Sunday, December 2, 1005.
The afternoon was fading in Burgos and with it, the light that had illuminated the city's ancient stones was retreating in the face of an increasingly gloomy sky. The clouds, heavy and dark, piled upon one another like the layers of a celestial armor, ready to defend against an invisible enemy. The air, once calm, began to stir, foretelling the storm that loomed over the city.
The thunder, which at first sounded distant, now resonated with a frequency that echoed in the surrounding hills, like war drums announcing an imminent siege. The lightning, sporadic flashes of white light, tore through the cloud cover, briefly revealing the vast expanse of an enraged sky.
The inhabitants of Burgos, hardened by the harshness of the weather, felt a humidity in the air that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones. A humidity that not only anticipated rain but foretold a storm that could last hours, perhaps days. Merchants hastened their steps to protect their goods, women collected the laundry, and the elderly watched the sky with a mix of respect and concern.
In the streets, the daily bustle began to wane, as if the city as a whole held its breath in the face of the imminent fury of nature. The animals, restless, sought shelter, and the wooden doors of homes and workshops closed with sharp thuds, as if with each thunderclap, the sky knocked on the doors of Burgos.
The atmosphere electrified with the imminence of the storm, and the wind, blowing with increasing strength, carried with it the scent of wet earth, fresh grass, and river, a reminder of the Arlanzón that flowed beside the city, a silent witness to its history and, perhaps, to the flood that was approaching.
As the sky darkened and nature prepared to show its power, the city of Burgos stood firm, a bastion of civilization amidst the vast peninsula. Surrounded by a wall that had withstood the passage of time and the assaults of history, the city reflected the tenacity of its inhabitants.
On the outskirts, mud houses lined up in modest plots of land, where peasants, defying the growing cold, tended to the last crops. Winter-hardy legumes clung to the earth, promising a return with spring, while onions and garlic hid beneath the surface, patiently waiting their time to emerge.
Within the walls, the city buzzed with activity. The narrow, cobblestone streets wound between solid stone buildings and sturdy wood. Merchants, aware of the impending storm, safeguarded their goods, and citizens finished their chores before the rain forced them to take refuge.
At the heart of Burgos, the castle stood majestic, surrounded by a second wall that reinforced its imposing presence. It was not only the defensive core of the city but also a symbol of the power and authority that emanated from its stones. From its towers, the view encompassed the rooftops, stretching beyond the walls and into the surrounding fields, a constant reminder of Burgos' strategic importance.
Life in the city was a tapestry of commerce, craftsmanship, and devotion. Churches and monasteries rose as pillars of faith, offering comfort and hope to those seeking spiritual refuge in times of uncertainty. Even as the storm that was brewing threatened to unleash its fury, Burgos remained unbreakable, a testament to human resilience in the face of nature's forces.
From the third floor of the castle, Urraca observed the clouded sky through the narrow window of her room. Restlessness reflected in her gaze, which followed the slow dance of the dark clouds that promised an imminent storm. Her fingers drummed on the stone windowsill, and her breath slightly hitched, betraying the anxiety that overwhelmed her. The possibility of a flood, with neglected channels and ditches, was all too real.
She turned her head toward María, the main maid, whose presence was as constant and comforting as the castle walls themselves. "María," Urraca began with a tense voice, "do you know how long it has been since the channels, ditches, and sewers were last maintained?"
María, with the serenity that characterized her, approached the window, her gaze also lost in the stormy horizon. "My lady," she replied with a tone of concern that rarely allowed to seep into her voice, "I fear it has been at least two years since they were last thoroughly cleaned. With the rains that are coming, we could face serious problems if the waters have nowhere to flow."
Urraca's face darkened even more upon hearing María's words. The prospect of a flood not only risked the crops and provisions but also threatened the safety of her people. The responsibility weighed on her shoulders like the leaden sky that loomed over them. It was necessary to act, and quickly, to prevent the disaster that the clouds foretold.
Urraca remained silent for a moment, contemplating the gravity of the situation. Then, with a decision that sprang from her leadership conscience, she turned to María and said firmly, "María, go and inform the mayor, the guild masters, and the captain of the guard that they must meet with me."
María nodded, understanding the urgency of the order, and turned to leave. But before she could take a step, Urraca stopped her with a more severe voice, one that resonated with the power of her lineage. "Wait," said Urraca, "better to the town hall. Tell the guild masters and the captain of the guard to present themselves there. They have fifteen minutes to arrive. If they do not," her voice hardened, "let the executioner be prepared to cut off their heads."
The threat was as unusual as it was serious, and María felt a chill upon hearing it. It was not common for Urraca to resort to such extremes, but the gravity of the situation required it. With a bow, María left the room to fulfill her mission.