The Horse Healer

by Gonzalo Giner

  “It’s something that eats you up … and yet, you never talk about it.”

  Diego pensively stroked the smooth cover of the book and opened it brusquely, with such anxiety that he seemed to be looking for the answer in its pages. Then he closed it and approached Sabba. She shook with pleasure.

  “If they’re still alive, which I think they are, they could be living as slaves in Marrakesh. Many days I think that I could do something to help them, but I usually end up demoralized. The idea of saving them is so far from my possibilities. For that reason, every time I think it, I come to the conclusion that now I can only prepare myself, gain the sufficient strength and braveness, as well as the money, to be able to travel later.”

  Marcos stayed there thinking.

  A month back, sick of so many restrictions and so much poverty, knowing that at this point, no one was looking for him, he had been tempted to leave the monastery. But he decided not to. For him things had begun to change. His situation in the kitchens was good, no one oppressed him the way Friar Servando had before, and he could leave the monastery whenever he liked. And he did so every two or three days, to one of the neighboring villages, to buy food.

  Thanks to this freedom, he no longer felt caged in and he began to stray off, though less frequently than he would have liked, with some nice girl or other he had met.

  Diego opened Hildegard’s book again and read the first thing he saw.

  “Wild lettuce: the best remedy for the stomach pains of donkeys. Nettles for horse fever. Lovage or wild celery for colds.”

  He closed it again and studied the face of Marcos.

  “Easy remedies, certainly. … Hildegard, like others before her, investigated many remedies that they wrote down for the good of following generations.” He chewed a piece of straw pensively, savoring its bitterness. “The Greeks called albéitars hippiatros or horse healers, as Friar Servando likes to say. The Romans said veterinarius. How can I be a good hippiatros, albéitar, horse healer, veterinarius, if I don’t know first what this nun, or others much wiser than her, left written down?” He remained pensive, staring at the sky. “Marcos, this library holds the better part of all knowledge, human as well as medical. If I manage to soak it up, I will be able to help many people who have nothing but animals to support them in the future. Do you understand the real reason I’m staying in this monastery?”

  “Fine, fine,” Marcos answered. “Keep going with your nuns and Greeks, I don’t care. But leave the practical things to me.” He shook his hand with a disdainful expression. “Because what’s practical are the four hundred sueldos I’ve managed to save.

  “How?” Diego feared the worst.

  “Friar Jesús, my mentor and as sensible a friar as you could find, is the keeper of the keys of the monastery and has placed all his trust in me. And to test me, he puts me in charge of all the monastery’s purchases. A good opportunity, believe me.” He winked.

  “You’re not robbing them, are you?”

  “It’s not that. … I’ve managed to convince the monastery’s main suppliers to reserve a bit of money from each order for me. It’s good for us.”

  “You’ll never cease to amaze me. You’re a scoundrel!”

  “By the way, now that I think about it … Remember that squire from Navarre and the lump you made disappear from his horse?”

  “Of course. That was the root of the worst punishment I’ve received in my life, almost a year back.”

  “They tell me he came to see you today. Apparently they gave him some excuse. And besides, from what I understand, this isn’t the first time he’s tried.”

  “Why would they have hidden that from me?” Diego felt a deep rage. He remembered the man and his warm praises as well. “What did he want me for?”

  Diego didn’t get an answer to his question until three months later, at the beginning of the spring of 1202, in the sunny month of April. Diego had just turned twenty-one. Friar Servando now had no choice but to tell him why his presence had been requested.

  “Get ready to travel the day after tomorrow,” he blurted out sternly, without bothering to justify his words.

  “Could you tell me where and why?”

  “You’ll be away three days, and you’ll go alone.” He carried a basket of oats on his shoulder and came over to the troughs to spread it out for the horses. The monk didn’t seem disposed to give him more information.

  Diego observed him, intrigued.

  “Where do I have to go?” he insisted, happy as he saw the irritating effect his questions were producing.

  The man snorted, cleared his throat two or three times, and finally answered.

  “You’re trying to make it hard for me, eh?” said the monk. Diego adopted a face of false surprise. “It’s fine. … There’s going to be a tourney or a joust, I don’t know, really, in Olite. It’s a town close to here that belongs to the kingdom of Navarre and they’ve asked us to send you.”

  “Me?”

  “You know Gómez Garceiz?”

  “The one with the tumor on his horse’s rump?”

  “That was his squire. The one who’s asking for you is his master, Gómez Garceiz, the royal ensign of Navarre.”

  “And he wants me?”

  “I would say so!” he exclaimed even more dryly.

  Friar Servando was green with envy.

  “And why would they need an albéitar, or better said, the apprentice of a horse healer, at a tourney?” Diego had never seen one, but he had heard fantastic tales of those contests between knights.

  “For some absurd reason, he wants you there. I don’t know, it might be for your horseshoes; I can’t imagine another reason.” He swallowed, humiliated. “And that’s enough! Don’t ask me more.”

  Diego reckoned on the enormous power that ensign must have to make Friar Servando let him go and swallow his pride as well. If Gómez Garceiz preferred Diego’s services over the friar’s, who was supposed to be famed throughout the land, that had to be eating him up inside.

  “I’ll go gladly!” he exclaimed with joy. “Thank you so much for remembering me. …” Friar Servando’s look couldn’t contain more rage. “But I will ask you for one thing more.”

  “Don’t force the situation more.”

  “I’ll need my friend Marcos.”

  “Agreed.” He sighed, resigned. He thought of his prior and how he had forced him to respect the ensign’s order.

  The two days that passed until they left the monastery felt like an eternity for Diego.

  He was excited for many reasons. It would be the first time he would go out of the stronghold in fifteen months. He was going to attend an unknown spectacle and, moreover, for the first time, he had been asked because of his knowledge and not just his skill in pushing a broom.

  Once Diego set out on the path north with Marcos, feeling the warmth of his mare beneath his legs and the fragrance of the fields in flower, he thought they were getting back something much more immaterial but deeply pleasing, a little bit of freedom.

  VII.

  Marcos dreamed of seeing lots of women in Olite.

  Beside Diego, he crossed the border of Navarre through the small town of Corella; at midmorning, they arrived at the town of Olite.

  It was a populous area, and it was the festival season. There must be lots of women waiting for him. He would talk with them just enough, encouraging them to look for some discreet farmhouse where they could make love. He had spent more than a year and a half walled in among stones and friars and had only come across two nice girls on his brief ventures out, and he had just turned twenty-two—one year older than Diego.

  As soon as they crossed the walls, they began to enjoy the incredible bustle of the streets. They saw many children, some who ran up to them holding out their hands for a coin. Others were going around disguised as knights and pretending to fight wit
h swords and shields of wood. Farther on, they stopped to breathe in the various aromas that floated through the air, some sweet and seductive, like burned wood, some like food.

  They asked a toothless boy with vivid eyes and a swollen forehead where the tourney was being celebrated. He pointed in the direction but corrected them: It wasn’t a tourney, but rather a joust.

  “Do you know what the difference is?” Marcos asked Diego a few steps later.

  “In a tourney, the knights fight without real arms, as if it were a war, until one team manages to defeat the other. The winner takes the glory and the spoils. In jousts, on the other hand, it is a confrontation between groups of two. They fight with thick armor, with a shield or adarga for their defense, and a long wooden lance they use to try and knock down their opponent. The field where they fight is usually divided by a fence that separates each person’s path and across which their combat takes place.”

  “And all this to win the prize of a beautiful woman’s heart and graces, I suppose.”

  Marcos looked among those present for the one whose virtues would identify her as being the mistress of the festivities. He found one, very pretty, blond, and with a kind face. He complimented her when he passed by her.

  “Jousts are games of honor and they entertain the knights and help them improve their abilities in wartime,” Diego went on explaining. “They are also a test of valor and gallantry.”

  When they turned a corner, they ran into three men. Two of them seemed to be escorting a third in noble dress. Their faces were hidden under helmets and they pushed through with such violence that Marcos ended up on the ground. Diego, however, managed to avoid them in time.

  “Let my master through, you miserable yokels.”

  “Who do you think you are, speaking to us like that?” Diego stood firm in front of them, indignant. He saw a sword drawn and felt its point at his neck.

  “And who are you, you damned fool?” The voice reverberated inside the helmet of steel, but was nonetheless threatening.

  “My name is Diego de Malagón, a man unarmed and being threatened by the hand of a coward.”

  The man they were escorting removed his helmet and looked at Diego with respect. He threw back his hair, scratched his head with evident relief, and told his squire to sheathe his sword.

  “What I admire about a man is bravery, and you just demonstrated it, young man.” A knot of onlookers gathered around them immediately. “Pardon my squire. My name is Luis. Luis de Azagra. I’m coming to compete in the jousts.”

  He extended his hand and asked about their reason for being in Olite.

  “I’ve been summoned by the royal ensign Gómez Garceiz.”

  “And what is your profession?”

  They were on a stone street, rather steep, that led down to a broad esplanade. There was the stockade with its steps and track, the tents of the contestants, and all the stables.

  “I’m preparing to be an albéitar, well, I mean, a horse healer. …”

  “Horse healer? I live in Albarracín, but I’m from Navarre. There, the people of your profession are called mariscal or veterinarius, though the second term isn’t heard so much now. Did you know that?”

  They arrived at the square and Diego was surprised by the frenetic activity. Numerous men with hammers in their hands were finishing the stands. Some boys, mounting tall logs, were affixing banners with the shield of the city. And in the place of honor there were women placing floral decorations and beautiful tapestries. On the track, a dozen men were emptying wheelbarrows of fine sand to smooth out any irregularities where the horses would later run.

  On the other side was a group of excited boys engaged in a sack race, and others were playing bowls. In front of them, some women were arguing heatedly with a hawker in a makeshift market.

  Without abandoning his conversation with the man, Diego tried to find among the tents the flag bearing the arms of his ensign. As they had explained to him, they consisted of a field of gules and an oak with two rampant boars.

  Diego left his companion behind, as Don Luis was obliged to greet someone, and they agreed to meet again later. Marcos and Diego continued walking toward the place where the tents were being raised. They counted some twenty of them, lined up along both sides of a long central street, in the shadow of a stand of trees. Around them was a bustle of activity.

  In the first tent, they saw two pages polishing a suit of armor, and in the next one, women braiding the mane of a beautiful horse. Farther ahead, they found a sweating young man smoothing out the horseshoes forged by an enormous man. They also noted a green tent where they saw an old man emerge with iron gauntlets and a cotton cloth, burnishing a fabulous helmet.

  Halfway along their journey, they saw an extremely beautiful lady step out of a nearby tent. Though she covered her face with a veil, Diego could see her face. Without knowing why, something moved inside him, as if time, life, everything had stopped as that woman passed.

  They crossed paths. She seemed thoughtful.

  For an instant she looked into his eyes. Diego could make out beneath the tulle a bluish landscape of extraordinary beauty, a fine nose and well-proportioned and attractive features. Her cheeks were firm and rosy and her skin seemed silken and delicate. A long blond mane fell loose over her fine dress of turquoise blue.

  “Welcome, Diego the albéitar …” A familiar voice awoke Diego from his trance and he had to look straight ahead.

  It was the squire of Gómez Garceiz.

  Diego extended his hand and introduced Marcos.

  “I thank you very much for your kindness, but I am not yet an albéitar, only an apprentice, and I still lack experience and knowledge.”

  “Don’t be so humble. Follow me. I will introduce you to my master.”

  Diego turned back to see the woman, but she had already disappeared.

  They walked to the last tent, and the squire invited them inside. They were received by a well-built man, middle-aged, with a short, thick beard. He sat in a chair and indicated for them to do the same.

  “My squire has spoken well of you to me. He says you have a special touch when it comes to healing horses, and that you understand them. Is it true?”

  “I spent the better part of my youth with them, watching them. Maybe for that reason, I learned their reactions, how they express themselves when they are alone, and even at times what they are thinking.”

  The man seemed worried.

  “As you know, tomorrow we are holding a joust, and I will be one of the participants. I will be facing García Romeu. Does that name ring a bell for you?”

  “I have to say it does not.”

  “He is a knight from Aragon, an ensign like myself. He is in the employ of King Pedro II, and I serve Sancho VII. For diplomatic reasons, he has been among us these days and when he found out about these festivities, he wanted to test himself against me. And therein lies the problem. …”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s go to the stables. Then you will.”

  They left through the rear of the tent and approached a corral with six horses inside. Assorted pages were trying to get hold of one, a chestnut-colored animal, to fit it with a bridle. It reacted with fury, utterly beside itself.

  “Do you remember this one?” He pointed at another: a bay horse with a cherry coat. It had a slight discoloration on its rump.

  “The one with the fig, right?”

  “He got better, just as you said, and he’s never had another, nor did the one he had come back. He’s the one I’ll compete with tomorrow, though he wasn’t the one I had in mind.”

  He put a thick belt around his cape that was embroidered with his coat of arms. He leapt over the fence spryly, and the young men followed him. Though they were approaching the horse he had operated on, Diego continued to look at the other, the chestnut-colored
one.

  “What are the necessary virtues for a horse that will compete in a joust?” Diego said as he looked approvingly at the scar that had formed on the horse’s rump.

  “Physically, it should be very fast, with strong back legs, to achieve a fast and sustained run. But its character is even more important. It has to be a steely, decisive, and firm animal, one that won’t hesitate in the middle of a charge. No matter how good the knight is with his lance, if he doesn’t feel the horse as a part of himself, if they don’t become a single thing, he will certainly be defeated.”

  Diego studied the expression of the horse. It seemed timid and therefore inappropriate for the battle.

  “You said this horse is not the best one. Why are you choosing him, then?”

  “I was going to compete with Centurion.” He pointed to the chestnut stallion. “A horse born for jousting … but he’s been crazy for weeks now. That is why I called you. Look at him right now!”

  They had just put the bridle on him, and the furious animal was up on two legs and had lifted up two pages with him. The young one, holding on to the reins, seemed to fly from one side to the other as the horse flung his head. As soon as the horse had come down, he began to buck in all directions.

  “He was never like that. Before he was forceful but docile. He always reacted reasonably, doing whatever was asked of him. I’d like you to take a look at him.”

  Diego scratched his chin and sighed, pleased to have such a difficult challenge.

  He jumped over the fence and approached the other horses, which didn’t seem to be bothered by his presence. He greeted them in his customary way, sniffing at their noses, and began to speak to each one, to get them on his side. The one that seemed most energetic he gave a clap on the rump, while a soft slap to the ribs sufficed to get the rest of them to move. One by one, he tested their obedience, and when the time came for the last one, he already recognized Diego as the leader of the herd.

  From that vantage point, he looked at Centurion. He was at the other end of the corral. The horse looked back at him, his head raised and emanating aggression.