Solomon of Itil

Sep. 13th, 1070​

History has known many great fools. Nero, Charles the Fat, Ethelred; I fear my foolishness differs from theirs only in scope. My conflict with Miraglia left me unable to sleep, but I could find no clarity of thought to continue the administrative work before me either. After several fitless hours of doing nothing, I went out at dawn to lose myself in some of the menial chores of the day. Instead, I found my steward, who asked for a moment of my time. Raimunda must have heard the fight the night before, because she had that motherly look on her face that only comes out when she tries to smooth things over between people. Having spent a sleepless night thinking of nothing but the argument, I was determined to place all of the blame upon Miraglia, yet insisted to Raimunda that I would seek the girl out and resolve things diplomatically. Raimunda only laughed and inquired incredulously whether I honestly did not see what was going on. And then she said my name. Raimunda is a talented steward and possessing of the skills of small diplomacy necessary to run an estate, and she is impeccably attentive to what is proper. Calling me by my given name is something she does not do, and it silenced me instantly. Solomon, she said, you're a fool if you do not see it. You can sense the inner workings of the most devious men in court, she continued, but you're utterly confounded by what's going on in the head and heart of one simple girl. When I stood there staring at her like some witless animal, she put her arm around my shoulders and said, so only I could hear, Miraglia loves you, and if you remain blind and keep negotiating peace like she's some foreign dignitary, then you don't deserve her. I realized then that I love her in return, and became full of anguish over what a fool I have been. S.


I have spent the day as little more than a ghost, saying and doing nothing. Miraglia and I saw one another once, but neither she nor I had business to use as an excuse to linger. I fear she is still angry with me, as she did not speak to me, nor I to her. S.


I have been loathe to attend to my journal these past few weeks, for all I would write about would be Miraglia and my failure to speak to her. The entire villa has labored under the cloud of our conflict. For my own part, I am afraid of engaging her on the subject of my emotions, for I fear doing or saying the wrong thing and ruining myself in her eyes. For her part, she has lost herself in work, and keeps busy riding to the surrounding hamlets and baronies. Her reports to me are dry and devoid of any feeling, and I have taken to having Raimunda handle them for me because I cannot bear to see how withdrawn the girl has become. When Miraglia and I do see one another, there is an uncomfortable distance between us and we both seem to instinctively walk so as to avoid having our paths cross. The one occasion we did have to speak to one another was in early October, and that was of the matter of the fishing wharf we plan to build next year. I knocked on Miraglia's door, and the cold presence in her eyes almost compelled me to create an excuse to leave there and then. But then she relented and looked almost hopeful. I told her of the monies we had raised and said that I could use it instead to send an emissary to the pope, if that is what she thought best. Her expression of hope was replaced by the blankess that has been her face for these past weeks, and I felt as though I had been struck. She quietly told me to spend the ducats on the wharf, for it would do the most good for the villagers along the coast. She then asked if I had anything else to say, but her words and mood put me in such a condition that I could not answer. The day worsened when I returned to my study and saw yet another decorated scroll case, the contents of which are no doubt yet another request for my spy master's hand in marriage. I do not wish to open it, for I sense Miraglia and I have only one fight left in us before we go our separate ways forever. S.

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Dec. 8th, 1070​

Today, I opened the scroll that has languished on my desk for weeks. It is from Torgeir of Shetland, known as a brilliant soldier and a smart leader. He is wealthy, ambitious, and relatively young at only thirty-one. As I suspected, the letter seeks my spy master's hand in marriage. I am ashamed to say that I am seriously contemplating his request, as my anxiety and suffering these past few weeks has been almost too much to bear. Miraglia feels the same, of this I am certain; we do not argue, but our interaction has faded to a distant politeness, and perhaps only separation will give us absolution. There are too many things both of us wish to say, but neither of us seems to be able to begin. Miraglia must be in her quarters now, for even in her withdrawn state, she is a fine spy master and knows I need her to provide me with a report on the barons before Christmas. I will go to her today and speak of my thoughts, for it may be for the best if she leaves, and Torgeir is a suitable match. S.


Early morning. Much to detail, but later will do nicely. S.


Where to begin? I will not end on a sour note, so I shall begin with the unpleasantries. I did as I planned and visited Miraglia in the study which doubles as her quarters. It was near evening before I worked up the courage to see her, but even tired and shrouded in shadows, her fairness took my heart and held it still. Eventually I spoke and said I had found her a suitable match, and lifted the scroll to punctuate what I had to say. Before I could continue, Miraglia looked away to the fireplace and began speaking quietly. She said she knew Torgeir wished to marry her, and knew he was suitable, and wanted to say some things before preparing to leave. And my heart broke as she began her apologies; for asking me to be something I am not, when what I am is so good; for not saying what she meant, even when it was too late; for games she played out of anger. I flushed and could not look her in the eyes, even when she turned back to face me. And then I told her that her apology shamed me, and that I had indeed found her a suitable suitor. Her eyes flared at my words, but I held up a hand and she fell silent. And I told her that my shame was at hearing her apology, when it was I who should have been speaking words of regret. I then tossed the scroll in the fire. I love you, I told her, and I beg your pardon for not seeing that you love me too. She cried when I began listing all the ways I had faulted her, and cut off my mea culpa with an embrace. For such a kiss, I would have given up the secrets of Samson, or gone to war for a Spartan princess. For such a kiss, I would have sent Uriah to his doom. S.


A nobleman such as I would not be so base as to detail the events of the last several days in this journal, but I will record this: word has been sent to my friend Ramon, asking him to preside over my marriage. Furthermore, Miraglia and I have been making up for weeks of silence. We are inseparable, and when we speak, we speak of anything and everything. Most of all, we speak with giddy relief of what fools we were. I want nothing more than to deserve her love each and every day. Although our clinging to the passing of time has all the futility of leaves hoping not to lose their morning dew, we cling to it nevertheless. Each hour we spend together is more precious when we remember the time we have wasted, and the time we shall never have again. S.


Miraglia and I were wed yesterday amidst great celebration. As my liege lord and the guardian of Miraglia, Ramon gave the girl away and gifted her with a dowry of fifty five ducats, a handsome sum. Miraglia was like a dazzling flower, and all the women in attendance, peasant and noble alike, watched with envy at her fair locks, her beautiful gown, and the way she laughed as she danced. But I am not a scribe, and I cannot do the events of the day justice except to say that I am happy, and that is enough. S.
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Mar. 25th, 1071​

The months have passed swiftly since my marriage to Miraglia. Each day brings us closer together, and I want nothing more than to make her happy. Our realm is prosperous thanks to Raimunda, and we may soon have sufficient funds to seek a ducal grant from the pope. One of our earliest arguments was regarding my station, and now that Miraglia's station is based on my own, I am determined to live up to what she expected of me all those years ago. Certainly, we still fight from time to time. Miraglia claims for the sake of creating peace between us that she doesn't want me to pursue a ducal title, but I believe I know her mind better than she does. Furthermore, we cannot bear to be angry with one another, and always relent before the sun goes down. In the meantime, I am concentrating on raising my wards. Young Guillem is turning out very well, and has become a kind young boy, merciful and temperate with a generous streak. Teaching this child has made me want sons of my own even more. Thankfully, Miraglia shares my enthusiasm. S.


Joyous news! The midwife tells me that my darling Miraglia is with child. This satisfies my own curiousity; as a physician in my own right, I have had my suspicions. My instincts say the child will be a boy. God has blessed us both. S.


The birth of a child is one of the everyday miracles that regularly fill the portions of our life which we had hitherto been unaware were empty. My son and heir was born today. For his name, I have chosen Huddan, for he is healthy and strong. In my mind's eye, I see him growing into a powerful warrior, dark of skin and clear of eye and mind. He will be a Spanish duke and will serve his king, and men will respect him and seek his respect in turn. Although his mother is not of my people, I will raise him as an Alan and a Jew. S.


The weather has been kind this year; kind enough that work on the fishing wharf used by the villa Perpinyà is complete. I met with the burghers of the surrounding villages today to celebrate the project, which will greatly help the peasant fishermen in years to come. Already, confidence is growing and the townships are becoming more prosperous. Raimunda tells me that our income is over four ducats each month, a solid indicator of our success. Were I to count my blessings, this would be among them, but my blessings are so many that counting them would be a sisyphean task; they continue to multiply. Miraglia and I have been at peace since the birth of our handsome son, and Raimundu has the county well in hand so I can spend time with him. I will not deny him a childhood that was denied to me. I swear it. S.


Only hours ago, I ventured onto the balcony overlooking the villa's olive trees to speak to Miraglia. My wife was tending to our son, and the image of mother with child that she presented was so beautifully fragile that I endeavored to keep my peace and not broach the subject that was on my mind. It was my intention to let Miraglia know that our coffers are swelling with over a hundred ducats, more than enough to convince the papal legate to recognize our claim to the duchy of the Spanish Marche. She sensed my presence by the curtains, and then sensed my purpose after we exchanged but a few words. Even tired after the birth of our son, she is still expertly shrewd in understanding other people's minds. To my surprise, we did not fight; instead, she firmly told me that the countryside would not recognize me as count or duke if I did not protect the peasantry. Miraglia knows my realm intimately, and she knows the problems facing the people better than anyone. When I began to rebut, she mentioned Ramon and inquired about the state of my loyalty to my liege. This comment was like touching a raw nerve, and I nearly retaliated with a sharp tongue. However, in the face of her initial argument, I relented. If Miraglia believes we must fund a magistrate to punish criminals and enforce the law, then that is what I will do. There is little higher calling than justice. We can certainly afford it, as Raimunda tells me the sale of winter crops pushed our monthly income over five ducats, but that does not mean the topic of a message to Rome has not left my mind. I cannot help but fear that Miraglia will not truly see me as worthy until this thing is done. S.


Miraglia is once again with child. There is not room enough in the villa Perpinyà for my pride; nay, not even the entire county of Rosselló. S.


The birth of our first son was such an effortless affair that I had nearly forgotten the rigors and dangers of pregnancy. Suffice to say, Miraglia is not well. She may be dying, and should the illness spare her, the cost will surely be the life of the unborn child. God has given me hands and a mind that heal where other doctors kill, and I am praying every day that I will not fail as I did before. The winter six years past nearly drove me to nihilism, and even now the dark taint of my inadequacy lingers on me like the devil speaking at my shoulder. My friend Ramon calls me the greatest physician in Christian Spain, but such praise leaves me hollow and open to despair. Miraglia's life may be in my hands. I am terrified and alone. S.
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Jan. 20th, 1073​

Today we celebrated the birth of our second child. Young Maria is strong and healthy like her brother Huddan. I am confident God will find for her a good husband and bless her with many long years. Still, the joy we are feeling today has not banished the uneasy fear in our household. Miraglia is still unwell and all of my skills are for nothing. Although we celebrate, our happiness is like perfume on a bog. I will waste no more time with journals, for I must tend to my wife. S.


I conceded my failure and took Miraglia into the village to see a wise woman. An old crone named Quera claimed my wife was suffering from a wasting disease, but that she could be cured with an ancient pagan herbal remedy. Miraglia's unresponsiveness to traditional medicine and her worsening condition alarmed me enough to give it a chance, so I handed over the pouch of ten gold ducats in return for a glimmer of hope. To my surprise, Quera's cure worked. By evening, the sullen, ashen creature my wife had become was banished, and in the somber banshee's place was the golden sunflower I married. We went out riding after sunset and enjoyed one another's company, and it is only at this late hour that I have had time to chronicle what happened. Two things weigh on my mind; first and foremost, my failure as a physician almost cost me the one thing I love more than anything in the world, and I cannot bear the thought of losing her or failing her again. I swear I will be the man she wants me to be. And then there are the words spoken by the crone: love consummated under the effects of the cure would be fruitful. I will say no more on that topic except to note that events transpired to make it possible. S.


A strange sensation has taken hold of me this day. The words of the crone remain in my ears, and I am possessed by the oddest conviction that Miraglia is once again with child. S.


The court of justice in Rosselló is now complete. Until such a time as I can appoint someone as magistrate, I will function in that capacity. The important thing is that the peasants in the villages surrounding the villa Perpinyà have an avenue for voicing their concerns, and we have a procedure to address them. More wonderful still was the presence of my dear wife at the ceremony. Since her recovery, she has been like a sunset, a burning sky both radiant and colorful. She is happy and that causes me to smile, although I cannot forget what she wanted me to become, and that the ducats that purchased today's success could have made her a duchess. S.


Ermengol came of age today. Rather than shrink from life due to the adversity presented by his club foot, he has become active and strong. He was always too proud to let his affliction dominate his life. I am told he is a tough soldier. My lord Ramon has not called upon me since the war with Zaragoza, so I have hopes that Ermengol may never be tested. Nonetheless, the boy is there should he be needed. While I am scribing about him, I may also mention his brothers Ramon and Berenguer. The elder Ramon remains a cruel and vengeful waste, and at sixteen he is no more intelligent than he was as a child. Miraglia's ears are everywhere, and she regularly informs me of Ramon's foolish and wild plots to restore his fortunes. I need not tell my wife to keep an eye on the boy, for she knows the threat he could pose. Berenguer, I had higher hopes for, but he adores his older brothers and does their bidding without question. Only one of the lads is turning out well. Knowing the four of them makes me realize how much God has blessed me with my own son and daughter, and with the child my wife now carries. They are like lions, strong, wise and magnificent. S.


Today, my second son came into this world. I shall call him Suarn, a strong name that will bless him with prosperity and bring curses to his foes. I see him being a loyal vassal to his brother, serving him in times of war and standing upright and true. Already, I know that he is strong and his eyes are sharp. A superstitious fear consumed me for but a moment that Suarn, born nearly nine months to the day since Quera issued her prediction, might be cursed himself, but these are the beliefs of peasants and men of ignorance. I have faith in God and will not succumb to such foolishness. S.


The magical creature that I have been fortunate enough to call my wife continues to render me speechless with her astuteness. Although she should be tired from giving birth to our second son, she came to me this evening to speak of a gathering danger in the north. Despite being with child these past several months, she has continued to guide our agents in gathering information. At first, my eyes and mind could not focus on the problem she described, as the vision of her motherly beauty blotted out my reason. When she spoke of war with France, the hypnosis was ruined and we began to discuss the dilemma in earnest. It appears that Philippe Capet, the young king of France, desires Rosselló and seeks to reclaim the Spanish Marche of Charlemagne. Already, he is gathering support for a war. Navarra cannot hope to prevail against France on the field of battle, but ours is a kingdom of mountains. There may also still be time to prevent the shedding of blood. I ordered a page to prepare my horse, for I must ride to Barcelona, and then to Paris. I have much ground to cover in the next month and little time to accomplish what must be done. Raimunda has been left with specific instructions; although Miraglia protested, I insisted that my steward use the ducats we have saved to secure dispensation from Rome regarding the ducal title in question. As for myself, I set out before dawn. Although the hopes of the county should be what drive me, it is the image of the stormy girl in the white dress with a heavenly halo of golden tresses that will lend me speed. S.

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Feb. 17th, 1074​

It was perhaps foolish to take my journals on the road, as they contain much information that an enterprising enemy could use against me or my liege. I nevertheless felt compelled to bring them with me and to record my travels. And what travels they have been! A swift race to Barcelona ended with a short supper of dates and wine with my friend Ramon. I told him of Miraglia's insight into the looming threat, and he believed me, thank Heaven. The armies of the French king will face a surprisingly ready enemy, should they march. For my own part, I am deep inside France after riding for many days without much in the way of rest or food to sustain me. My goal is Paris, where I will seek an audience with the Philippe Capet and endeavor to avert the impending tragedy. The audacious nature of my quest has only barely begun to sink in; surely, it would have been the actions of a sane man to remain in Rosselló and find a way to surrender gracefully. But I am a diplomat; it is what I do. What sort of man would I be if I did not try? S.


I have arrived in Paris. In the Christian world, few cities rival its magnificence. I can only hope it is ruled by a king that is as wise as it is marvelous. S.


There are times in a man's life when he is called upon to use the talents God has given him. My own talents are medicine and diplomacy, and it is the cause of much sorrow and regret that my considerable skill has frequently been insufficient. Today was not such a day. In the court of the king of one of the mightiest realms in Christendom, I presented my case and prevailed. Philippe is somewhat of an enigma; he is eager to build upon the glory of France, but he is overly beholden to the barons. It seems impossible to rule, and even more impossible to conduct diplomacy, when one must please a dozen mercurial noblemen, each with his own agenda. These troubles proved difficult to conceal during our meeting, and, in Philippe's weariness, I sensed an opportunity. Speaking humbly and plainly, I inquired whether the problems weighing on the king's shoulders might be dispersed if only they could be spoken of with an honest man. Philippe laughed and said there was not such a confessor in all of Christendom. My reply was not to laugh but to smile, and I addressed Philippe as sire and noted that I am a Jew. Of course, he could not speak of his political problems with a lowly count, and I could not hope to offer him advice, but the tension between us softened with the sharing of good humor. It appears that I was the cause of Philippe's declaration of war upon Rosselló, for he had heard that the ancient Spanish Marche was ruled by an infidel. My success was such that Philippe addressed the court, telling them that, if Solomon of Itil is an infidel, then war against the infidel is unjust. There will not be war between Rosselló and France now, although Philippe must, for the sake of appearance, still march on Navarra. At his request, I will accompany him. S.


The journey from Paris to Navarra took almost three months, and the diplomacy nearly another two. Negotiations first took place with each king in front of an army, and later with each king in front of banquet table. Suffice to say, all is now settled between our two kingdoms. Would that I could write of the details of this affair, but what makes my mind restless now is not diplomacy, but rather the defiance of Raimunda. Although I left specific instructions regarding the disposition of a certain one hundred ducats, Raimunda spent the funds to expand the king's forests in Urgell. Those coins were meant for a papal legate. They were meant to obtain a ducal crown for my Miraglia. As the Duke of the Spanish Marche, created in peace before the kings of Navarra and France, I would perhaps become a man worthy of my wife. That is what she wanted all those years ago, and I have never forgotten. Miraglia insists the forestry was her idea and that I do not need crowns, but I remain unconvinced that she was not trying to soothe my anger. Now that winter is coming, there will be other projects that will command my finances. Another opportunity wasted. How can I prove my love for Miraglia if I cannot accomplish this one thing? I will not be thwarted again. I swear it. S.
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