“Smart conclusion, my friend,” he responded sarcastically.
Diego remembered the rye and what he had done before he entered into that spell of unconsciousness. His body was living proof that the strange illness had a name and a cause. He wondered what had happened to make him end up in jail. He remembered flying through imaginary worlds and dreamscapes; he had even floated among the clouds. Could he have done something wicked while in that state?
“What happened to you?” He observed the man’s fine clothing and a belt where his sword had hung. “Why are you here?”
The man grumbled something incomprehensible and then began to cough to clear his throat, until he finally regained his voice.
“I drank too much. … And when I do that, I lose control.”
“You’re not from here, are you?”
“That’s correct, I’m from Oñate. Though actually I live farther to the south.” Another coughing fit overcame him, and it took him a moment to recover. “I was just passing through.”
“I never heard of them throwing people in jail for drinking.”
“Only when they do it and then strike the most reverent abbot. I did it last night. He insulted me when he saw me stumbling from the tavern, and …”
“Now I understand.”
Diego began to notice an intense trembling in his hands and a strong urge to vomit. When he understood these were new symptoms of the disease, he had a sudden feeling of anguish. If he was imprisoned and isolated from outside, this was not only bad news for him, it was the worst moment for everyone. He should warn them, tell the authorities what he had found out, and as soon as possible.
“My name is Bruno de Oñate, and you?”
“Diego de Malagón.”
When they shook hands, Bruno noticed Diego shaking uncontrollably.
“Is something happening with you?”
“You might see me get worse.”
That response disconcerted the man even more.
“What do you mean?”
“I might start having convulsions and hallucinations, even an episode of delirium.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Diego felt better for a moment and breathed in and then sighed, relieved. He even felt his hands stop shaking.
“I have given myself an illness, and listen to this closely, for the sole purpose of being sure of its cause. The symptoms I’m showing are more benign than they would be if I was truly affected. I’m speaking to you of something that has killed more than a hundred people in this community in the past few weeks, and their livestock as well.”
“I knew nothing of it.”
“The worst is that until now, no one’s been able to do anything about it because they didn’t know the cause. But yesterday I was able to find out. Because of that, I know what to do. I could still save many people.”
“And what is this sickness?”
“Have you ever heard anyone speak of Saint Anthony’s fire?”
“Never.”
“It’s a poisoning that comes from eating damp rye or black bread made with that grain. Its consequences are terrible. People begin to suffer frightful hallucinations and all sorts of convulsions, tremors, and nausea. Many end up dying. Sometimes the extremities are struck with gangrene, and if a pregnant woman ingests it, she will miscarry. Cows, sheep, and goats also suffer from it, but it is rare in horses, because they don’t usually eat rye. I figured it out almost by chance when I saw a group of poisonous wild mushrooms. That made me think of the sickness that affects men and animals when they eat these mushrooms, and then the rye, because they grow there too, though they’re very small.”
Diego explained that on his way back from the pinewoods he had remembered a description of the problem in a book written by a nun, Hildegard of Bingen. He said, “The existence of this fungus is due to the poor storage of grain in the presence of excessive humidity and high temperatures.”
Bruno de Oñate looked at him, shocked for a number of reasons. If what he said was true, then what he had done was not only generous; it showed a bravery that had to be described as heroic. He was also surprised by Diego’s fantastic memory, hearing him recite whole paragraphs from a treatise that he claimed to have read only once, years ago.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, an albéitar.”
“And no one but you has figured this out?”
“No one, I don’t think. It’s not a common illness in this area. It’s better known in climates more humid than ours, since that is where the fungus grows better.”
“And if you die? How will your discovery be known?”
“I’m trusting that I didn’t make a mistake in the dosage I ingested; at least, that’s what I hope. …”
“Bruno de Oñate, you have a visitor.” The voice of a guard interrupted their conversation. “Come close to the bars.” Bruno went to see who it was. It was a Calatravan knight. Over his white tunic, there was a Greek cross with gules and a fleur-de-lis at each end.
Diego could hear nothing they discussed, but the man was looking over at him the whole time. Soon he began to notice a slight burning in his feet and a pinprick feeling. He thought the fungus from the rye must contain some substance that drew blood away from the extremities. That was the reason many of the infected ended up suffering from gangrene. Now he had no doubt. The cause of that massive poisoning in Cuéllar was nothing other than the rye.
He needed the guard to tell the authorities. They couldn’t keep making bread with that grain or feeding it to the animals. Why had they locked him up? he asked himself over and over.
He screamed for a guard, but nobody came.
“If someone can hear me, go and tell the authorities,” he continued loudly. “They should burn all the rye in the storehouses. Nobody should make cakes or bread with it. … It’s poisoned! I’m telling the truth.”
“Shut it, you imbecile,” he heard at the end of the long hallway, on the other side of the bars.
The two men there were frightened when they saw how suddenly the young man suffered a rapid series of convulsions throughout his body.
Diego tried to bend his legs, but his muscles were as rigid as stones and wouldn’t obey him. He shouted with pain, trying and failing to get up. For a moment, he feared he had taken too much of the poison, and he imagined a slow, anguished death in jail.
He looked to the light of the small window and its reflection drilled into his head, and he was suddenly tired. Without realizing it, he fainted and fell to the floor, striking himself against a stone.
Bruno ran to his aid.
X.
Marcos couldn’t believe what he’d just heard from Veturia’s mouth.
“I was just trying to free my soul from the weight of those terrible doubts. How could I know they would arrest him right after?” She justified herself. “Supposedly if I confess to the abbot …”
“How could you, Veturia? How could you?” Marcos knew the abbot well. His presence made everything worse.
Marcos had just returned from Valencia, where he was with Abu Mizrain closing on a good deal. He hadn’t even been able to sit down before his servant came over to tell him what had happened. She spoke to him nervously, stumbling.
“Poor Master Diego! I feel so guilty for what’s happened. But put yourself in my place; what was I to think after what I heard and those strange things he was doing that afternoon with that magician. I imagined terrible things.”
“Anyone who would think Diego is responsible for those people dying is an idiot, insane, and doesn’t know anything about him. But it looks like someone saw it differently.” Marcos came over to her. “And you, tell me, what kind of stupid proofs do you say you have against him?”
“But he said it!” She raised her voice. “I remember his words well. He affirmed that he knew how to make the dis
ease.” She explained herself in a tone of protest. “I even saw him make the poison. He did it in front of my eyes, right here.” She struck the table with her hands. “And then he took it and I don’t know, he started to do strange things with his hands and he was having spasms …”
Marcos dried the sweat that ran down his forehead while he listened. His anxiety was killing him.
“I’ll see how I can help him …”
Mentally, he tried to think of anyone who could intercede with the lord of the town but nobody occurred to him. Of course, Marcos was the very worst person to do so, after leaving the lord’s daughter heartbroken.
He thought the accusation against Diego, because it was so grave, would lead to an immediate trial. For that reason, he didn’t have much time.
“What can I do? God, I can’t think of anything!” he exclaimed.
“You should be careful; maybe they’re looking for you, too.”
Marcos froze.
“Why do you say that?”
“When I was done confessing, the abbot asked a lot of questions about you. He even made me swear I would tell him when I saw you come back.”
That upset Marcos even more. The situation was getting very dangerous, and now it was affecting him as well. He was well acquainted with how the town’s trials worked when they supposedly meted out justice. He’d had to settle numerous complaints there and could verify that they were far from aboveboard. He had seen evidence manufactured and witnesses paid off when the trial seemed to go against the interests of the presiding judge.
And if that wasn’t worrying enough, it was even worse to have the abbot in the middle of it. Marcos knew that cleric had been after Diego for some time because of his relationship with the Jewish magician, whom he called a wizard, a demon, a deicide, and a long list of other lovely names. He had even spoken to Marcos before, knowing of his friendship with Diego, pressing him to influence Diego to bring that mad influence to an end. He still remembered the fury on the abbot’s face, his viciousness, when he talked of how dark and malignant the magician was; a stealer of souls, he called him.
Marcos thought of visiting Friar Gabriel, the abbot’s second in command and a person he trusted completely, because he had done business with him for some time, taking care of the purchases of wool and lamb for the church.
Two hours later, returned from speaking with his contact, Marcos felt hemmed in. Friar Gabriel had confirmed the gravity of the charges against Diego as well as the abbot’s desire to accuse Marcos of the same. His protests were meaningless, since, according to the authorities, his close relationship with the accused was sufficient to consider him guilty. Nor would it work in his favor that the local lord considered him a lowlife, or that there remained several loose ends in his business dealings with the abbot.
Marcos came to the conclusion that Diego’s situation was unfixable and that his own influence would be counterproductive. But what about him? If they arrested him, his luck would be no better, he was sure of it. He had too many enemies, and some would undoubtedly be part of that jury. The risk that he would be found guilty was as real as it was dire. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let them capture him.
He thought of a solution, painful, ignoble, horrible, but maybe the only one possible. He looked for Veturia in the kitchen and sounded her out.
“You’re not going to tell anyone I’ve come back. Do you understand?”
The woman imagined he meant the abbot.
“If you command it …”
He took out a bag of gold coins from his sash and gave it to her.
“This is for you, in recompense for your silence. With this, you’ll be able to have a better life.”
She opened it, and when she saw its contents, she paid close attention.
“I’m leaving Cuéllar right now; I’m going to Burgos. If they ask you, tell them I had to leave urgently, but don’t tell them where. I know I can do nothing for Diego, and if I stay, I’ll end up rotting in prison beside him.”
An hour later, Marcos was galloping through a vast pine grove half a league from Cuéllar. When he looked at the tower of the fortress, he imagined Diego inside, and he felt like a dirty traitor.
Such a great pain in his stomach came upon him that he bent over in the saddle and turned to the side to try and relieve it. He also felt his throat burning. His head was about to explode. He felt ashamed, despicable, unworthy of Diego’s friendship. In his grief, he could barely swallow. But he kept on. His only consolation was that he could do nothing for him, but save himself.
A cool breeze soothed his pain. Between tears, he tugged at the reins and pressed his knees into his horse’s side, forcing it to head north. Before he got lost in the infinitude of trees, he wished Diego luck.
He even prayed for God to send it to him.
“Did I not tell you that I am also a Calatravan, a knight of Salvatierra as we have been called since the fall of Alarcos and almost all our castles with it?”
Bruno de Oñate didn’t dare to try the crust of black bread that was the only food they had given him once he’d heard what Diego said.
“No, you didn’t say that.” Diego looked shrunken. He had just returned from the tribunal and he was utterly desolate.
“What are they accusing you of, then?”
“They say I’m responsible for the death of all these people and more than two thousand sheep. They say they have proof I poisoned them. It’s incredible …”
“And how will you defend yourself?”
“Tomorrow the trial will continue and if I don’t prove the contrary, they’ll declare me guilty. It’s a complete farce. They’re accusing me without any evidence and they won’t listen to me. I think they see this accusation as a way to calm the ire of the people, because the administrators have done nothing. I don’t know how this will end. …”
“Dirty bastards!” Bruno kicked the floor resoundingly. “If only I could help.”
“I wish it were possible, but you see how it is.”
“But how stupid of them. You’re the only person who knows how to solve this grave problem that is devastating you all. Have you told them?”
“Yes, but they don’t believe me. I’ve told them what to do. I even gave them as evidence the fact that horses don’t get the disease because they only eat oats. Believe me, I begged them. I shouted for them to burn all the rye, but nothing.”
“What evidence do they have against you?”
“The testimony of my servant, Veturia. She heard me say I knew how to make the illness when I was poisoning myself. She must have misunderstood my words, and now I think they’re forcing her to come and testify. I saw how the abbot looks at her when she is looking for words or changing the meaning of what she heard. I don’t know what strange motives could be behind that priest …”
“And you don’t have anyone who can testify in your favor?”
“A good friend would do it, but they already suspect her of being my lover and she’s married. I could also call the Jewish magician, but I think he’s on trial as well, or Marcos, my best friend. He could be my only chance. He knows me better than anyone and he can explain how I’ve always been, my morals.”
“If it was in my hands, I would do it.”
“Thank you, Bruno. But what could you do?”
“This morning, I’ve learned they will set me free in two days. I will try to help you from outside. Three friends I traveled with are waiting for me; we are going south, to Salvatierra.”
“The south …” Diego sighed. “How I would love to go with you.”
Diego explained to him why he said that.
Bruno de Oñate learned what had happened to Diego thirteen years before, when he was a boy. He heard the tale of the murder of his older sister, the kidnapping of the others, and the death of his father, aided by the Calatravan knights. He spoke to him of Sabba, that
beautiful mare that he would never separate from, the only memory he had of his family. And then about Toledo, where he had learned Arabic and the albéitar’s trade. Diego praised the figure of his master, Galib, without saying why he’d left him. Then he talked about Fitero, the books, and the appearance of his archenemy, Pedro de Mora, after an exciting but dangerous joust in Olite. He told him why he’d met him and why he hated him so deeply.
And last of all, what had happened in Albarracín, the loss of his only love, Mencía. Being abandoned, being wounded by her pregnancy. The overwhelming necessity to leave there, to leave everything behind. And he finished by telling him about those last few years in Cuéllar, the story of Sancha, of the girls.
In fact, he went over his entire life, summing it up in a number of stories.
“I wish you had killed that traitor, Pedro de Mora. … For some time now, I’ve dreamed of avenging his treachery. He’s become a terrible nightmare for Castile and for all of us.”
“He was the one who took my sisters to Marrakesh.”
“They’ve been looking for him for years. King Alfonso VIII will pay a hundred thousand maravedíes to whoever brings him in alive, just to see his disgusting treachery repaid.”
That evening, the other Calatravan knights returned to visit Bruno. Diego couldn’t hear what they said, but he thought it had to do with him.
XI.
“The accused insists he is innocent. …” The prosecutor looked at Diego, keeping a long and deliberate silence.
He was an expert orator and knew how to twist situations to his favor better than anyone.
“We’ve heard him say,” he continued, “that the only thing responsible for our misfortune is a tiny mushroom, and that we should be judging that today and not him.” Laughter circulated through the room.
The man walked from one side of the room to the other, pulling on a long curl of his beard. The silence was such that nothing could be heard but the shuffling of his feet across the floor.
“I forgive you for smiling,” he continued, “for I understand that his argument can only appear comical.” The public murmured in agreement. “But let us return to what is important. For these past few days, more than a hundred of God’s souls have been sacrificed.”
The Horse Healer Page 45