‘They rob us, excellency,’ shouted another man, hot and bothered, ‘and the sheriff of Ugíjar does nothing to protect us.’
But Hernando was not listening to him. He was remembering with nostalgia how as a boy he had to round up the flocks after they had been scattered to escape paying the tithe.
‘Will your excellency do something?’ insisted the Galician, making as if to grab Hernando by the arm, until an old man at his side stopped him abruptly.
‘I’ve only come to buy horses,’ Hernando answered him sharply. What did these Christians know about robberies and the violations of people’s rights? As they badgered him for help, full of expectation, all he could think of was the impunity with which the Moriscos were mistreated. These people knew nothing about that. They did not even pay duties: they were exempt. Work! he was on the verge of exhorting them.
In spite of the fact he was now certain why the royal income was so meagre, and still more certain that he would find no mares worthy of Don Alfonso’s stables, Hernando decided to prolong his stay in the Alpujarra. The irritation Don Sancho and the servants showed at having to live in a small house lacking in comforts in a desolate village was reward enough. The uncouth sheriff and the abbot of Ujíjar, together with some of the six canons, were the only people with whom the knight deigned to converse, and then only briefly. Hernando usually left Ugíjar on horseback at dawn after mass. He liked to pass by the house of Salah the merchant, now inhabited by a Christian family, and go round all the places he had come to know during the uprising. He studied commerce in the region and spoke with people to discover the real reasons for the stagnation of activity in the area, where many Moriscos had once been able to feed themselves and raise their families. On occasion he sought shelter for the night in some house and slept far from Ugíjar. He climbed up to the castle of Lanjarón but did not dare dig up the sword of Muhammad. What was he going to do with it? Alone at its resting place he knelt and prayed.
But Don Sancho gradually became so bored that one day he insisted on accompanying Hernando on his excursions.
‘Are you sure?’ the Morisco asked him. ‘Don’t forget the areas through which I pass are extremely rugged . . .’
‘Are you doubting my horsemanship?’
They set off one morning at dawn; the knight had dressed as if for a royal hunt. Hernando had heard of some horses that grazed around the pass at La Ragua, and he set off for Válor in order to climb up into the mountains from there. Now it was his turn to teach the duke’s cousin a thing or two.
‘I know what your mission is all about,’ the knight advised him, shouting at the top of his voice from the other side of a stream that Volador had easily jumped. Don Sancho urged on his horse, which also cleared it. Hernando had to admit the knight could handle himself in the saddle with an agility that belied his age. ‘And I don’t believe this trip is necessary to find out why the King doesn’t obtain sufficient income—’
‘Do you know the lands, and what is cultivated where?’ Hernando asked him. Don Sancho shook his head. ‘Then could it be that are you scared?’
The knight frowned and clicked his tongue for his horse to move on.
It was a magnificent day at the end of May, sunny and cool. They continued upwards, Don Sancho following Hernando. They negotiated gullies, descended ravines and overcame all manner of obstacles. Both riders were now utterly focused on their mounts and the ground where they walked, in silent competition; the only sounds were the animals’ snorts and the words of encouragement they both used to urge their horses on. Suddenly Hernando came to an almost sheer mountain slope where he could just make out a goat track. He did not think twice. He raised himself up in the stirrups and with one hand gripped the horse’s mane, almost at Volador’s forehead, and then spurred him hard. The horse began the ascent and Hernando, pulling on his mane and holding the reins with his other hand, pressed close to Volador’s neck. The horse was almost looking at the sky.
Volador ascended in small leaps without pausing for an instant, incapable of moving normally up that sheer cliff face. The stones of the track skittered away into the void, and halfway up, when Volador lost his footing and slid a short way back down, sitting on his haunches and whinnying, Hernando realized the grave risk he ran: if he did not stay upright, if Volador stepped off the track even one inch, they would inevitably roll down the mountainside.
‘Hup!’ he shouted, digging his spurs into the animal’s rump. ‘Come on!’
Volador reared and leapt upwards once more. Hernando almost flew off backwards.
‘You’re going to kill yourself!’ shouted Don Sancho from the foot of the precipice.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ Hernando howled into Volador’s ear, trying to make himself heard above the sound of falling stones, the horse’s hooves slipping on the ground and its snorts. He kept his body flat along the animal’s neck, his head almost between its ears. ‘Allah is great!’ he repeated with every leap the horse completed.
Volador almost had to climb over the lip of the gorge, where his front legs could no longer help drive him upwards. Hernando leapt from the saddle and ran to the horse’s head, pulling on the reins to help him up and over. Covered in sweat, horse and rider found themselves quaking and fighting for breath on a small expanse of flat land, filled with flowers.
Kneeling, Hernando peered over into the void.
‘Now it’s my turn!’ Don Sancho shouted, seeing the Morisco’s head appear over the edge of the precipice. He could not be bested by the Morisco! ‘Santiago!’
‘No!’ Hernando cried out. The knight stopped just before launching himself up the track. Hernando struggled to his feet. ‘It’s madness,’ he shouted down.
Don Sancho made his horse take a few steps back so that he could see the Morisco.
‘I am an hidalgo . . .’ Don Sancho began to declaim.
He’ll kill himself, thought Hernando. And he would be responsible. He had encouraged the old man!
‘In the name of God and the Blessed Virgin, a Spanish knight is capable of climbing the same as a—’
‘You, my lord, are,’ Hernando interrupted him before he could finish. ‘Your horse, no!’
The knight thought for a second and contemplated the climb. His mount shifted uneasily beneath him. He looked up to the top, gently stroked his horse and then reluctantly backed off, yielding to Hernando’s advice.
‘You ride extremely well,’ acknowledged Hernando after coming down from the plateau where he had found himself and meeting up with Don Sancho again. Volador was sweating and bore the bloody marks of Hernando’s spurs.
‘I know,’ snapped the knight, trying to hide his relief at not having to follow the Morisco’s lead.
‘Let’s go back to Ugíjar,’ Hernando suggested, proud to feel superior to the hidalgo.
That same night, Hernando announced they would leave for Granada the next morning.
‘Apparently,’ Don Sancho told him during the journey, ‘Doña Isabel was taken in by the Marquis of los Vélez.’
The two were riding at a walk in front of the servants and mules, with the horses’ reins loose.
‘How do you know that?’
‘From the senior abbot of Ugíjar. He explained to me – several times, by the way – while you were wandering about in the mountains.’ Hernando raised his eyebrows as if he did not understand. ‘Yes, yes,’ Don Sancho muttered. ‘Doña Isabel entered the marquis’s house as a companion for his daughters; they grew up together and she became so dear to them that the Devil Iron Head’s successor offered a substantial dowry for her marriage. She married a lawyer who prospered thanks to the help of the Los Vélez family. Thanks to another Fajardo de Córdoba, a judge in Seville, he became a judge in one of the chambers of the Granada chancery.’
‘Is that important?’
Don Sancho let out a low whistle before answering. ‘The chancery of Granada, along with that of Valladolid, is the most important tribunal of the realm of Castile. In Aragón there are others. The
only higher authority is the council of Castile, which rules on behalf of His Majesty, and then only on specific matters. So yes, it is important. Don Ponce de Hervás is a judge in one of the civil chambers. All the lawsuits in Andalusia end up before him or one of his colleagues. This brings him a lot of power . . . and money.’
‘He’s well paid?’
‘Don’t be naive. Do you know what the Duke of Alba used to say about justice in this country?’ Hernando turned in the saddle towards Don Sancho. ‘That there is no case whatsoever, be it civil or criminal, that isn’t sold like meat in the butcher’s, and that the majority of the councillors sell them daily to whoever wants to buy them. Never bring a lawsuit against a powerful individual.’
‘Is that what the duke says as well?’
‘That is a piece of advice from me to you.’
Since they did not want to arrive at their host’s at an unsociable hour, they spent the night in Padul, a little more than three leagues from Granada. Hernando surprised Don Sancho by insisting on going to the church before leaving the following morning. This was where he had married Fátima, according to the edict of Prince John of Austria. A false marriage, only valid in the eyes of the Christians, but for him it had signified a ray of hope. Fátima . . . The church, empty at this time of day, seemed to him a cold place, as frozen as his soul. He closed his eyes, knelt down and pretended to pray, but from his lips came only: ‘In death, hope is everlasting!’ That phrase pursued him: it seemed to have sealed his fate from the very day he pronounced it for her. Why, God?’ Why Fátíma . . .? He had to dry his tears before standing up and to Don Sancho’s surprise he maintained a stubborn silence until they arrived at the city of the Alhambra.
They entered it at mid-morning through the Rastro gate. They crossed the river Darro through an area where they sold all kinds of wood. A skull in a rusty iron cage hanging from the arch of the city gateway greeted Hernando like a bad omen. Some peasants and merchants who were trying to pass through the gate complained out loud when he stopped to read the inscription displayed above the cage:
THIS IS THE HEAD OF THAT GREAT DOG ABEN ABOO, WHOSE DEATH PUT AN END TO THE WAR
‘Did you know him?’ asked Don Sancho in a whisper, while more annoyed people had to steer their mules and horses to either side to get around the riders.
Aben Aboo? That castrated dog had sold him as a slave to Barrax and given Fátima to Brahim in marriage. Hernando spat.
‘I see you do,’ declared the hidalgo, urging his horse on after Hernando, who had hastened to pass through the gate beneath the skull of the King of al-Andalus.
Following the course of the Darro through the city, they reached the wide and bustling Plaza Nueva. Here the river disappeared, to emerge once more on the other side of the Santa Ana church. To their right stretched the road leading uphill to the Alhambra, presiding over Granada; to their left stood a large palace that was nearing completion.
‘How do we find out where Don Ponce lives?’ Hernando asked the hidalgo.
‘I don’t think it will prove too difficult.’ Don Sancho addressed an armed guard positioned in front of the palace under construction. ‘We are looking for the residence of Don Ponce de Hervás,’ he said peremptorily from his horse. The guard, recognizing a nobleman, responded.
‘At this moment, his excellency is inside here.’ The man pointed towards the building where he stood guard. ‘This is the new chancery building, but he lives in a villa in the Albaicín. Would you like me to send word to him?’
‘We have no wish to disturb him,’ Don Sancho replied. ‘We only want to reach his house.’
The guard glanced round the square and called to two lads who were playing there. ‘Do you two know the house of the judge Don Ponce de Hervás?’ he shouted at them.
Hernando, Don Sancho and the servants with the mules accompanied the children deep into the labyrinth of narrow streets that constituted the Albaicín of Granada, rising up the other slope of the valley formed by the river Darro, facing the Alhambra. Many of the little houses belonging to Moriscos appeared shut up and abandoned and, as in Córdoba, where there had once been a mosque there now appeared a church, a convent or one of Granada’s many hospitals. They ascended a long uphill road, narrow and winding, and descended another much shorter and steeper one that came to a dead end at the large double doors of a house. Leaving the horses and mules to the servants, Hernando handed a penny to the youngsters, while Don Sancho grasped the lion’s head knocker and rapped on the wooden door.
They were received by a liveried doorkeeper. His expression visibly altered when he heard Hernando’s name, and he ran to inform his mistress, leaving them in the gardens that spread out behind the doorway. Hernando and Don Sancho leant against one of the many brick balustrades enclosing long and narrow gardens and vegetable plots that descended the hillside below the house in a series of terraces. The grounds ran down to the boundary with the next villa or one of the humble Morisco houses that jostled together in the Albaicín. Both men stared straight ahead, intoxicated by the view: amidst the scent of flowers and fruit trees, with the murmur of water from numerous fountains, the Alhambra rose magnificent and splendid on the far side of the Darro valley. It seemed as if they could almost reach out and touch it.
‘Hernando . . .’
The voice behind him sounded shy and faltering.
Hernando took a long time to turn round. What would that little girl with straw-coloured hair and fearful brown eyes be like now? It was her blonde hair that he first noticed: pulled up into a bun, it contrasted with the black dress of a beautiful woman whose eyes, despite being clouded by tears, were alive and shining.
‘Peace be with you, Isabel.’
The woman tightened her lips and nodded, remembering Hernando’s farewell in Berja, before her saviour had galloped off, howling and brandishing the scimitar above his head. Isabel was holding a baby in her arms and next to her stood two other children, one clutching at her skirt and the other a little older, about six, standing calmly by her side. She pushed the oldest in the back for him to step forwards.
‘My son Gonzalico,’ she presented him, as the little one shyly held out his right hand.
Hernando did not take it, but crouched down in front of him.
‘Has your mother told you about your uncle Gonzalico?’ The boy nodded. ‘He was a very, very brave boy.’ Hernando felt a lump coming to his throat and coughed a little before continuing. ‘Are you as brave as him?’
The boy turned to look at his mother, who nodded with a smile.
‘Yes, he is,’ she said.
‘One day we’ll go for a horse ride, would you like that? I have a horse that comes from King Philip’s stables, the finest in Andalusia.’
The little boy’s eyes opened wide. His brother let go of his mother’s skirt and came closer.
‘This is Ponce,’ said Isabel.
‘What’s its name?’ asked Gonzalico.
‘The horse? Volador. Would you two like to ride him?’
Both boys nodded.
Hernando ruffled their hair and straightened up.
‘My companion, Don Sancho.’ He indicated the hidalgo, who took a step forwards to bow down before Isabel’s outstretched hand.
Hernando watched Isabel as she answered Don Sancho’s polite questions. The terrified little creature of years ago had turned into a beautiful woman. He surveyed her for a while as she smiled and shifted gracefully, aware she was being watched. When the hidalgo took a step back and Isabel turned her gaze towards him, her brown eyes conveyed a thousand memories. Hernando shuddered and, as if seeking to free himself from those sensations, urged her to tell him about all that had happened to her during the intervening years.
47
DON PONCE DE Hervás, an austere and reserved man, thanked Hernando with a warmth that surprised even the house’s servants. He was a small, plump man with undistinguished features and a round face. He always dressed in black and was a head shorter than his wife, whom he c
learly adored. He honoured his visitor with a simple bedchamber on the villa’s second floor next to the couple’s own rooms, with access to a balcony overlooking the gardens and the Alhambra. Don Sancho was lodged on the same floor near to the children’s rooms, on the opposite side of a long corridor full of nooks and crannies that crossed the mansion.
Hernando’s presence did not change Don Ponce’s habits. He threw himself into his work as if that was the only way he could maintain his standing alongside Isabel, a Spanish grandee’s protégée, who with a mere movement of her hand, a smile or a word, eclipsed the little judge. Don Sancho, for his part, requested his host’s permission to disappear off into Granada to spend time with relatives and acquaintances. Hernando was left to spend his days in the house and gardens with Isabel and her children.
During the first days of his stay Hernando had the judge’s permission to use his own study on the ground floor, so he could write to the duke informing him of the results of his enquiries.
‘It would be possible to establish a raw silk market in Ugíjar,’ he proposed, after warning of the indolent character of the people and the problems he had found on his travels in the Alpujarra.
If this were done, the villagers would not have to sell their silks at a loss in Granada, as it seems they are currently forced to do. They would save the costs of the journey to the city and it would not affect the numerous textile mills in Granada as their supplies of silk come from many other places besides the Alpujarra.
Childish laughter distracted him from his work. Hernando got up from the judge’s simple carved wooden desk and went to the double-fronted door, half open to admit the breeze from the main garden. This was a long stretch of narrow land along one side of the house. In the centre and occupying the entire length of the garden was a pool fed by numerous fountains set at intervals along its sides. The garden was covered with vines supported on arching overhead frames, which at that time in spring were growing vigorously. They made a cool, agreeable tunnel that ended in an arbour. Stone benches were placed at the foot of the growing vines, so that visitors could pause and enjoy the many jets of water spraying upwards into the air before tumbling down into the pool.
The Hand of Fatima Page 61
