The Christians scrambled towards the entrance to the fortress. The Saracens beat them to it. The riders dismounted and formed a passageway with their horses, a living wall of animals in front of them. The defenders who remained alive inside, both men and women, hurled missiles and rocks onto the attackers by the gate. Iranzu had his work cut out for him. He hit the first of the Muslim men-at-arms he aimed at between the shoulder blades, shot the second through the neck. Before he reached into his quiver again, a new adversary appeared.

The battlefield was like a seething mass of worms, wriggling, writhing, crawling forward. Nearly all of them had surged towards the breach, with only a few milling around below the defensive walls. In all the turmoil Iranzu did not hear the hoofbeats – perhaps his guardian angel tapped him on the shoulder. The young man glanced back. Racing towards him on a lathered horse was a Saracen in a gleaming suit of armour that couldn’t be hacked through, isolated at the edge of the battle. He bent right down at a canter and plucked a spear from the fist of a dead man, adjusted his grip and aimed it at Iranzu.

The world around him became as thick as curdled milk. In a single movement Iranzu fitted a hornbeam arrow to his bowstring, pulled it back with his middle and index fingers, adopting a wide stance. The bowstring whipped against his forearm protector as it was released. The missile flew forward, spinning and floating – and plunged into the forehead of the black Arabian horse. The animal dropped as if felled by a boulder. It buried the rider beneath it. Iranzu heard the man’s piercing cry, saw him fighting off unconsciousness, trying to free himself, groping for a weapon.

The young man hesitated; he could take him captive. Judging by the armour, the knight was a nobleman. It would make Iranzu rich… Time was running out! He could no longer see the red cloak of Mas’ud ibn Amrus or his gilded helmet. His throat contracted with anxiety. He slung the bow across his chest and raced towards the fortress. The huddle of warriors by the gate had dispersed, abandoning the fallen, and rushed into the bowels of Artasona. Black smoke rose up from the castle’s wounds. When Iranzu reached the inner courtyard, death romped after him in pools of blood. Sancho’s soldiers were massacring those from the garrison who had resisted them up till then, including women and children – since all of them had been tough opponents during the attacks. Flames climbed over the wooden bones of the castle: lively, bright red, curling, as long as waves in a weir.

Iranzu’s heart grew pallid, like a piece of red-hot iron dropped into water. All around him were dead bodies lying about and ruins crumbling, prodded by the fire. What had become of the dapple-grey horse with the mane of white gold? Who had stolen him? He looked around in desperation. He heard a plaintive bellow, which drowned out the clamour of the dying castle and the thunderous roar of the flames. They were crawling between the beams, devouring them, swelling up, the heat wheezing under a tuft of smoke. In a caved-in shelter, a horse was trapped between fingers of fire. His dapple-grey…

Somebody was yelling at Iranzu. Even if King Sancho or Saint Peter himself had stood in his way, he would have pushed them aside. He threw down his bow and quiver, covered his hair with his hood, pulled his sleeves over his palms. He barged under the burning roof, into the smoke, brown darkness and red flares, into the stench of fiery flesh. He was choking and could barely see. The hot air heated up the copper lauburu pendant on the young man’s chest; he could feel it burning into his skin. Smoke stung his eyes. He no longer knew where he was…

He was guided by the cries of pains and by the magic of the lauburu. Here! Using sheer force Iranzu pushed aside the smouldering partition, untied the horse from the post it was lying next to and grabbed it by the halter. He called to it, pulling on its bridle. The dapple-grey horse got to its knees. It gave a terrible cry, sprang up and dashed into the courtyard. Iranzu held onto the reins, flying and falling and tearing along beside it. He tried in vain to turn it aside. The horse’s coat was burning in various places, as if it had oil lamps set into its body, and its mane and tail were braided with ribbons of flame. People leapt out of its way.

We’re going to break our necks, flashed through the young man’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled under the stallion’s front legs. He’ll trample on me, rip me apart… Aťsi!

A curious thing happened: the dapple-grey horse stopped.

Almost immediately, a silk Arab cloak landed on its back and Egokiñe smothered the flames. He spoke soothingly to the animal, generous with his praise as he led it away from the castle.

Iranzu trotted after him: “Eskerrik asko!” How could he ever thank him enough? He would gladly have offered Thunder a piece of his own soul.

“Your thanks be damned, you smart-arse,” growled Egokiñe. “I’d have to be pretty slow on the uptake not to notice you’re hung up on that creature.” There are two things that can drive a man out of his mind: a horse and a woman.

They were the only ones heading back to the Pamplonese camp. The others were streaming past them and jeering: “Hey, you two, you won’t have to fry that old nag much, it’ll soon be ready to eat!” Soldiers of all kinds were going through any interesting items they could find in conquered Artasona or squirrelling away valuable and useful objects around the battlefield by the defensive walls.

“Wait for me down in the village, by that house with the apple tree in the yard,” yelled Thunder, moving off among the gleaners.

Only half listening, Iranzu heard his companion shouting and bargaining and running to and fro. He quickly strode up to the dapple-grey horse. He knew it was on the verge of collapsing. It was unsteady on its hooves, moving with increasing difficulty. They barely made it to the little house as Egokiñe had commanded. Iranzu just managed to manoeuvre the horse into the shade by the wall, and it was all over. The stallion looked close to death.

It was wheezing heavily with a rasping groan through a tightly closed mouth, its swollen eyelids narrowed in pain – perhaps it would lose its sight. Its head was drooping and its whole body was covered in gaping bloody red wounds, whitish burns and pearly grey places where the tissue had been destroyed deep into the flesh. Its wavy mane and full tail now resembled small sheaves of dried grasses crumpled together with sleet.

Iranzu didn’t touch it, just whispered: “I’ll heal you, I can do it! You’re going to be saved!”

It took some time before Thunder clomped up to them, his arms full of fabric, more in a tangle on his back. “We’re going to need plenty of this!” he said briskly. “I gathered up a lot and spent even longer bartering. And I had to fight for it,” he explained as he kicked the door open and went into the building. “Bring the horse here!”

In tiny half-steps, stopping to rest, Iranzu managed to hustle the stallion into the house; it was all the harder because the horse was big and the entrance small. Little remained of what had been an opulent room with a stone floor; during the siege soldiers had carried off whatever they could – including some of the thatch.

“In the right-hand corner of the courtyard there’s a well hidden under mud-spattered hide that has good, cold water,” declared Egokiñe. “I dismantled it, carried off the wooden structure and covered it up. That’s what the two of us were drinking from. The pail is hanging in the crown of an apple tree among thick foliage.” He did not put down his plunder, just issued orders: “Be quick and sweep up the corner and scrub it clean with some wet straw.”

The young man’s jaw almost hit the floor. He cleaned up as best he could; he stared at Thunder, who was spreading out the material from turbans and cloaks.

“Nothing but linen and silk. Those pieces embroidered with metallic threads or lined with squirrel fur would fetch a pretty penny, but they’d be as much use to us here as a slipper for a fox. There – now run and fetch more water.”

The dapple-grey horse didn’t want to and couldn’t drink, but Thunder covered him with wet, cool cloth.

“I’m guessing,” he philosophized in the meantime, “you don’t want him to snuff it. It would be a shame – he has a Roman nose and big eyes, which is the sign of a courageous animal. I’ll have to heal him both outside and inside. I need an assistant. Not you – you have to look for medicine and money. First of all, see you fetch some snow, otherwise the swellings will suffocate him,” he said, waving an arm towards the north-east, where the frolicsome river Riel runs out of the groin of the white-capped mountains.

“I…” Iranzu swallowed. In the blink of an eye, he understood. The fact he had rescued the grey stallion was only the beginning of an entanglement that would lead who-knows-where – undoubtedly beyond the bounds of everything he knew and had ever reckoned with, beyond the life he had dreamt of. His etua, family and household, his home and property… He would take a step outside the building and nothing would ever be the same again.

He nodded. “I’ll find water skins, as many as possible. The snow won’t melt in those.” He turned around once more in the doorway: “I’m going to call him Leyalá!”

***

Balendin walked briskly along the stony path that forced its way across the slope among the spiny vegetation of kermes oak, low pines and deciduous trees. In place of a pilgrim’s stick, he wielded a slender makila with a hefty horn pommel and a sharp steel-tipped base.

His shabby cloak gave no sign that its wearer was a successful merchant. He had sold all the goods from his leather pouch – every single amulet and talisman. Tiny scrolls of paper printed with verses from the Koran and bearing the seal of Solomon. A few rings with gemstones concealing spells. Ancient pendants, phalluses made of silver to bring fertility and ward off evil spirits. Red corral to protect babies. Trinkets made of metal, precious stones and glass: for good luck, help and healing. Every last one had been transformed into valuable coins, which he kept hidden in his clothing.

The more inconspicuous he was, the better his chances of getting home safely…to his Maite. In a small pouch hanging on his chest he felt the comforting presence of the gift for his wife, who had given him two sons and was still so sweet, so charming, “Dearly Beloved” not just in name but also in devotion to her spouse. When Balendin had spotted the necklace in the market in Zaragoza, he knew he had to buy it, even if he had to haggle with the Jewish goldsmith until nightfall. Seven wrought ivy leaves engraved with doves and peacocks shone on a string of beads like tiny suns. How the precious piece of jewellery would stand out upon her smooth neck!

“May I join you, friend? Times passes more quickly in company!”

The merchant scowled. Travelling was always dangerous; it was better to keep everyone at a distance. This one hadn’t even given a Christian greeting.

He glanced hostilely at the man, who had fallen in beside him quietly and, of course, as close as his own shadow. Tall, powerful shoulders, a black tunic with red trim, fine leather shoes, a long dagger by his side – he was no pauper! Who knew where he had sprung from – he didn’t look like a local. He had a beard and a dark, untrimmed mane that reached down to his shoulder blades. The clasp fastening the stranger’s cloak was unlike any Balendin had ever come across in shops or workshops, or on any garment. The small figure of a rider was roughly cast in bronze and was really old – the merchant would have staked his life on that. Delicate gold-inlaid spirals were traced upon the horse’s torso.

“Weeell…” drawled Balendin cautiously. “Maybe just a little way to Jaca here. I’ll probably stop off in town.”

“Certainly not for long! Aren’t you in a hurry to get back, friend? It seemed to me that you’d be happiest if you sprouted wings. Maybe there’s someone waiting for you under your roof? Better that than some duties to perform! Or perhaps both?”

The devil take this man! Balendin regretted that he didn’t have a single talisman left. He would have liked to retort; the sentences were intrusive, but the stranger’s voice delivered them with refined politeness.

“I have a family,” he admitted reluctantly, quickening his pace even though the bumpy trail descended sharply from the mountain ridge – he was in danger of twisting his ankle. If only he could step aside and feign tiredness to get rid of this impudent fellow…! The rockface on the left, a sheer drop on the right, both flanked by the impenetrable, thorny matorral.

“No doubt you left a young spouse at home,” his self-appointed guide said smoothly. “You’re a lucky man, friend, if you share your life with a beautiful and virtuous woman.”

The merchant shot a quick glance at the busybody. The man’s wide, swarthy face remained serious. His light-coloured eyes shone in it like two sapphires.

“My wife is virtuous and hardworking,” he snarled. “Nobody in the whole area has a bad word to say about her. She keeps the house clean and tidy, she is pious, and she embroiders for Mrs Arros, wife of the apothecary in Jaca.”

“Aah, I know that sage!” rejoiced the stranger. “He studies plants which have miraculous powers of healing. There are wonderful rumours about his garden… If only I could enter it one day! But the learned Master Palben does not permit anyone to do that!”

Balendin was relieved the conversation had turned to less awkward matters, and so they descended amid lively discussion. They were nearing the foot of the hill; down there a small river glimmered amid the green cover of shrubs… There was a thunderclap.

A long, ominous, growing rumble of thunder and a piercing crack that rended the ears and heart. The merchant gave a shout: a boulder had broken free from the summit. It bounced down the mountain stairway in a ridiculous and horrifying manner, crushing stone protrusions with explosions of dust. It snapped trees, rebounding off them in wild leaps. Balendin turned stiff as a statue – there was nowhere to hide. He felt the bitterness of death on his tongue…

The stranger in black moved, quick as a flame. He yanked the merchant towards the rockface and the impenetrable shrubbery gave way – even the stone seemed to back off and make room for the wayfarer.

Louder than a thousand downpours, the dust and grit swept down in a white waterfall, bushes and trees shattering with sharp shrieks of splintering wood. DUM, DUM, DUM! The boulder came hurtling down… With dust in his mouth and horror in his eyes, the merchant had a sidelong view of the stranger jumping up as if taking flight, catching hold of a rocky ledge and pulling himself up higher. The giant rock rolled past him, missing the man’s leg by half an inch.

The roaring and screeching receded and faded, the boulder rolled over, swayed and settled on the riverbank.

The merchant knelt on the path among the stripped foliage and debris, coughing up dust and wheezing out a prayer. The stranger just shook out his dirt-stained cloak with a kindly smile.

“Sir,” stammered Balendin, “you saved my life and put your own in danger. How can I repay you?” At that moment it seemed to him that no gift or amount of money was big enough to thank the unknown man.

“Friend,” said his rescuer, “I am glad that fate led me to you so that I could be of assistance. I decline your thanks, but there is something you could do for me… In his famed and secret garden, Master Palben grows a herb which was brought to him from far away, from the Orient. It has a long violet stem, light green bell-shaped flowers and shiny seeds. It cures fever, dizziness, anaemia and inflammations of the guts, strengthens romantic desires and brings on health-giving sleep. Bring me one along with the root, which resembles a carrot. Try not to damage it so that I can propagate it too!”

***

Balendin, with his hood pulled down over his forehead, weaved his way among the people in the opulent streets of Jaca. He lowered his head and lamented to himself. In reality he hadn’t been heading here at all. He needed to get to his cosy home in Santa Cruz d’as Serors. It was barely a town, more a village not far from here, but with a new church; even here in Jaca they didn’t have such a large and beautiful one. He would have a mass said there if everything turned out well.

The merchant had only wanted to get rid of the stranger and the Lord had punished him for his lie… No, this was not God’s work but rather the devil’s trickery, getting an honest trader to break into a stranger’s abode and steal!

For a moment he wondered if the apothecary might give him the exotic plant. Alas, Master Palben jealously guarded his knowledge and influence. He shared with no-one, did not even confide in his quiet, timid wife, and got by without assistants. He was ennobled by his wealth and majestic appearance – he had waved goodbye to humility and kindness long ago.

It wouldn’t be easy, but Balendin must defend his own honour and fulfil the stranger’s request. Now he didn’t dare to enter Palben’s large two-storey house with the walled-in courtyard at the side: what if one of the neighbours noticed him? He would wait for the cover of night and then climb over the wall. But the city gates didn’t open until sunrise, and what if the guard spotted him? The sun sank towards the west, shadows drew out to their full length and the air turned grey. Households both poor and wealthy came to life with early-evening bustle. He would seize the opportunity… Hadn’t Maite said that the apothecary had his herb garden hidden in an enclosed back corner of the yard?

With an effort, Balendin pretended to be a prospective customer of Palben’s heading for the front door. However, he stopped and instead of rapping with the door knocker, he slipped round into a side alley barely as wide as the span of a child’s arms. There was no window opening onto it from the next-door building, yet it was filled with the rich aroma of herbs. The merchant laid his cloak and makila on the ground and, using the opposite wall for support, climbed up onto the low wall. Ready to jump into the yard, he almost fell in surprise: winding around the inner wall were small terraces planted with all sorts of herbs. Palben had carefully utilized every inch of the confined space. He had placed a canopy in the southern corner to protect the more delicate plants from the heat.

The merchant climbed cautiously down over the tiered beds; he breathed a sigh of relief when he felt smooth flagstones under his feet. He pulled out a knife and bent down to look for the mysterious herb his rescuer was so interested in…and his gaze strayed under the awning.

For the second time in a short while, he went stiff with fright, as did the two who were brazenly snuggling up to each other under the cover of the canopy and twilight.

***

Balendin wasn’t sure whether darkness was falling that quickly or his eyesight was failing. His legs were buckling under him, and he shifted his weight to his staff like a cripple with a crutch. He tottered to the bank of the river more or less by ear. He tripped, fell and prayed to God that he would never have to get up again.

“Are you hurt, friend?”

The question was cool and matter-of-fact, devoid of any sympathy. The stranger stood there, his arms folded across his chest. Balendin hadn’t heard him coming. Or seen him in the gloom until the man in the black clothes spoke. Even now he only perceived him as a dark silhouette.

“No…” stammered the merchant lying there, and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet.

“Were you attacked by the city guard?” the stranger went on with a curious inexorability.

“No. No.”

“Then whose blood is that?”

Balendin looked at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time in his life:

“Nobody’s. I mean… nobody’s… My wife… The unfaithful slut… I killed her. God help me.”

“You killed them both.” Half a question, half a statement.

Balendin barely managed to nod.

“You acted in accordance with the law,” declared the man firmly. “Only the blood of the fornicators washes away the stain on honour.”

Balendin stared at him helplessly for a moment. He could make out the tall figure and the lines of the cloak fastened about his shoulders. He had a good mind to strangle the stranger with his bare hands. It was as if he had twisted the knife in the merchant’s wound. He had never been unfaithful to Maite, had worshipped the ground she walked on, taken care of everything, looked after her and provided for her! God! Why did I have to kill her? I didn’t want to… If I hadn’t gone into Palben’s garden, I wouldn’t have known anything, everything would have been as it was before! What am I going to tell my sons? What will become of us… of them?

“She betrayed you and she deserved to be punished,” he heard the unknown man saying in an incomplete echo of his own thoughts.

Yes, according to the ancient customs he had a right to vengeance. But that didn’t mean Master Palben’s relatives weren’t going to want the head of his murderer. Once they discovered him, how could he defend himself? Hadn’t the apothecary been struck down in his home, which he had sneaked into? Balendin would have liked to scream, moan and howl like a wounded animal. At least he would have vented a little of his pain. But he couldn’t. Not in front of those piercing eyes – it seemed to him that they glowed in the pale night like blue flames. What is more precious than a good name and an unblemished reputation? And who would want to wear a cuckold’s horns? The silence only increased the merchant’s suffering.

“Here is what you wanted from me,” he said, handing his rescuer the clump of herb, stained with blood. It was all he could do not to throw it in his face. If only he had never met him!

The stranger took it.

“We’re even,” he nodded. “Wait a minute – you won’t be needing that piece of jewellery for your wife. Sell it to me! You could do with some coins now.”

Balendin silently pulled the necklace out from his bosom and let it slide down into the grass. He turned round and set off unsteadily.

He didn’t know what to do or where to go. He longed to be as far away from this place as possible…from the man who had undoubtedly been sent to him by hell itself. He didn’t want his money.

In the deepening gloom the stranger turned the rare plant between his fingers, waiting until Balendin’s footsteps faded away. Then he carelessly tossed it into the river and watched the bloodstains spread as the current dragged it into oblivion. He picked up the golden treasure and stuck it in a deerskin pocket. He reached down for Balendin’s abandoned makila and closed his fist around the slender spear, which came to life. It grew shorter, contracted into a viper’s body and coiled itself around the stranger’s wrist – then promptly disappeared after the necklace.

The swarthy man with the bright eyes suddenly enveloped himself in his cloak. In a flash the fabric was covered in short reddish fur, balding in places. The human figure collapsed in on itself, changing shape with the cracking of broken limbs. From the lush vegetation on the riverbank a huge mule rose up. Its back and rear legs were eaten away by decay and the skin was coming away from the flesh. Where it had fallen apart, yellow bones shone through and jutted out. The surrounding area was filled with the stench of decomposition.

 

Translated by Graeme Dibble