Uncertain Times
Lorencio
Kingdom of Castile
Sextilius the 3rd
Spain,1340
From atop the windswept hill, amidst the sparse grass and weathered stone, Lorencio glanced back and strained his eyes through the glare of the midafternoon sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of his home one last time. The waning sky was in the early throes of evening, where the sun begins its descent behind the horizon, ushering in the dark. In an hour or so, the home where he spent much of his early years would be covered in darkness and it would be impossible to make anything out then.
From here, he could see the old stone walls and crowing towers or maybe the trees that stood in a uniformed formation in the courtyard, not unlike the soldiers that stood outside of the courtyard, readying to march south towards Gibraltar.
Lorencio could make out from this distance the colorful banners of his house, dancing proudly in the wind. They were held by a company of guardsmen as they marched out from the keep and began to line up outside the walls of his home. Their footsteps echoed through the valley, united in their cadence. Soon they will march south, to meet the invading army of the Moors.
Slowly, he stepped away from the top of the hill, carefully descending towards the valley road, where Velasco leaned against a tree, peeling a pomegranate with a practiced steadiness and deliberate patience. Lorencio only ever saw Velasco move in a similar fashion; when he would play his guitarra morisca. The old musician glanced from his fruit when he heard Lorencio approach.
“Ah Sennor Lorencio! Enjoy the view? The keep looks lovely at this time of day, does it not? I used to ride out on this road with your father on our way to Castile. He also would stop on this very hill and look back to his home.”
The old man smiled warmly, hoping his words of his father would brighten his mood. In reality, Lorencio doubted his father did much sight seeing. He was always far too busy to ever bother to speak to Lorencio and his siblings, much less to stop and admire the view. Velasco always did have a talent to try and sweeten the sour memories that Lorencio had of his father. But no amount of honey could ever save the bread after it’s gone moldy.
Lorencio sat next to the old man, who offered some of his pomegranate to him. Lorencio took a portion into his hands, mindful of the red juice that now stained his fingers as he picked off the granules and brought them to his lips.
“Castle looks the same, only farther. It just felt wrong to not look at it before I never see it again.” Lorencio responded as he sucked on some of the juice from his finger before it reached his traveling clothes.
Velasco nodded, his smile faltering a little.
“Not never, sennor. You will be back in no time.”
“I also saw the soldiers forming outside.” Loerencio said, throwing the empty shell of his portion of pomegranate towards the road.
Velasco sighed deeply.
“Sennor, do not trouble yourself with that. Your mother has made herself clear. She does not wish for you to throw yourself into that war with your uncles.”
Lorencio scoffed, trying to wipe away the red from his hands with the grass that sprawled underneath him.
“Most of my house and family are fighting. To run from this seems so…cowardly. Why would she shame me like this?”
Velasco let out a breath, a deep grumble that conveyed the tired man’s patience.
“They say that Yusuf brings six hundred thousand Muslims to our country. That is ten times more than what Alfonso and Castile can muster. The House of de Lara stands weak after the death of your father. Your mother thinks her brothers are desperate to restore the name of the house. So much so, they are willing to throw themselves and their children to Yusuf and his dogs of war.” Velasco says as he reaches out and grabs Lorencio's shoulder with wizened fingers. The old man gave him a squeeze, though Lorencio could barely feel it.
“Your uncles are walking into certain death. Your mother has already lost much to war. She refuses to lose you for your family’s vanity.”
The words do little to ease Lorencio's guilt and is thinking about a reply when a sound like distant thunder fills his ears. Velasco lets go of his shoulder and struggles to his feet, prompting Lorencio to help him up as they both turn toward the sound.
Down the road they had traveled, Lorencio watched as a company of 20 men bearing the colors of his house approached . Velasco shuffles his feet, stows his guitarra and straightens his linen robe as the riders approach.
“Sennor it is best if I do the talking.” He says in a low grumbling tone, barely audible over the raucous uproar.
Lorencio sided along him, resting one hand on his belt.
The mounted men all pulled their horses to a stop several yards from Velasco and Lorencio. Their armor gleamed in the setting sunlight, while their red tabards bathed them in an incandescent hue, which contrasted with the surrounding green hills and trees. One of the leading men kicked his horse forward. He wore a handsome helmet decorated with a plume of some exotic bird, his armor polished and expensive. These were soldiers, and upon seeing the crest of their shields, he knew who they were pledged to.
“Cousin?” Lorencio proclaimed loudly. Velasco grunted in disapproval and adjusted his stance again, though it was unclear if it was out of nervousness or his aged spine.
The man removed his helmet to reveal the face of Mauricio, one of Lorencio's cousins and eldest of his Uncle Juan Ñunez. A handsome man in his mid twenties, with dark hair that ran down to his shoulders and olive skin that gleamed with sweat.
“Cousin! I see you're on the move but I’m confused by your sense of direction. Gibraltar is south and you're heading north.”
Mauricio smiled as he asked his question, glancing back at the large platoon of soldiers that amassed outside of his home.
“When I arrived this morning, I was excited. My father told me that I should meet with you and your men and begin our march to Portugal, to give Hassan an excuse to crawl across the Salado and take his dog Yusuf and their army of Moors with them. Instead, cousin, you are here.”
Mauricio’s eyebrows furrow, while keeping the same smile beaming towards Lorencio. He gestures around him, with an air of mockery that makes Lorencio's throat swell with annoyance. Of course, this pomposity invites chuckles from his men.
“I find you here, in the outskirts of your Castillo, traveling in the opposite direction of our enemy, with nothing but one man at your side. I must say, this is a strategy I have never bore witness to and I find it a bit curious.”
Lorencio began to feel his breathing become short and hurried, his annoyance growing to anger. Even among his cousins, who had a reputation of arrogance and ill-tempered cruelty, Mauricio stood out as especially unlikable. A fine soldier and commander, sure, even Lorencio could not dispute. And yet, he always felt Mauricio lacked in all other areas of court. Vulgar and repugnant in his behavior.
“Sennor Mauricio! We apologize for not saying goodbye. Our departure was swift but we are glad you were able to find us-“
Velasco jumped as Mauricio raised a finger, talking over him.
“I believe I was addressing my cousin, not his servant.” Mauricio’s smile faded a little as he turned to Lorencio, his eyes scanning their belongings as they laid beside them.
Velasco laughed off the interruption with noticeable trepidation.
“I was only trying to tell you, sennor, that we are in the middle of a very pressing matter-“
“Pressing matter? Cousin, does this old fool now own your tongue? Why do you refuse to speak to your own family?”
Lorencio stepped forward, putting a hand on Velasco's shoulder. The old man turned to look at him, but Lorencio only had eyes for Mauricio and his men. The words he muttered next washed away the sweetness of the pomegranate with their bitterness.
“Cousin, I would ask you to respect this man. He was and remains a trusted advisor to my family. He has not misspoken either. We are on a diplomatic mission.” Lorencio stood straight as he delivered his lies to his cousin. There was never much love between them, but that fact did little to soothe Lorencio's shame. Lying to your own blood is never easy.
Mauricio’s smile finally fell, his lips forming a thin line on his face.
“Why the secrecy, cousin?”
“No secrecy, just urgency. War is upon us.” Lorencio gestured around him, though he had to refrain from doing it in the same mocking manner Mauricio did. “Our land is in trouble.”
Velasco stepped in, bowing his head to the mounted knight.
“Sennor, our mission is to bring allies to our defense. Favors and oaths must be called to be honored.”
Mauricio said nothing, his smile slowly painting itself back on his face, only this one still held vestiges of his displeasure. He leaned forward, patting his horse as he spoke.
“Diplomacy is for soft handed bureaucrats. Lorencio, we are De Lara. Lions among sheep. You are above these frivolous affairs. Come, bring your horse and ride to meet your men. We march to meet Moorish steel.”
Lorencio felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The smile betrayed the spinning malice behind his lips. Mauricio spoke flatly, his voice now devoid of the slight humor he began with. Lorencio could not tell him the truth.
The truth.
What truth was there? That he was fleeing from his duty to his family, to his country? The shame of it was like a knife twisting into his ribs. Lorencio tried to gather all the courage he could muster, but his own heart doubted his mother’s decision. How could he defend this act of cowardice?
His mind flashed the words of his mother, days earlier after dinner. News of the Moorish invasion had reached her. Her brothers intended to fight. She turned to Lorencio, grief still fresh from the death of his brother naught but two years before.
“I will not have my last child ripped from me because of the pride of fools. My brothers may waste their lives and those of their sons into war. I will secure the name De Lara if they will not. The house will not die in vain glory.”
Her actions and words were not only of a mother saving her son, but of the dutiful daughter, last of her name. Even if it meant going against her own family, she would preserve her remaining family.
Was that cowardice?
Or was that love?
Mauricio had always been keen in fighting, the so-called noble knight of yore, steadfast in his quest against his enemies. Defender of the land.
And yet his zeal always seemed hollow to Lorencio, devoid of any real sense of love or devotion. All vanity. All pride.
“Mauricio. You always were brash. God himself only knows why he made you such a gifted fighter but a poor thinker.” The words came to Lorencio, emboldened by the condescending nature of his cousin. “The mission ahead of me requires more than brutish thinking and no small amount of tact. It is imperative to our cause. Securing allies is always worth the risk.”
Lorencio waves at the spectacle around him, face wrought in a determined expression. The facade of mere dignitaries would have to be ironclad.
“It is not the most glamorous of duties, but it is unthinkable to leave it to the hands of some bumbling bureaucrat, do you not agree?” Lorencio's question came with an edge, a challenge daring Mauricio to argue further.
But none came from the proud knight. Instead, a solemn thin line formed where his once grinning smile had been. An omen that perturbed Lorencio.
“Very well, cousin. It seems you have made your choice. I will not delay you any longer.” Mauricio announced, a jagged silence followed as he turned his retinue around to gallop towards the castle.
“Oh but Lorencio? When I live through this war and find that you had done nothing but run from it? I will find you and run you through with my sword. Understood?”
“Bold, cousin.Do you assume me craven?”
The knight did not answer. Instead he clicked his silver heels and hurried away, the red crest of House De Lara following suit.
Velasco grumbled under his breath, cursing.
“Threats of a butcher. Lady De Lara will hear of this insolence.”
But Lorencio reached over and grasped his shoulder, gripping it tightly.
“No lies were spoken though. The words are sour milk in my mouth, but Mauricio is correct. I am running. Off to the bidding of my matron. He is only following his own path, also paved by his patron.”
Lorencio understood his mothers actions, had grown to even appreciate her choices. And yet this gnawing feeling persisted in him, a consuming belief that maybe this act carried with it the stench of cowardice.
Velasco nudged the young prince.
“Ah so you do listen. I see that some of my wisdom has indeed found purchase in that head of yours, despite the dense walls you insist on building around it.”
The old man and the prince returned to their path on the road, mounting their horses and setting their sights north.
“So, tell me Velasco. Inform me again of this plan of yours.” Lorencio began as the sun on their side began to wane, the golden light of the day turning a dark blue hue. “What the hell does a balatro do, again?”
The following days on the road were arduous. Taverns were rare in that stretch of the road and the two travelers found themselves sleeping by the roadside in makeshift tents or employing the use of village barns and the kindness of strangers.
Each day bled into the next, with only the scenery changing. The backdrop of these hazy hours began to grate on Lorencio, the looming blue skies had lost their charm and now served as some sort of malignant watcher, obfuscating their true intentions with innocuous presentation. The dullness of the road was one obstacle Lorencio had not anticipated. Velasco, on the other hand, enjoyed the outing. He filled his hours in the light with music and reciting poems and epics of the Greeks and the Romans. The store of sweet wine he kept in his bag also aided in combating the monotony.
“So it’s a jester? A fool of the court?” Lorencio asked during one of Velasco’s impromptu performances. He had asked the question mostly to annoy him.
The old man stopped abruptly and turned to the young prince, brow furrowing and nose flared in annoyance.
“Preposterous. The balatro does not fall over and tumble like buffoons. We are artists. Not merely entertainers but educators, crafters of the spoken words not unlike the sermons given by leaders of the faith. We also tell stories of brave knights and fair maidens, of villainous kings and the nature of man.”
The old man emphasized this description with a flurry of gestures, conveying all his points into some sort of entranced expression.
“Much more than the drudgery that these court jesters bring to our profession. We are bards!” Velasco finished with a triumphant fist in the air. Lorencio chuckled at the old man's enthusiasm. Despite what he might proclaim, there was some mirth to be had at the expense of a balatro.
“Yes, yes. A fancy fool, I’ve heard of this diatribe.” Lorencio responded, adjusting his position in his horse's saddle. He leaned forward and patted the mane of his stallion, earning a few grunts from the animal in return.
“Ah. I see you have been bitten by the acrid devil that is ignorance. Clearly, you’ve not come to appreciate what I do for your family’s court.”
“I thought you were a soldier?”
“I WAS a soldier. But after I grew old and swinging a sword became dull, I chose to train this.” He pointed to his head. “The mind is often the first to go in our twilight years.” Velasco unclasped his guitarra from his saddle and threw it backward to Lorencio, who only barely managed to catch it.
“Wha! Why-?”
“For your insolence. Let me hear you play again. Four lines and then repeat.” He pointed to his head again and smiled lopsidedly as he turned to face Lorencio.
“Remember, sennor, we must train our mind lest we lose it.”
Lorencio sighed as he did what he was told.
Running his fingers through the strings, he coaxed out the tidy song Velasco had taught him while on their journey. It had become easier, no longer the messy cacophony but instead a confident and steady melody.
Velasco swayed as Lorencio played, his bound gray hair swaying along as a gentle, warm breeze accompanied him in his movement. The old man nodded along.
“Now let me hear you sing.”
Lorencio scoffed.
“I thought you did not jest.”
“A Balatro must be a weaver of both note and word. You must hone your voice like you hone your sword. What good is a dull blade? Same goes for a voice.”
He clears his throat and lowered his voice to a low, baritone tone and began to sing a cantiga, an old song from his time in Toledo. The song spoke of a knight named de Vivar, who was exiled by his king and forced to fight battle after battle in order to return home.
The irony was not lost on Lorencio.
His own voice was hoarse from the journey and did not carry the same gravitas that Velasco’s did.
“Not so easy, the job of a "fool”, eh? Any simpleton can swing a blade. This requires a more deft hand.” Velasco retrieved his drinking skin again as he took another long draw from it.
“You’ve made your point.” Lorencio responded dourly, his hands rubbing the sore sides of his temples. “How much longer? We’ve been traveling for nearly a month.” He could feel the soreness of his legs and arse grow from an idle ache to a more active gnawing. He stretched his back and rubbed his neck, undoing the strap in his hair and allowing the long, chestnut strands to cascade to his shoulders. What he wouldn’t do for a bath. Even if it was in some river or creek.
“Not much longer, sennor. Look ahead.”
The valley began to open in front of them, changing from the more rocky and rugged terrain to rolling and impossibly green hills. Snow capped mountains adorned the horizon, cradling the tide of verdant fields and trees. To the west, the landscape sloped downwards, lines of trees dotting the land, breaking up the continuous flow of the hills, like rock in a stream.
Further along, Lorencio had to blink multiple times to discern the scenery before him.
White and gold beaches serve as luminous barriers, shielding the grassy knolls, stretching along the massive maw of a majestic blue sea. So deep and wide, it blends seamlessly with the omnipresent sky above if not for the rippling nature of the water and the writhing seam of the horizon underneath the burning sun. Jutting from these shores were bluffs and cliffs, grey rock faces that added to the gathering of colors that made up the beauty of the Basque.
“El Vasco!” Exclaimed Velasco, gesturing to the emerging view and welcoming it.
“It's....it's quite something.” Lorencio muttered as he took in the vista. His words failed him, even as he searched for any that would suffice in capturing the moment.
Velasco let out a small laugh, cut short when he took another drink of his skin.
“I too, lacked the right words when I first saw it. Look over to the south there, atop the hills.”
Plastered above the rolling terrain, built on a small plateau, stood a large palace, surrounded by sturdy and wind worn walls.
“That is the castle belonging to House Capet. Our destination is within sight and our journey draws to an end.” Velasco waxes as he engulfs a large swath of air and releases it moments after, in the manner of which inebriated fools do. Hyperbole at the forefront for all of their actions.
