The Horse Healer

by Gonzalo Giner

  “I figured you for dead, you lost so much blood.”

  Diego tried to talk but couldn’t. His tongue felt sticky and his mouth dry. A horrendous vision came back to life in his mind, the same that had awakened him from his sweet dream. He felt a dreadful anxiousness. He looked around nervously, unable to figure out where he was, and his pulse sped up. He had to pinch himself to be sure he was awake. It was something terrible. He had seen it. …

  “Marcos … Something dreadful has happened,” he managed to babble out. “My sister … It was Blanca. … I saw her blood. Nooo!”

  “But what are you saying?” Marcos checked to see if he still had a fever. “You were wounded. You don’t remember?”

  The ensign Gómez Garceiz came through the door with another middle­-aged man who introduced himself as a doctor. Without getting lost in other considerations, the man took Diego’s pulse and checked the state of his eyes and his mouth.

  “Blanca is dead.” Diego began to sob to the shock of all present.

  “He’s still delirious.” That was how the doctor justified his strange reaction. “It’s due to the trauma.”

  “It’s not true,” Diego himself replied. “I’ve seen it. …” He was breathing with difficulty. His eyes seemed on the point of exploding from pure pain.

  Gómez Garceiz tried to calm him down.

  “You’ve had a bad fever and it’s normal for you to have strange visions. You’ve been asleep more than two days and we’ve heard you screaming, cursing, wailing, and even grunting.”

  Diego tried to sit up, but he felt suddenly nauseated and let himself fall back over the soft bed. Maybe they were right, he thought. Maybe those dreadful images were just a part of his illness. He let that console him.

  “What happened?”

  “When the joust was over, that cur Giulio Morigatti attacked you, humiliated by your masterful work with García Romeu’s horse,” Gómez Garceiz answered. “After committing that villainy, he was detained by the troops of the Aragonese.”

  “And Mencía?” He remembered she’d been by his side. “Did anything happen to her?”

  “Relax. She didn’t suffer any harm.” Diego studied the face of the ensign and his words seemed sincere. “She was asking after you constantly until yesterday, when she returned to Albarracín. Anyway, she left you a note.”

  He took an envelope sealed with wax from a side table and passed it to him. Diego didn’t open it. He preferred to do so alone.

  “You’ll get better fast, young man,” the doctor interrupted. “That dagger passed less than an inch from your jugular.” He lifted the bandage and examined the wound. It had a good color and aspect. “That’s what I call luck.”

  The doctor ordered them to continue with the same treatment and remedies he had recommended. He also advised that Diego begin walking a little, even if it was just around the palace, so he would regain his strength. Then he took his things and said good-bye.

  Diego began to question Gómez Garceiz again.

  “Excuse me, but I’m feeling very confused. Where am I?”

  “You’re in my house, in Olite. You can stay here as long as you need to recover.” Garceiz heard a noise of horses and looked out the window. “Now I have to leave; I see the Almohad ambassador is here and I have to receive him.”

  Two days later, Marcos helped Diego to stand up to take his first steps inside the palace. There was a beautiful loggia on the third floor that opened onto a courtyard where they took their walk.

  Diego went slowly, feeling a painful sensation in his neck with each step. The dagger had opened a long wound and he was afraid he would begin to bleed again, as had already happened once when he’d strained himself.

  They left behind a group of smiling maidservants whom Marcos had stopped to compliment, and stopped to listen to a heated argument on the ground floor. They grabbed the banister with curiosity and heard Gómez Garceiz and another man in noble dress who had their backs turned to them. The stranger appeared very angry and moved nonstop. Garceiz shook his head over and over stubbornly.

  Marcos thought he knew who the visitor was.

  “I think it’s that ambassador … the one from the Moors.” He spoke softly.

  “He’s still here?”

  “I heard he was staying another week.”

  There was something about that man that awakened a strange interest on Diego’s part, but he didn’t know what it could be. He appeared Christian and when he heard him speak, the man spoke perfect Romanic, with hardly a trace of an Arabic accent. And yet he represented the Almohads and was negotiating on their behalf. … He didn’t understand.

  “Look at him now.” Marcos pointed in his direction.

  The two men had just gotten up from their seats and headed toward a fountain in the center. And then, Diego saw him. It was only an instant, but he recognized that scar on his face. Unaware of what was happening just a short distance away, the man lowered his face.

  “It’s him!”

  “What?” Marcos was frightened to see Diego seized up, his eyes pinned to that figure.

  “It’s the same one who …”

  Diego spoke too loudly and, without trying, attracted the attention of the ambassador and his host. Though Marcos pulled him away from the banister, it was too late, they had already made eye contact.

  “What’s going on with you?” Marcos shook Diego until he reacted and chose this moment to cut their walk short.

  “That face …” Diego’s legs shook.

  A cold sweat covered the nape of his neck as he remembered the state he found his father in and the wretched consequences of his sisters’ kidnapping. The man he had seen that day had a similar scar. … He doubted it was anyone else. He had seen him from behind some boulders, from afar, and it had been almost seven years. He looked at him again and his stomach turned as it had then; it was definitely him. Diego writhed with rage and clenched his fists, murmuring between his teeth.

  “You act like you’ve seen the devil.”

  “I have. I have. …”

  Back in the bedroom, Diego told Marcos what had happened on that tragic day and in what circumstances he had seen that man, whose similarity to the ambassador was extraordinary.

  “You should tell Gómez Garceiz.”

  “Not without knowing what their relationship is. I’m not sure.”

  That night, Diego could hardly sleep a wink. He knew that the ambassador had been lodged in a room just above his own. For that reason, feeling him so close, he believed that every noise he heard came from him, and he imagined him there. Hardly able to breathe, he tried to listen close to hear what the man was doing at each moment, until he felt himself obsessed.

  He tried to think about something else, but he couldn’t. Over and over the image of that man came back into his mind and he couldn’t forget his hard, cruel expression, the one he saw on that mountain pass.

  The next day, he awoke confused and anxious, with his mouth completely dry, but he decided to ask about the man. He needed to know who he was, where he came from, and what he might know about his sisters.

  When he asked about them, he learned that Garceiz had gone out very early in the company of the ambassador.

  In the afternoon, Diego went down to the stables to see Sabba. After those days of separation, the mare was glad to see him, sniffing at him contentedly while he stroked her. Diego stayed a long time at her side; he didn’t know how long.

  “How are you today?”

  Diego looked up at the voice of the ensign, Gómez Garceiz. He saw him enter on horseback in front of the ambassador. Both left their animals in the hands of the stable boys and came up to Diego.

  “You’re still not well.” Garceiz noted his pallor.

  Diego didn’t know what to do. He felt the ambassador’s gaze and could barely breathe. His heart raced and even h
is temples began to ache. He had to answer, but he felt incapable.

  The two men found his silence very strange.

  “I’m a little nauseated. …”

  “Pardon me for saying so, but a corpse has more color than you do.” The ambassador stretched his hand to Diego.

  “Let me introduce you to Pedro de Mora,” Gómez Garceiz interrupted. “The ambassador to the great caliph al-Nasir.”

  When it was Diego’s turn, he added his profession of albéitar to his name.

  “So you’re from Malagón. … I understand. Malagón brings back memories for me. …” The ambassador scratched his chin and looked at Diego more attentively, pensive. He remembered that town was close to Alarcos. He could see a tense attitude in the young man, and he didn’t care for it. “An albéitar at a Christian court …” he commented thoughtfully. “Interesting. … Your profession is a common one in Arab towns, but I haven’t heard of such in lands so far to the north.”

  “It’s not common, no. … The truth is … but …”

  Diego felt incapable of talking. His tongue didn’t respond, or any other muscle in his body; everything had seized up.

  He stared at the ambassador’s scar and didn’t know what to say. And if he had the wrong person? He looked back at him and his eyelid twitched. He tried to stop it with a finger but had no luck. His face reflected enormous angst, fear, uncertainty. That began to alarm the two men.

  “Maybe you should rest a bit,” Garceiz proposed. “We’ll accompany you to your room.”

  They did, but after no more than fifteen steps, Diego could no longer resist and vomited in a corner.

  Gómez Garceiz came over immediately to look at him. He had seen the discomfort Don Pedro’s presence produced, and he decided to figure out what was happening after the ambassador had left.

  “You knew him from before, no?”

  Diego decided to speak.

  “It was the day of the defeat in Alarcos. He was there during the siege. It was terrible. …” Diego began to feel an overwhelming grief as his memories emerged, and he fell silent. His eyes expressed terrible anguish.

  Gómez Garceiz did what he could to calm him down, and when he did, he asked what had caused him such deep grief. And Diego told him.

  That same night, Pedro de Mora was walking through his rooms and could not manage to sleep. He felt perturbed and irritable. For some strange reason, that albéitar had stirred his conscience, stirring up certain memories he thought were forgotten.

  The town of Malagón had become the center of his memories. He looked back and saw the raids and pillaging after the victory at Alarcos. He remembered as well that group of Imesebelen he had captained. Thanks to them, they had captured countless slaves, especially women who would later serve to fill the harems. And then he realized that those two red-haired concubines, Estela and Blanca, were among them, that they had been snatched those very days, and close to Malagón as well.

  One floor below, Diego heard Pedro de Mora’s steps on the wooden floor. He couldn’t sleep either. To feel him so close sped up his breathing. He felt his flushed cheeks and his rapid pulse, the effects of acute anxiety.

  At one point in the night, Diego was tempted by the idea of going up there with some weapon from his lodgings to pry the truth out of him. He looked around, searching for something suitable, but found nothing. His dagger, a gift from Galib, was with Sabba, hidden in her saddle. It was too late to go looking for it.

  He considered what chances he had to get away with his life if he confronted him. The man was strong, maybe stronger than he was, but if he acted fast, he could avoid his reaction. He looked again amid the firewood for a stake that could serve him, but all were about to turn into ash.

  Pedro de Mora tried to remember the traits and the eyes of those two concubines, and as he did, he began to see something similar to the albéitar in them. They had something in common, but he didn’t know what. …

  He thought that if they were family, it was possible the boy had seen him during the siege. Given his strange reactions, it was one explanation.

  For a moment he felt himself in danger. If it reached the ears of Gómez Garceiz, his situation could be delicate. He had to do something. He should avoid it. After thinking of when and how he would act, he decided to visit the young man before dawn.

  Shortly afterward, he left his bedroom stealthily and went down to look for Diego. He was fortunate not to cross paths with anyone before he arrived at his door. He opened it, trying to make the least noise possible. Darkness covered everything. At one end of the room was a fireplace about to go out, casting the room in an orange glow. Using the scant light, Mora made his way to the middle of the room.

  “Who’s there?” Diego asked, recognizing the ambassador’s presence.

  Without answering, Pedro de Mora sped toward him, a dagger in his hand.

  Diego saw a metallic gleam rushing toward him and he tried to duck it, having no other defense. He knocked down a heavy shelf beside him atop that shadow. The resultant clatter broke the silence of the night without striking Pedro de Mora. The same was not true of the second, which fell on him before toppling over with even more noise. The man escaped quickly from that weight and went after Diego, furious and thirsty for blood. Diego heard the sound of his dagger whistling only an inch away from his face. Frightened, he hurtled toward the door. His aggressor, guessing his intentions, chased him with all his energy. And when Diego got to the door and tried to open it, a hand grabbed him by the neck and he felt the steel point over his breast.

  “Scream and I’ll run you through.”

  Diego didn’t doubt it; he knew he was serious.

  “Where do you know me from?” Pedro de Mora asked.

  Diego calculated the odds he had of getting away, but they were minimal. He felt lost.

  “Nowhere,” he lied.

  “Do the names Blanca and Estela mean anything to you?”

  Diego reacted furiously.

  “Bastard!”

  “I see they do.” He ran the dagger over his flesh and pressed it until a wound began to open. Diego felt the warmth of his own blood running over his belly. “I know them too, and rather better than you might imagine. …”

  When he heard that, Diego turned around, filled with rage. He searched for the dagger with his hand and stopped it in time, while dealing his attacker a brutal punch to the chin. He tried to grab the knife but he didn’t manage to. Pedro de Mora sliced the air several times, looking for him but not striking.

  In that moment, steps could be heard behind the door and Gómez Garceiz entered with Marcos. They had a large torch that lit up the whole of the bedroom.

  “What is happening here?” the royal ensign demanded.

  The dagger fell to the floor without their knowing whose it was.

  “You arrived just in time!” Pedro de Mora pointed at Diego and then at the dagger. “He was trying to kill me with that. …”

  “Then why are you in my room?”

  “Somebody explain this to me,” Gómez Garceiz said, his sword in his hand, looking stunned at one of them and then the other.

  Without answering, Diego lifted his tunic and showed the wound he had just received in his breast.

  “It was him!” he swore. “That man has his hands stained with blood. Innocent blood. He’s a murderer, a depraved being who acts without pity. He was responsible for the brutal siege after the Battle of Alarcos, which killed hundreds of Christians, and he oversaw the rape of women and children. He also pillaged and massacred entire populations. He commanded the troops. …”

  “He lies!” Pedro de Mora shouted.

  “I’m afraid he’s telling the truth,” Diego heard Gómez Garceiz reply, “and it’s not the first time I’ve heard this about you, though I never wanted to believe it. If I could detain you right now, I would, but you’re an ambass
ador and I don’t have the jurisdiction.” He pointed his sword directly at his chest. “Besides my contempt, from this day forward, I assure you I will be looking for my opportunity to make you pay.”

  “But I saw him!” Diego exclaimed when he saw Mora would go free. “I could testify before a jury if you asked. …” He looked imploringly at Gómez Garceiz.

  “This boy is trying to confuse you,” Pedro de Mora replied.

  “And you dare to say that?” Gómez Garceiz threatened the ambassador’s throat with the blade of his sword, “when you are the greatest deceiver I have known? I hold you responsible for my king’s absence in Marrakesh. Your manipulation and conduct brought terrible consequences to Navarre.”

  Without anyone expecting it, Diego found the dagger of Pedro de Mora, picked it up off the floor, and pressed it into his neck.

  “What happened to my sisters?”

  His eyes blazed with a thirst for vengeance. Both Marcos and Gómez Garceiz were alarmed to see him in such a state.

  “Leave him! If you wound him, I’ll have to arrest you.”

  Garceiz turned to Diego to take away the dagger, but stopped when he was warned what would happen if he took another step.

  “Do I have to remind you of who I am?” Pedro de Mora turned to the ensign, adding more tension to the atmosphere. “Stop this madman right now!” he continued. “This is unacceptable. An outrage!” He looked furiously at Diego. “If something happens to me, or if this ill-bred cur hurts me and you do nothing to intervene, Ensign Garceiz, you will unleash the wrath of al-Nasir. And you don’t want that. … You know that. For that reason, I ask you to put a stop to this situation.”

  “What did you do with them?” Diego pressed the dagger until he made him shake.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mora blubbered. “I don’t even know who your sisters are.”

  “You lying, filthy snake. I never told you the names of my sisters …”

  Diego brought the dagger to his face and cut him from the edge of his lips to the middle of his right cheek. The blood flowed generously. He knew it wouldn’t kill him, but it would leave him with an ugly face for life, an indelible memory of Diego.