by Peter Kerr
‘SONG OF THE EIGHT WINDS’
‘RECONQUISTA’
- An Epic Tale of Medieval Spain -
by
PETER KERR
SONG OF THE EIGHT WINDS
Published by Oasis-WERP
eISBN: 978-0-9573062-0-2
Copyright © Peter Kerr 2012
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the copyright owner. The right of Peter Ker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
www.peter-kerr.co.uk
Cover design and maps © Glen Kerr
ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR:
Thistle Soup
Snowball Oranges
Mañana, Mañana
Viva Mallorca!
A Basketful of Snowflakes
From Paella to Porridge
The Mallorca Connection
The Sporran Connection
The Cruise Connection
Fiddler On The Make
The Gannet Has Landed
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Introduction
MAPS:
Map of Spain
Map of Mallorca
Map of Mallorca (Detail)
CHAPTERS:
Fair Stands the Wind for Mallorca
It’s An Ill Wind
The Meeting Place of The Winds
The Worth of Unshakeable Faith
Food for Thought
A Skinful of Confessions
A Forecast of the Wind of Change
Into Death’s Dark Vale
War Is the Sport of Kings
Hell Is Where Heaven Is Not
Better Late Than Never
Patience Provoked Turns To Fury
War Is Death’s Feast
Going Home
The Strange Contrariness of Tears
Preparing the Engines of War
The Gate of Chains
Close Encounters of the Unexpected Kind
A Heart-rending Revelation
The Flight From the City
Victory or Death
An Angel From the North
A Woman in Mischief Is Wiser Than A Man
Savage Subtleties of the Siege
A Dilemma For Pedrito
Hope Is Grief’s Best Music
The Longest Mile Is the Last Mile Home
The End of the Siege
The Sins of the Father
Where There’s Love There’s Hope
Appendix: The ‘Brothers’ Muntcada
INTRODUCTION
In the second decade of the eighth century AD, Christian Spain was invaded from North Africa by the Moors, an Islamic people of predominantly Arab and Berber blood. They named their new Iberian dominion al-Andalus – a derivation of the Berber Tamarus Wandalus, ‘The Land of The Vandals’.
Historians tell us that this Muslim incursion resulted in a change for Spain that could be likened to an emergence from darkness into light. A seat of power was established at Córdoba, where a city was created to equal the grandeur of Damascus, the jewel in the crown of a vast Arab empire that now stretched from the mountains of India in the east to the Pillars of Hercules and the shores of the Atlantic Ocean in the west.
During the Sultanate of Córdoba’s first 250 years of sovereignty, Moorish Spain, with its magnificent palaces, mosques and fountained gardens, its sophisticated methods of irrigation and agriculture, its gifted architects and builders, its scholars, poets, philosphers and physicians, raised the torch of civilization and culture to the rest of Europe.
It was said that the prosperity and refinement of Spain shone like a beacon of enlightenment over a continent still struggling to emerge from the barbarism of the Dark Ages. Without doubt, the country’s reputation became greater than it had ever been before – or, as fate would have it, might ever be again. For, despite the Moors’ religious tolerance and liberal attitudes towards their non-Muslim subjects, the embers of resistance to this ‘Saracen subjugation’ glowed defiantly in the small Christian enclaves that survived in the mountains of Spain’s northern frontier.
With the passage of time, the effect of the Moors’ progressive attraction to opulence began to erode their allegiance to the more disciplined ways of their forefathers. Consequently, by the middle of the eleventh century, much of the great nation of al-Andalus had fragmented into a collection of small fiefdoms, or taifas, each with its own king, and all eventually severing their allegiance to Córdoba, just as, on reaching the zenith of its power almost three hundred years earlier, that first Islamic capital on Spanish soil had renounced its fealty to the once-indomitable Caliphate of Damascus.
Moorish Spain, for so long the epitome of order in a disorderly world, was now in danger of descending into turmoil.
While the rulers of the taifas squabbled among themselves, the resolute Christians of the north were pushing ever southward and establishing, on land long held by the Moors, their own individual kingdoms, such as Navarre, Castile, León and Aragon, as well as Catalonia, with its formidable maritime countship of Barcelona. So disorganised had the taifas become, in fact, that some even called upon the Christian armies to help resolve their differences with fellow-Muslim neighbours. And the Christian kings, though not immune to intrigue and rivalry themselves, siezed every resultant opportunity to press their territorial advantage.
Following the demise of Córdoba, the Moorish centre of power – at least in the south of Spain – had shifted to Seville, and it was from there that a plea for help to counter these Christian advances was sent to the Almoravids, a warlike Afro-Berber tribe of Islamic fundamentalists who now ruled Morocco.
In response, the Pope threw down the gauntlet by authorising a crusade against the Moors. The Christian Reconquista of Spain was now officially under way.
This was the era of El Cid, the legendary Spanish hero, who, in 1094, ventured deep into Moorish territory to take their ‘impregnable’ coastal city of Valencia. Despite that glittering prize being reclaimed by the Moors after his death, El Cid’s daring exploits had succeeded in stirring Christian hearts and galvanizing their resolve to rid Spain of its ‘Saracen yoke’ for ever.
For a century, the border between the two adversaries ebbed and flowed with the tide of battle. To add to the confusion, yet another Moorish incursion took place. The Almohades, an intolerant Islamic sect from the Atlas Mountains, rose up in Morocco and invaded Spain, eventually ousting the Almovarids, as well as checking the southerly advances of the Christian armies.
It was during this turbulent period that the future King James I of Aragon first saw the light of day. The child who was destined to become El Conquistador, ‘The Conqueror’, a champion of Spain to compare with the great El Cid himself, was born in 1208 in the southern French province of Montpellier, the only son of an ill-starred marriage between King Pedro II of Aragon and María, daughter of the Count of Montpellier.
The infant prince became a pawn in the marital games of expansionist chess that were the convention within the ruling classes of Christian Europe. At the age of three, he was given over to the care of Simon de Montfort, a ruthless nobleman from northern France, who was bent upon seizing southern French lands belonging to the Cathar allies of Aragon and Montpellier. As an act of appeasement, James’s father had agreed that his son would be ‘educated’ at de Montfort’s Carcassonne fortress, as a preliminary to being married to the tyrant’s daughter.
After King Pedro’s death in 12
13 (ironically, in a battle against Simon de Montfort), his son, now all of six years old, became King James I of Aragon and Catalonia, as well as Lord of Montpellier and Count of Barcelona. In the troubled and treacherous times that followed, James owed his survival to the goodwill of the Pope, who arranged for him to be released from de Montfort’s ‘care’ – and also from his nuptial commitments! He was taken under the tutelage of Guillen de Montredon, the head of the Spanish Knights Templar, in their castle at Monzón in Aragon.
The duty of the Templars in Spain was, at the behest of the Catholic Church, to assist their monarch in ridding the country of the ‘heathen’ Moor. So it was that young King James was taught the warring ways of a Christian knight, in preparation for the crusading campaigns that he would one day lead. Part of this preparation was his arranged marriage, aged thirteen, to Doña Léonor, the daughter of the King of Castile, whose territories conveniently bordered those of James’s own kingdoms of Aragon and Catalonia. Here was a good example of how the wedding ring could be more powerful and, with luck, less bloody than the sword.
Although appearing to be, perhaps, merely the puppet of a coterie of Machiavellian guardians, James grew up to be a self-assured young man, with a strength of character to match his imposing physique. He was also to show that he was sufficiently astute and persuasive to win over the support of his nobles, some of whom had long been opposed to his accession to the throne. Here was a young king with the heart of a true warrior and blessed with all the qualities required to inspire an army in battle.
Who better, then, to lead a Christian reconquest of Mallorca, a large and strategically-placed island only 120 miles off the coast of mainland Spain, and a valuable asset that had been under the rule of successive Moorish kings for well over three centuries? Mallorca had also become a haven for Moorish pirates, who were the scourge of Christian shipping in the western Mediterranean and were now daring to make raids on the Catalonian coast, where not even the great city of Barcelona had been safe from attack.
In December, 1228, a meeting of the Cortes (Parliament) took place in Bercelona, where the heads of the church and civil dignitaries from all over the realm were joined by the Ricos Homes, knights of high rank who served as the King’s counsel and were members of families that had enjoyed positions of power since long before the arrival of the Moors. It was enthusiastically agreed by this august assembly that it would fund and equip a massive naval expedition to reclaim Mallorca for Christendom. The youthful and charismatic King James – or Jaume, to give him his Catalan name – was duly endorsed as leader of the campaign.
Eight months later, a huge fleet had been assembled at the ports of Salou, Cambrils and Tarragona in north-east Spain. The Reconquista of Mallorca was about to begin.
This is the story of one of King Jaume’s followers, a young man with a background just as disrupted as the monarch’s, but singularly lacking the advantages that come with a privileged birthright, no matter how steeped in treachery and intrigue…
MAP OF SPAIN
MAP OF MALLORCA
MAP OF MALLORCA (DETAIL)
1
‘FAIR STANDS THE WIND FOR MALLORCA’
OFF THE PORT OF SALOU, NORTH-EAST SPAIN, ON THE MORNING OF WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5th, 1229 – ABOARD THE GALLEY OF KING JAUME I OF ARAGON-CATALONIA…
*
‘A-A-A-YOS … A-A-A-YOS … A-A-A-YOS!’
The slow, rhythmical chant of the sailors resounded across the wide waters of the bay as anchor after anchor was hauled up and the great armada bearing an army of 15,000 foot soldiers and 1,500 cavalry prepared to put to sea. There were some 150 vessels in all: twenty-five large sailing ships, eighteen undecked horse transports called taridas, a flotilla of flat-bottomed brices loaded with supplies and engines of war, plus squadrons of oar-and-sail-driven galleys carrying the nobles and the elite of their men-at-arms, in addition to the mandatory members of the clergy, including Berenguer de Palou, the Bishop of Barcelona himself.
The royal galley was lying at anchor some distance landward of the main body of the fleet, which had been assembling off the Cape of Salou. Clad in a long, scarlet surcoat trimmed with gold, the young king stood tall, broad-shouldered and proud on the raised poop deck, his blue eyes ablaze with anticipation, his flowing flaxen hair swept back from his face by an off-shore breeze which augured well for the forthcoming voyage. He raised his eyes to the top of the galley’s mast, where the royal pennant was fluttering now against a cloudless sky. A look of satisfaction lit his face.
‘At last, the day that will change my life,’ he murmured. Then, sensing someone behind him, he half turned to see a young sailor checking the coupling of one of the galley’s two side-mounted tiller shafts. In a tone of regal self-assurance, though diluted by the merest hint of embarrassment, the king said, ‘Did you … that is, I take it you heard what I said just then, marinèr?’
There was a wry smile on the young helmsman’s lips as he lowered his head in deference. ‘Sí, Majestat, and I daresay there’s no man among all the thousands who sail with you today who wouldn’t agree.’
King Jaume surveyed the helmsman’s features for a few seconds, trying to decide if that lopsided smile of his indicated derision or was merely an attempt to convey some sort of empathy. If it was the former, then the lad had little respect for his own neck, and if it was the latter … well, that was a reaction from a subordinate the monarch had seldom experienced before, and was one, therefore, that he would regard with due suspicion.
‘Wouldn’t agree with what?’ he enquired warily. ‘That this is the day that will change my life, or theirs?’
The helmsman arched his eyebrows. ‘Well, both, senyor … both!’
The King said nothing, but his stare remained fixed on the sailor’s face.
The helmsman’s smile broadened and, turning his head seaward, he said, ‘For you, another land to add to your existing kingdoms of Aragon and Catalonia lies just forty leagues over that horizon. Also, when you’ve claimed Mallorca, your reputation as a great champion of Christian Spain will be written on the pages of history for ever. So, as a king, this could well be the day that will change your life.’
With a slightly exaggerated nonchalance, the king nodded his head. ‘Sí, if it pleases the Almighty, that may well be the case. But,’ he added both swiftly and with an air of piety, ‘it is for His glory, not for mine, that the battle for Mallorca will be fought. I act merely as God’s vassal – a Christian soldier, chosen by Him to help retake all of Spain from the infidel Moor.’
The helmsman was tempted to point out that the Moors would have believed that their occupation of Spain five centuries earlier had also been undertaken in the name of God, albeit that they called him Allah. But he knew all too well that such a statement would be regarded as blasphemy. Hides more valuable than his had been flogged for daring to utter such unthinkable thoughts.
Instead, he dipped his head again. ‘Therefore, senyor, God will surely grant victory to his chosen vassal, and your reward will be the tenure of the kingdom of Mallorca.’
The king shrugged. ‘Which is no more than my right. Equally, the churchmen and barons who accompany me and have provided the ships, men and wherewithall to make this holy mission possible will also be entitled to their division of the lands and wealth of Mallorca.’
‘Just as their men will be entitled to their share of the plunder?’
The king gave a little laugh. ‘The men who follow me today have come, not just from Aragon and Catalonia, but from all over Iberia, from France and from as far away as Italy, Hungary, Germany and even Britain. How else can such an army be mustered – and paid for – if not by the promise of a fair allotment of whatever bounty a God-given victory may provide?’ A look of suspicion came into his eyes. ‘But do I detect a note of disapproval in your attitude, sailor? I hope not, and I suspect not – for what else but the prospect of increasing your own wealth, meagre as it doubtless is, would be your reason for embarking on such a perilous quest as t
his?’
The helmsman shook his head, the smile now gone from his lips. ‘Strange as it may seem, my decision to follow you wasn’t motivated by any desire to benefit from the spoils of war. No, Majestat, even if God has decreed that such is the right of His chosen vassal and his vassals, I didn’t join the Reconquista for personal gain.’ Motioning towards the teeming main deck of the galley, where sailors and oarsmen were now busying themselves with their respective tasks in preparation for putting to sea, he continued: ‘Although I own little more in the world than the clothes I stand up in, I seek no material riches in Mallorca, unlike the motives of this crew and every other in the fleet.’ He paused to assess the king’s reaction, which, as could be expected, was a mix of puzzlement and simmering displeasure. ‘With due respect to each and every man,’ the helmsman prudently appended, ‘and to their allegiance to God and your Majesty, of course.’
Still the king said nothing, although he was thinking plenty. There was something about this young sailor he couldn’t fathom. Although he spoke with the accent of a common man, the way he spoke and the smack of intellect in what he said belied his status as a humble seaman. And while he was clearly being careful to show an acceptable degree of reverence in the presence of his king, there remained a suggestion of independence in his manner – a further hint that there was indeed more to this fellow than his occupation would have one believe. There was also an air of honesty about him, a frankness that was the very anthithesis of the fawning and backstabbing ways of so many of the ‘nobility’ that King Jaume had been associated with since childhood. He was intrigued. More than that, something told him that perhaps, just perhaps, here was someone he could trust, no matter how modest his position in life. Yes, he would have to find out more about this fellow.
‘So, tell me, marinèr – what do they call you?’
‘Call me? Why, Blànes, senyor. Pedro Blànes is my name. Although…’ He hesitated, rolling a shoulder uneasily.
