so cheerful and laughing. Did he look that good in the saddle? Was it his commanding stature? He didn’t know why for sure but he supposed it had to be something to do with him, so he laughed to let them know their delight was acceptable, commendable. This only caused them to be more boisterous. Pero was ever more confused.
With a knowing nod, Pero instructed the security team that had escorted them to La Torre to keep a close eye on Anthea as she continued browsing the market. He raised a hand of farewell high above his head, gently spurred the dapple-brown and rode away, his long black hair flowing out behind him, all to a raucous cheer.
Once Pero had ridden off for Capua, the crowd grew quiet, and Anthea felt cold and alone, her arms lightly chilled. The grand expectations she echoed were nothing compared to the doubts and apprehension she reserved for herself. These darkling thoughts winced about her mind chaotically. ‘How can I raise a family in this miserable world? When will Pero have time to be a husband and a father? Why does he always have to speak so honestly, stick his neck out and take so many chances? Why challenge authority? Why can’t he keep his mouth shut and behave like other men? Would I still love him if he did?’
That last consideration pinched her hard. She realized that Pero, her Pero, could never be craven. It was his boldness and dismissal of all things traditional that saved her from ruin. He won her. And here she was. Ready to wed. The thought of the golden clasp in his heart-pocket came to mind. If Pero ever ceased to be enraged by injustice, if he ever deliberately defied God and renounced his duty to his fellow man, she would be disenchanted with him. Pero had renewed in her a trust in the goodness of mankind. Anthea touched her short, light brown hair. Pero’s resilient spirit was as real to her as his face. She could recognize her man, eyes closed, heart open.
“No,” Anthea whispered to Pero from afar. “Never change, husband. Never change. Don’t let them change you. You are a good man."
The old woman who had been sitting patiently in the shaded booth behind the vendor’s table cautiously did the unthinkable and touched Lady Anthea on the shoulder. “Signora,” she politely inquired, “Will you purchase anything from me today?”
Anthea was not offended by the old woman’s touch. Human contact was exactly what she needed right now. She wiped away a tiny hidden tear and gave the old woman a forgiving smile. She reexamined the clothes on the table. The red cloth reminded her of the blood filling the human heart, the precious fuel that keeps the human body alive. The white silk harkened back to the days of childhood and purity, the times of sweet innocence and noble truth. The answer was obvious. “I will purchase them both for I will need them both.”
Chapter 13 – Be Penafiel
After formally announcing their engagement in August 1197, Pero de Alava whisked Anthea Manikos off to Spain where they immediately attended the wedding of the Slobber King, Alfonso IX to Lady Berengaria of Castile. While visiting the Spanish court, Pero discovered a renewed sense of optimism and unity sweeping over his homeland. The slavers and brigands that had long terrorized the nation were being neutralized. Relations with the Almohads, Berber-speaking people from North Africa, had been cultivated. Peace seemed attainable. Trade barriers were being lifted.
Pero used his influence at the Spanish Court to develop relations between Campania and the Iberian Peninsula. Trains of wealthy merchants would soon be plying their Moroccan wares in Italy.
Pero also introduced his Grecian bride to his mother as they toured his holdings. He inherited them from his deceased father, Blassilo Velez.
Blassilo’s passing still haunted Pero. The horrifying sight of the old man’s blood splattered all over his armor still remained fresh and true in Pero’s heart. But so too did all the white.
Pero was just seventeen in the spring of 1181. He had wintered in Valladolid with his mother as usual, attending university. He was eager for summer, to mount his father’s wild jennet ponies and ride from sunrise to sunset. There would be long hunts in the Madera de la sombra. There would be swimming in the aguas de plata. There would be dances, jousts, tournaments and bullfights in the Plaza del Coso. Pero wanted to take up the cross like his father and become a caballero in the service of Penafiel Castle, the rock that never moves.
Mother always travelled with her son when he returned to Cielo Diamantes[2]. Cielo Diamantes was Blassilo’s chief home, a horse ranch located several miles southeast of Penafiel and over fifty miles from Valladolid.
Blassilo would throw a ba
nquet in their honor. There would be much feasting and drinking; dancing. Everything was laundered, scrubbed and scented. Everyone on their best behavior including Blassilo himself, who dared not over drink or cuss in her presence.
Maria Alava would never admit the truth to anyone but she was starved for attention. Nights were long and lonely in Valladolid. At times, she would entertain men, allow a handsome, wealthy paramour to escort her through the city, attend a play. Things never progressed beyond that. She rebuffed any other advances they made. She had only one knight in her life.
During her short, bi-annual stays at Cielo Diamantes, Blassilo and Maria would share the same bed and behave like husband and wife. She convinced herself that this was enough. She bathed for long hours in warm, rose-scented waters whilst an army of gifted attendants cured her skin with powerful liniments, massaging her sore arms, legs and back with penetrating lotions, her long brown hair dipped in perfumed teas, lemon and mint. She wore only the latest fashions, draping brand new silks over her many curves, some of the cuts rather tawdry and provocative, designed to arouse Blassilo’s deepest passions.
From the moment Maria stepped out of the carriage until the moment she stepped back inside to leave, everyone at Cielo Diamantes was instructed to treat her like royalty, treat her as la senora de la casa, the lady of the house. Anything Maria Alava wanted, Maria Alava got.
There had been news of mischievous bandits raiding small parties along the Duero River. It was said that these highwaymen were poorly managed, not well equipped, descending down from the foothills and remote forests to the untamed north. The troopers stationed at Castle Penafiel were too busy protecting wealthy commercial ventures to deal specifically with these upstarts. Smaller enterprises and wandering commoners were warned to travel in numbers, take sufficient arms and never tour at night.