The Horse Healer

by Gonzalo Giner

When they reached the highest point, it was nighttime, and they decided to find shelter. Not far from the road, they found a small cabin for sheepherders protected from the freezing wind by a dense neighboring poplar grove. Since the wood they could find was damp, Diego couldn’t manage to make a fire and he had to cover up with the clothes he was carrying. He tried to sleep another night without eating anything. Curled up in a corner of the hut, against its north face, in the silence of the night, shivering and gnashing his teeth, he finally fell into a deep sleep.

  Hours later, in the still of the night, a light crunching awoke him. He opened his eyes slightly and saw someone rifling through his things. The person appeared weak. He made sure he was alone. Diego waited to see his back to leap onto him and knock him down by surprise. He did it, and when he had the person on the floor, he looked for his neck, grabbed it with both hands, and managed to completely immobilize him.

  The person didn’t put up much resistance.

  “If you stay still, I’ll let you live,” Diego threatened him.

  He felt around in his leather pouch and took out Galib’s dagger. Pressing it into his adversary’s throat, he promised to use it if he tried to escape.

  “Now you’re going to tell me who you are and what you’re after.”

  “My name is Marcos …” The light of the moon illuminated his face and Diego tried to see it more clearly. He was somewhat younger than Diego. “I was just looking for a little money, you know … to eat with. I wasn’t trying to take anything else, I swear.”

  Diego looked disbelieving.

  “Sir, believe me … please.”

  “I’m not a sir, so you can save the good manners. And even if I was, I wouldn’t believe you.”

  The boy begged his pardon and tried to pull away from the steel at his neck, promising he wouldn’t try to leave. Diego agreed but kept his eye out for any strange movements.

  “All right, I’ll be honest. If I could have, I would have fleeced you bare.” He kept talking without giving Diego time to respond. “Wouldn’t you do the same if hunger was eating away your stomach, or if you didn’t remember what the last thing you ate was, or when?”

  Diego could see that he was extremely thin. He didn’t seem like a bad person. His desolate aspect, almost childlike wrinkles under the filth on his face, and a certain goodness in his gaze inspired an immediate understanding on Diego’s part. He wasn’t the only person who was hungry.

  He looked for that bit of dried meat that he had preserved and gave it to him. The intruder pounced on it, bit it, savored it as though there didn’t exist a finer repast in the world.

  “You wouldn’t have a piece of bread to go with it, no?”

  Diego relaxed, seeing him as harmless.

  “No, that’s everything I have.”

  Without losing a minute, he finished the meat in silence, and felt around on his clothes in case any scraps of it had fallen and he could eat them.

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You seem like a good man. If there’s anything I can do for you …”

  “Yes, you can leave me in peace.”

  “Don’t you want to know who I am, where I come from? I wouldn’t mind telling you.”

  Diego shook his head.

  “I just want to sleep. Get out of here.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll let you sleep, but tomorrow I’ll tell you.”

  Diego didn’t have time to answer him before the boy had left the hovel. He heard his steps falling away in the night and grabbed onto his leather pouch to avoid further surprises. That night it took some time until he was able to fall asleep.

  It surprised him not to find the boy near the next morning when he awoke, though he didn’t much mind. He picked up everything quickly and mounted Sabba to arrive at the neighboring town of Belorado where he would try to get ahold of something to eat. Before he had gone even half a league, Diego heard noise behind him. When he turned, he saw the boy on a mule.

  “Where are you going, sir? Where are you from? Why are you traveling alone? Maybe you have a little of that tasty meat left?” That unending succession of questions bothered Diego.

  “None of that should matter to you,” he replied drily.

  “I’m intrigued. It’s obvious you’re not a beggar, and yet I know for sure you’re traveling without money. Do you believe in predestination? I do. There exist unknown forces that move life, everything …” He lowered his voice and adopted a serious tone.

  “I’m serious, don’t get into my business. Yesterday I felt bad for you, but today is another day. Don’t try your luck further.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  “Get out of here.” Diego was starting to get mad.

  “Fine, fine. Don’t be that way.”

  Without going even twenty steps farther, the boy decided to speak again.

  “I’m coming from Burgos, I’m running from …”

  Diego stopped and stood there staring at him, shocked by his persistence. Once more he was going to command him to go, but Marcos beat him to it.

  “I’m leaving. Don’t worry. I was just trying to make the journey more agreeable for you, that’s all, keep you a little company.”

  “Bye.”

  Diego resumed his march. Every once in a while he looked back to confirm that the boy wasn’t following, but unfortunately, there was no way to get rid of him.

  Passing Belorado in the direction of Nájera he saw him again, this time a quarter league away. Marcos kept his distance, but it was evident that he was following. If Diego stopped, he did the same.

  Tired of that stupid situation, Diego took advantage of a long plain to press Sabba to gallop away, imagining that it would be impossible to keep up with him on that mule. He thought that the rest of the day, and the next morning, but unfortunately, the boy showed up again. The sweaty mule seemed to be exhausted, but Marcos looked contented. He even saluted Diego when he saw his gaze from afar.

  Diego sped up once more, thinking to leave them behind, and soon they were out of his sight. Since he was close to the city of Nájera, he was excited to enter in order to lose him definitively. He ran through the streets, stopped in a market, and slyly picked up some cast-off fruits and vegetables that had been left behind but weren’t in bad shape. He left the city to the east and to his great irritation, not long after, just before he reached the river Ebro, he saw Marcos again. Diego sighed, exhausted, unable to comprehend what motivated the boy’s insistence.

  He arrived at a crossroads and the lack of waymarks made him hesitate as to where to turn. So he was happy to see that down one of them came three armed bailiffs, although their attitude was far from friendly.

  He stepped aside to let them pass with the idea of asking them where to go.

  “Stop in the name of justice!” one shouted to his astonishment.

  They instantly surrounded him and grabbed hold of his reins.

  “What’s happening? What do you want with me?”

  “You know well …” another one with a serious face said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We don’t understand your cruelty either, but luckily we’ve found you.” The one who spoke grabbed him by the hair and twisted it without mercy. The others put manacles on his wrists.

  “But … I’m only traveling. I’m coming from Toledo. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “I can’t remember a single arrest where I didn’t hear the same story,” the oldest of the three said, laughing in his face. “Stop resisting and come with us. We’ll take you to the court and they’ll decide what your punishment will be.”

  “But can I know what the devil this is all about?”

  Diego began to worry when he received a resounding slap as the sole answer to his question.

  “Watch your mouth and don’t be insolent. A witness saw
you on that same mare fleeing from the convent of San Diego just after robbing it.”

  “I’ve never been in that place in my life!” Diego exclaimed aloud, until he felt an unexpected punch to his ribs.

  “Sir, sir!” someone shouted feverishly from afar. “Do us the favor of not delaying! You know your father is waiting for us at the castle. …”

  All present turned to see who was talking. On his mule, Marcos approached them and took Sabba’s reins from one of the bailiffs.

  “What are you saying, castle …? Who are you?” The one who seemed the head of the group waited impatiently for a response.

  “You still don’t know who you are talking to?” Marcos confirmed from their faces that they were surprised, as he had wished. “My master Don Diego belongs to a sacred and noble house and has been convened by his father to join the king’s troops. If you delay us further, we’ll arrive too late.”

  The three men looked at him in disbelief. If what he said was true, they would be best to free him unless they wanted to receive an extraordinary reprimand.

  “What is your last name and where is this castle?”

  Diego swallowed. Now he was happy for the presence of that little thief. He followed along.

  “Azagra,” he answered rapidly. “From the Azagras from Albarracín.”

  That was the first name that came into his mind, that of the new wife of Don Diego López de Haro, father of Doña Urraca.

  The men spoke among themselves in low voices. First they seemed to argue, but at last, the one who led the choir begged their pardon, embarrassed.

  “Forgive me, sir,” he said, taking the cuffs from Diego’s wrists. “We may have committed a terrible error with you.”

  “No, we’re not going to forget this,” Marcos rebuked them. “It will be found out.”

  The men, chastened, said a respectful good-bye as they left, ashamed of their mistake.

  A little while later, now far from the crossroads, Diego thanked him for his fortunate help. Marcos dismissed it and began to explain who he was.

  “I’m the son of a slattern from Burgos, the best one there is.”

  “I’m not acquainted with that profession.”

  “Which one have you heard of, whore, slut, hooker, public woman?”

  Diego cleared his throat, taken aback by the boy’s lack of shame.

  “When I met you, I was fleeing that city on her account, I mean, because I defended her honor against a soldier who had treated her too roughly. I must have hit him too hard that evening when I found him beating her, because the man was severely injured. Later, I found out he was a high official in the court of King Alfonso, and that’s why I had to flee Burgos; I was afraid of being arrested.”

  While he spoke, Diego looked more closely at him. Marcos had chestnut hair, very curly, and expressive eyes. His nose was round but well proportioned and his chin had a divot in the shape of a cross, a peculiarity that gave him an air of class.

  “You seem proud of your mother’s work.”

  “I am. She is the second-most-famous woman at the court after the queen herself, and I say it with all due respect. Her name is Lidia. She gained great fame thanks to the generosity of her virtues but especially the ease with which she gave herself to all. She said it was a job like any other, but those who enjoyed her assured that in love, she was like a goddess.”

  “For a street urchin, you’re well-spoken.”

  “Understand me; I’ve never wanted for money. My mother took me to the priests. They taught me arithmetic and how to read.”

  Diego asked him why he was following him.

  “He whispered it to me.” He looked at the sky and crossed himself. “He wants it to be so. I was brought to you by force. I only obey him …” He adopted a solemn expression.

  “When you say ‘he,’ are you referring to …”

  “Yes, to the very same.” He was trying to convince him.

  “Right …”

  Diego was impressed by his resourcefulness. In little time the boy had shown a great variety of aspects. He had been a thief, he was the son of a courtesan, he acted like a swindler, with those lawmen, for example. He wasn’t illiterate. And now, to add to the confusion, he added a spiritual angle that seemed as false to Diego as anything else.

  “I’m headed to a monastery, the one in Fitero, close to the Navarrese frontier,” Diego said in a dissuasive tone. “I don’t think it will interest you as a destination. … I’m going because I’m trying to study and learn my work better.”

  “I will come with you.” Marcos thought rapidly that the place, distant and isolated, could serve as a refuge to hide from the people who were looking for him. It seemed like the perfect spot to disappear for a certain time.

  “He told you that, of course.”

  “Yes, yes. You hear him too?”

  II.

  The doors of the monastery remained locked all day. They had been told that by a beggar who was in front of them.

  “You will never get in.” The man waved his hand, demonstrating how impossible it seemed. “If you don’t know one of the friars, they won’t attend to you.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” Marcos promised, cooking up an idea.

  Since the affair with the bailiffs, and throughout the days, they had passed through vineyards and rivers, towns and hermitages, rain and fog, before arriving at Fitero.

  The monastery, still in the boundaries of Castile, had been raised by the express desire of Alfonso VIII in a provocative corner, the border of the kingdoms of Navarre and Aragon. It belonged to the Cistercian order and was the first monastery founded in a Christian kingdom inside the former Visigoth Hispania.

  During their long journey, Diego and Marcos had time to talk and get to know each other better. Marcos’s personality was strange, in many cases ambiguous, but interesting. Diego finally accepted his company, thankful for his aid with the bailiffs, without knowing how long it would last.

  “You see yourself in a monastery?”

  “And why not? Where better to hide? Besides, I get along with the friars. They’re easy to get along with and I know what they really like.”

  Those affirmations, like so many others Diego had heard in the course of their travels, made him see that Marcos, above all else, was a rogue. A clear example of how a person could turn the capacity for trickery into a kind of art. But beyond that, he was rabidly nice, joyful, and dishonest. He lied so much, he didn’t seem to be able to know when he was telling the truth.

  “You think they’ll let us in?” Marcos observed the enormous walled-in structure with the bell tower rising above it.

  “I know how to forge horseshoes and I’m skilled as an albéitar. I can read Arabic and Latin, and besides, I know a Calatravan friar, Benito, who can serve me as a recommendation. I think I can manage to get us in to talk to the superior.”

  Immediately a sharp screak caught their attention. From the entrance to the monastery a tight group of friars in white habits began to emerge, some on horseback, some in carriages, and the rest on foot.

  Diego dismounted from Sabba and went up to one, asking where he could find the superior in charge. The man studied him and then replied, with little courtesy.

  “If you ride south for twelve days, you will find the castle of Salva­tierra, at the border with Al-Andalus. He only shows up there when there is a general assembly, once or twice a year.” He goaded his horse and continued on.

  Marcos, unused to being beaten by adversity, tried to help him and turned to another of the friars.

  “Where are you going?” He grabbed the friar’s horse by the bridle, stopping him. The man looked at him indignantly.

  “To work on some of the lands of the monastery. Who do you think you are, stopping me like this?”

  “You have stables, I suppose?” The monk nodded without kn
owing what the question was about. Many watched them as they passed by.

  “We’ve been hired by the grand master to assist you with them. We have come from Salvatierra.” Diego was stunned by Marco’s inventiveness.

  “Then speak with Friar Servando; he is in charge of the monastery’s stables. You’ll find him inside.”

  Diego reproached the daring boy softly, since he was now obliged to continue in that lie, but remembered that the name he’d just heard was one Friar Benito had referred to several times as the brother who was the horse healer.

  “From now on, leave it to me; I don’t want more complications.”

  Marcos responded with resignation.

  The friar who guarded the doors of the monastic premises remained firm in his refusal and did not help them get inside. They had to leave him Sabba, Marcos’s mule, and everything they had on them with the promise they would leave the monastery once they had spoken with Brother Servando. And in reality, he only did so when he had heard Marcos say that Servando was a family member of his, a cousin.

  While they walked through a broad courtyard lined with stones up to the stables, Marcos received a blow to the ribs in return for his most recent lie.

  They saw on one side a grand church of peculiar orange-colored stones and a precious rosette at the entrance. Diego enjoyed its stained glass, excited to be so close to that cradle of knowledge, already dreaming of a great and well-nourished library, seeing himself there.

  They reached a low structure that seemed to be the one they were looking for. The strong scent coming from inside assured them they had reached their destination. Pushing open a dilapidated door that must have weighed as much as ten men, they listened to the hammering over an anvil. They entered without fear.

  That was the first time they saw Friar Servando, and he left a strong impression on both of them. He must have been over fifty, but he still preserved the strength of a twenty-year-old. He stood well over six and a half feet; he was two heads taller than most people, though that may have been the projection of his shadow against the fire making him seem bigger than he was.

  When they spoke to him, he paid no attention; he didn’t even shout at them. He kept his eyes on his work. His torso was uncovered and his habit was knotted around his waist. When they approached closer, they saw an enormous scar on his stomach in the shape of a smile.