Fist of the Faith

Chapter 3

“What was that for?” wailed Albornoz, who by full title was Gil Álvarez Carrillo de Albornoz. His head was spinning from the vicious blow inflicted by his elder brother, Fernan.

“You cheated! I told you to count to twenty before opening your eyes, but you must have cheated to find us as quickly as you did,” Fernan answered, rubbing his sore hand.

must “I’m sorry, Fernan, but — ”

“Right! And this time wait until you get to twenty. Understand?”

“I do.”

Fernan and the other brother, Alvar, scampered off through the trees. Hide and seek was their favourite game.

“One, two, three…” Albornoz counted. "I must do it correctly this time." The boy sniffled. Eight years old, but he already understood punishment, whether meted out by Fernan or his father. He was determined to improve his behaviour, to gain their praise, not retribution.

As far back as young Albornoz’s memory reached, he only recalled his friends running faster, throwing farther and hitting harder than he could. They won races, skimmed stones way across the lake and held him down until he yielded in wrestling contests. He had become accustomed to second place, and it did not sit comfortably with his inner character.

Not until he uttered ‘twenty’ did he dare remove his hands from his eyes.

“Coming, ready or not!” he called out and began searching for Fernan and Alvar, but without success.

“I give up! Where are you?”

The brothers lowered themselves from a tree branch high enough for its foliage to conceal them.

“We’ve won again!” Fernan announced in a mocking tone. "But at least you kept to the rule, so you’re safe for today, my little brother.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Albornoz muttered, relieved at avoiding another cuff. “My turn to hide now,” he announced.

Fernan and Alvar closed their eyes, and the latter counted, “one, two, three” while the youngest boy ran away.

The three brothers were not alone. For the young people of Cuenca, this place was their own to laugh, argue, cry and cheer to their hearts" content, and all this away from the meddlesome gaze of their parents in the town perched atop a rocky outcrop. The Júcar and Huécar rivers meandered sharply through a steep-sided, narrow gorge. A sumptuous, green valley contrasted with the arid Castilian Meseta to the north and south that enabled pines, junipers, elders and holm-oaks to grow side by side. Lining the rivers, bulrushes swayed gently in time with the flow of the waters and gnarled, old weeping willows afforded native creatures shade from the summer sun. This latter tree’s graceful, elegant form, with its long, light green, pendulous boughs reflected in the current, created safe harbour for the beaver’s lodge and the vole’s hideaway. Both rivers flooded regularly to irrigate the thirsty greenery of the valley.

To a certain height up the limestone slopes of the gorge grew woods and shrubs. At a level where vegetation ceased, birds of prey made their homes in the nooks and fissures of the rock. Kestrels and kites hovered in ascending thermals, waiting patiently for an unsuspecting mouse or shrew to catch their eye and prompt a deadly dive. Fledgling chicks squawking from the nests anticipated their parents’ return, a tasty meal in their claws.

A solitary, imperious golden eagle swooped into the ravine as if from nowhere, its mere presence sufficient to disperse the other birds amid terrified screams: they knew better than attempt to overrule this master of the heavens. It boasted golden-brown plumage and broad, long wings, its bill, dark at the tip, fading to a lighter horn colour. With talons, hooked and sharp, it possessed the power to snatch up hares, rabbits, marmots, even ground squirrels. In its majesty, it glided high above inferior birds and even Cuenca town, eclipsing the scene below. From its zenithal place in the sky, it surveyed the lands beneath it: silent, swift, supreme.

As light began to fade, it was time for the children to come together for the day’s final amusement — a wrestling contest.

“Who is it today then?” came a call.

“I think it should be Albornoz’s turn,” came another.

“But he’s only seven years old — "

“Eight!” corrected the children’s choice. “And I’ll take on anybody, see if I don’t!”

One boy, who by his size and booming voice was evidently the leader, stepped into the middle of the crowd, waving his arms to silence the spectators.

“Back! Get back and make space!” The order was at once obeyed. He continued —

“So, who will fight Albornoz — and no girls, either, don’t want him to go down too soon!”

At this mockery, they all erupted into guffaws and jeering.

“Hush! I’m the oldest, so I’ll choose…ah…yes!” He pointed to someone who, although about the same age as Albornoz, stood tall against him, like a giant, with missing teeth and scars on his forehead.

“Yes, you! Come forward, Ramon.”

A circle of expectant youngsters formed, and in the centre the two combatants stood proudly upright, shoulders back. They exchanged opening blows but avoided any holds until they had each decided how to best tackle the other. Shortly, and to the encouraging yells from the onlookers, they came into a clinch to then fall to the ground. The stronger boy pinned down Albornoz and, as the shouting grew ever louder, rained punch after punch until the leader moved in to halt the one-sided contest

“Enough! I declare Luc the winner!”

Ramon raised his fists skyward in a triumphant salute, leaving Albornoz prostrate, his nose bleeding, mouth swollen and a cut over one eye.

The bell for Vespers in the cathedral rang out, and they all knew they had better make for home. A procession weaved its way up the steps cut into the rock that led to the town above. Despite the fight having finished, they continued ridiculing Albornoz, who walked unsteadily behind, struggling to keep up with his brothers.

“You didn’t do much for the family name, did you?” Fernan barked, showing neither concern nor compassion for his sibling.