The Knight of Sticks and Straw (2 page)
“On the corner, two streets down from the church,” the girl breathed.
“Let’s go and look at this giant, shall we?”
“No!” Cristina squeaked.
“Yes, I would like to see him. I was always taught that giants were just monsters from old tales. I would like to meet one.”
The woman took her daughter firmly by the hand and led her out into the starlit streets. She pulled the girl up the hill, back towards the palace, past the church.
“Where is the giant?” Mama asked.
Cristina raised a thin finger and pointed towards the groaning, rustling shape ahead of them.
The woman nodded.
“As I thought. It is Master Sancho’s windmill. The city needs his flour, so he works all night to feed us.”
“No giant arms?” the girl asked.
“Just windmill sails,” her mother said. “But if they scare you so much, then on the next feast night, come back across the fields.”
“Yes, Mama … wait for me, Mama!”
Cristina cried and ran home.
But on the next night, the girl again ran from the palace and almost fell into the house in her fearful, fainting state.
“I saw a Berber… He tried to catch me, but I ran. I almost ran into him in the dark. I bumped into him and he smelled terrible. It must be a Berber… They’ve broken into the city.”
Mama took her daughter by the hand and pulled her to the door. “Let’s take a look at this Berber.”
And in the fields, the soursmelling monster stood, flapping in the wind and grinning at the cloudy sky.
Mama shook her head.
“A scarecrow, Cristina. It’s just a scarecrow. You are a
babieca
.”
“What’s that, Mama?”
“An idiot, Cristina. I’m sorry, but you are an
idiot
.”
Cristina slept badly, with dreams of scarecrows that snatched at her hair and spun her round like the sails of a windmill.
The sun rose into another blue sky and another hot day lay ahead.
Cristina would sweat over the cooking fires in the castle kitchens and taste no cool air till the evening. She plodded wearily up the hill, looking at the dusty road and keeping her bare feet away from sharp stones. Suddenly, there was a monstrous crashing of iron on stone as a troop of knights rode down from the castle.
Every huge warhorse was led by a young man in a tunic of his master’s colours. Pictures of swords and dragons, crowns and leopards in reds and golds, blues and silvers, purples and greens and whites.
Their armour glittered, and flags on the tips of their lances made a rainbow of colour.
Cristina was dazzled, and stood gaping while the hooves made sun-bright sparks on the paved street.
An old man dragged her into a doorway. “Don’t step in front of that lot, foolish girl!” he said.
“Where are they going?” she asked.
“To attack the Berbers, of course,” he laughed. “Those Berbers have been sitting outside our walls for months while we get short of food and water. Now El Cid will lead out his knights and slaughter them all. There will be blood and Berber bodies to mop up tonight! Hee! Hee!”
“Who is El Cid?” Cristina asked.
The old man pointed to the warrior who rode on the white horse at the front. “That man there.”
Cristina studied the face of the leading knight. “That’s Lord Rodrigo,” she argued. “I’ve served him at feasts.”
The old man sighed. “Lord Rodrigo Díaz is King Alfonso’s greatest warrior … so the people call him El Cid – The Champion.”
“I see. And will he beat the Berbers?” Cristina asked.
“The Berbers know all about him,” the old man said. “When I was a soldier, I learned that battles are not won by the best fighters – they are won by the bravest. A scared army is a beaten army.”
“And the Berbers are scared of El Cid?”
The man nodded, his eyes glinting in the light of the gleaming armour.
“Oh, yes. Their soldiers will tremble, their swords will shake and their arrows will rattle in their bows. Their teeth will chatter and their legs will be ready to run like rabbits.”
“Just by
looking
at El Cid?” Cristina smiled. “But I served him roast ham and cabbage last night. He is such a gentle man.”
“He is a lion in battle. And he is riding a lion, Babieca.”
The dust from the hooves filled the warm air and choked Cristina. “Don’t call me that. My mother calls me that. It isn’t nice.”
“Eh?” the man asked, and scratched his thin, grey beard. “I didn’t call you anything.”
“You called me
babieca
– idiot,” said Cristina.
“I said that El Cid is
riding
a lion,
Babieca
. His
horse
is called Babieca.”
“Is it?” Cristina blinked and rubbed dust from her eyes. The last of the horses had passed. Trumpets sounded and a great cheer rose from the army on the city walls as El Cid and his knights rode out.
The old man hobbled up the hill towards the palace, and Cristina fell into step with him.
