Song of the Eight Winds - An Epic Tale of Medieval Spain

by Peter Kerr

  Now it was the king’s turn to smile. ‘Don’t be shy, Master Blànes. If you have another name – a nickname, perhaps, by which you’re better known – then you must tell me.’ With a jerk of his head, he gestured towards the bustle of seamen going about their duties on the open deck immediately forward of where they were standing. ‘On a cramped vessel like this, nothing can remain a secret for long anyway.’

  The helmsman lowered his eyes.

  The king was delighting in the young sailor’s embarrassment. ‘Come on, marinèr!’ he taunted. ‘Tell me – what do your friends call you, eh?’

  The helmsman sighed. ‘Well, senyor, if you must know, it’s … well, it’s Pedrito.’

  ‘Pedrito?’ the king laughed. ‘But that means little Pedro – a child’s name!’ He strode over and stood beside the young seaman. ‘And look at you! You’re as tall as I am, and I stand a good palm’s width above most of my knights, and as much as two palms above many of them. Yet you’re called little Pedro?’

  ‘It’s what my parents called me when I was a baby,’ Pedrito indifferently explained, ‘and the name just sort of, well, stuck – even after I started to grow.’

  The king took a pace back, grinning while he looked the helmsman up and down. He noted his shock of black, wavy hair, his suntanned skin, his fine-boned features framing dark, deep-set eyes that twinkled with good humour, yet revealed a suggestion of melancholy as well. His baggy linen shirt and trousers were ragged and stained, though long exposure to the elements had bleached them salty white, as was typical of the garb of seafaring men. However, for all that he was fated to climb no further up the ladder of life than the lowly rung he stood on now, the fellow exuded a definite freedom of spirit, with even his bare feet looking as though they might never welcome the restriction of shoes.

  It was obvious from his lean, muscular frame that this sailor was no stranger to hard physical effort. Nothing unusual about that. More interesting, perhaps, was that his appearance had more than a hint of the Moor about it. But, as the king was then obliged to concede, there was actually nothing unusual about that either. After all, it was said that no women had accompanied the first Moorish armies that overran Spain all those centuries ago, so there had always been plenty of Arab blood flowing through the veins of the peasantry. By the same token, the king could hardly deny that his own physical appearance reflected the characteristics of the Visigoths, the Germanic peoples who had occupied Spain after the Romans had been driven out many centuries earlier than the arrival of the Moors. Therefore, being a fair and just man, he bore no grudge against people who looked a bit like the current occupiers – provided, naturally, that they worshipped the true Christian God and not the Muslim Allah.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked the helmsman.

  ‘Twenty-one, senyor – as far as I know.’

  The king stroked his chin. ‘Interesting. The same age as myself. But why do you say “as far as you know”?’

  ‘Because the people I call my parents never knew exactly when I was born. It may have been a week before they found me, maybe two weeks, maybe three.’ Pedrito Blànes hunched his shoulders. ‘Who knows?’

  But the king was only half listening. ‘Hmm, but by the look of your arms, you could wield a two-handed sword with ease. Sí, and I’ll wager those legs of yours are more than capable of supporting a heavy coat of mail.’ He gave Pedrito a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘So then, how would you like to fight at my side when we attack the Saracen armies on Mallorca? You could be one of my squires.’ There was an impish glint in the king’s eyes now. ‘That’s if you’re an able horseman, of course. And I presume you can handle a horse, can’t you, En Blànes?’

  Pedrito resisted the inclination to frown. He was aware that he was being teased, but he had no intention of giving the king the satisfaction of thinking it bothered him. Accordingly, instead of answering the king’s questions, he promptly countered them with one of his own.

  ‘Why do you call me En Blànes, Majestat? I’ve told you my name’s Pedrito, so why call me something else?’

  A smile played at a corner of the king’s mouth. ‘It seems, then, that your life at sea has taught you little of the ways of chivalry.’

  Pedrito gave a dismissive snort. ‘The only chivalrous thing I learned during five years pulling an oar on a galley was not to fart in the face of the rowers sitting immediately behind me.’

  The king threw his head back and bellowed with laughter. ‘And as a measure of their respect, they called you Pedrito, but never En, right?’

  ‘A man can be called many names when he’s at the bottom of the heap, senyor, and few of them are complimentary.’ Then, giving King Jaume a look that was as chastening as prudence allowed, young Blànes added, ‘It always helps to understand what the insults mean, though.’

  ‘Ah, but calling you En is no insult, amic.’ King Jaume shook his head vigorously. ‘On the contrary, you should feel flattered.’ He went on to explain that in much of Spain the Castilian term ‘Don’ was put before a gentleman’s name as a mark of respect. ‘In Castile, all noblemen, even kings, are addressed as Don,’ he continued, ‘as in “the King Don Alfonso”, for example. But in the language of my kingdoms of Aragon and Catalonia –

  ‘Sí, sí,’ Pedrito cut in, unable to quell his mounting irritation, ‘you say En instead of Don. I know all that!’ Noticing that the king was taken aback by this sudden show of testiness, and acutely aware that such apparent impertinence could result in severe punishment, he promptly adopted a more deferential manner. ‘I realise that no one is less entitled to be addressed as En than I am, senyor. But my position at the bottom of the heap doesn’t mean that I don’t have some pride, and I feel less than flattered by being mocked’ – he paused to look King Jaume in the eye – ‘even by someone as exalted as your royal self.’

  There were a few tense moments as the two young men stood with their eyes locked, their expressions stony. It was Pedrito who eventually spoke, his desire for his head to remain attached to his shoulders rising above the overwhelming compulsion to stand up for himself that the harsh lessons of life had instilled in him.

  ‘However, let me assure you, senyor, that having respect for myself doesn’t mean that I have any less respect for you, or for anyone else … if he deserves it.’

  The king’s eyes burned into Pedrito’s. ‘But isn’t being your king reason enough to deserve your respect?’

  The young helmsman swallowed hard, his brain sending urgent messages to his mouth that it should now remain firmly shut.

  Slowly, the king lowered his right hand until it found the hilt of his sword. Pursing his lips, he stroked the sword’s pommel with his thumb.

  Unblinking, Pedrito watched as the glistening blade was withdrawn from its scabbard, inch by buttock-clenching inch. And still the king’s gaze remained fixed on his face, from which he could feel the blood starting to drain.

  In a flash, the king withdrew the last few inches of sword from its sheath, and in a single stroke thrust its point into the deck between Pedrito’s naked feet.

  Pedrito closed his eyes, tightly. He heard a faint splintering of wood as the sword was prised upwards, then waited for the regal grunt that would tell him his intestines were about to experience their first breath of sea air. But there was only silence, followed, after a few apprehensive moments, by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Pedrito opened his eyes, gingerly.

  Although the king’s smile was warm, a shadow of uncertainty lurked in his eyes. ‘I’m not accustomed to such candour from my subjects, Master Blànes,’ he said in a matter-of-fact way.

  The enquiring look that Pedrito cast him was tinged with foreboding. Was the king merely lulling him into a false sense of security before testing the sharpness of that sword on his worthless guts? Everyone knew that King Jaume was well-trained in the ways of a knight. And, despite never having mixed in their company, Pedrito knew that knights were trained to kill. What’s more, he’d heard that some, like cats, to
ok great pleasure in toying with their victims before putting them out of their misery.

  The king pouted again. ‘I’m still waiting for your answer, Master Blànes. I repeat – isn’t being your king reason enough to deserve your respect?’

  Pedrito nodded mechanically. ‘As a mouse respects a cat,’ his mouth blurted out without resorting to consultation with his brain.

  The king scowled.

  Pedrito silently resolved that, in the unlikely event of his internal organs being fortunate enough to survive this fraught encounter intact, he would sew a button on his lip.

  His promise of self-retribution was, however, premature. The king’s scowl gradually dissolved into a smile, which in turn graduated into a broad grin.

  ‘But I suspect you’re no mouse,’ he beamed. ‘Sí, and I respect you all the more for that!’

  Too surprised to venture a reply, Pedrito inclined his head briefly to one side as a tacit gesture of appreciation.

  The king acknowledged in like manner, then, pointing to his sword, he added, ‘And lest you may have heard otherwise, I can promise you that I am no cat!’

  Pedrito took the point, canting his head again as confirmation, while thanking his lucky stars that his head was still suitably situated for the undertaking of such a gesture.

  His relieved expression didn’t go unnoticed by the king. With a knowing smile, he raised his sword and rested its blade on the palm of his left hand. ‘Toledo,’ he said. ‘The finest steel there is.’ He looked Pedrito in the eye. ‘So, we can say the Saracen invader brought at least one useful skill to Spain, no?’

  ‘I’ve heard it said, senyor, that they also brought skills for the saving of life.’ Pedrito immediately wished he hadn’t made such a potentially provocative reply, true though it was.

  However, if the king was annoyed, he didn’t let it show. ‘I have several such swords, Master Blànes,’ he smiled. ‘So, will you accept my invitation to carry one of them at my side when we fight the Saracens on Mallorca?’

  Pedrito took time to think carefully before replying this time. ‘You, uhm – you said you respected my frankness, Majestat…’

  King Jaume indicated the affirmative.

  Nervously, Pedrito tweaked the lobe of his ear.

  ‘Come on, marinèr,’ the king urged, still smiling, ‘if it’s the prospect of handling a horse that worries you, I can promise –’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Pedrito interrupted. ‘I’m well used to horses, senyor.’ He rolled a shoulder uneasily once more. ‘Well, when I say horses, I actually mean a horse – singular.’

  The king knotted his brows. ‘But surely one horse is pretty much the same as another, when you get down to basics?’

  Pedrito offered a weak smile. ‘Except when a horse is not a horse, maybe?’

  ‘A horseless horse?’ The king gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘I’ve no time for riddles, amic.’

  Pedrito noticed that the king’s attention was now beginning to drift. Those penetrating blue eyes had started to wander, first towards the prow of the vessel, where a huddle of sailors were awaiting the order to weigh anchor, then to admidships, where another group were preparing to unfurl the galley’s sail. Suddenly, Pedrito could see that, king or no king, this man was human after all. His nerves, royal as they might be, were on edge. And Pedrito wasn’t about to make any criticism of that. All he had to concern himself with, after all, was steering this ship towards Mallorca – a simple matter of using his physical strength to heave rudder paddles one way or the other according to the commands of the captain. King Jaume, on the other hand, had to bear the responsibility of being in charge of the greatest seaborne expedition ever undertaken in the name of Spain, a daring and complex military operation that would eclipse any purely land-based assault against the Moors that had taken place to date.

  This, possibly, was what had been going through the king’s mind when Pedrito had overheard him declaring that this was the day that would change his life. Yet, as Pedrito had sensed, no matter how much the king had been trying to convince himself, there had been an element of doubt in his general demeanour as well. And little wonder, since the risk of failure was real and its consequences dire. The Moors, with their vastly larger army, would defend their dominion of Mallorca fiercely, and in the associated battles many lives would be lost, including, perhaps, that of young King Jaume himself. So, his train of thought at this pivotal moment in his reign would have been manifold. A glorious victory would indeed immortalise him as a great champion of Christian Spain, whereas being forced into ignominious retreat would commit his name to history’s register of also-rans. Alternatively, death in action would send him to meet his maker, who would either heap honours upon him for his success against the infidel, or would condemn him to purgatory for his lack of it. With such onerous matters weighing on his mind, it was very likely, Pedrito concluded, that the king’s dalliance with him had been but a light diversion from the gravity of his present situation.

  And indeed it had been, for the most part, but not entirely. The king’s curiosity had been aroused by this enigmatic young sailor, and for all that he was preoccupied with thoughts of the forthcoming campaign, he was still of a mind to find out more about Pedrito’s background. He turned to him again…

  ‘You were about to tell me about a horseless horse, I believe?’

  Pedrito couldn’t help chuckling. ‘I said a horse that isn’t a horse, senyor, not a horseless horse. There is a differnce.’

  The king raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘Sí. Surely a horseless horse would be nothing at all, no?’

  The king’s expression was blank.

  ‘Whereas,’ Pedrito went on, ‘a horse that isn’t a horse is something – even if it’s something other than a horse.’

  ‘Get to the point, Master Blànes,’ the king bristled. ‘I told you, I’ve no time for riddles.’

  Pedrito got to the point. ‘It’s my father’s horse – or rather the man I call my father.’

  The king bared his teeth in a smile, though with scant evidence of humour. ‘The horse that isn’t a horse, belonging to a father who isn’t a father?’ He scowled again. ‘You’re beginning to test my patience, amic.’

  Pedrito duly apologised, then explained that the man who was the only father he’d ever known had actually found him, abandoned as a tiny baby, behind a heap of fish baskets on the quay at Medîna Mayûrqa, the Moorish capital of Mallorca. The man, Gabriel Blànes, was a fisherman from the little port of Andratx, some eighteen miles distant from the capital on the south-western tip of the island. To supplement the meagre income from his fishing, he farmed a small finca a short way inland from the port, keeping some livestock as well as growing enough vegetables and fruit to feed a family of four – himself, his wife, their natural daughter and the foundling Pedrito – with any surplus produce being taken by boat to the capital for sale on market days.

  ‘Ah, so you’re from Mallorca?’ said the king, his curiosity whetted. ‘But the man you call your father – Gabriel – this is hardly an Arabic name, no?’

  ‘Nor is Pedro, the name he gave me after the patron saint of fishermen, and there are no Muslim saints.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning my parents are Christians, or Mozarabs, as the Moors call those who live under the rule of Islam, but choose to practise their own religion.’

  ‘Mozarabs,’ the king muttered, ‘meaning would-be Arabs in the Moorish tongue, I believe. Hardly a complimentary term for a Spanish Christian, in my opinion. Typical of the patronising arrogance of the Saracen, however.’

  Pedrito shook his head. ‘In fairness, senyor, the Moors of Mallorca, in my family’s experience at any rate, never showed any disrespect for our faith or objected to us worshiping Christ – provided we didn’t try to build a church in his name, that is. Nor did they object to us speaking in the same Latina tongue as yourself, as many fishing families still do in that little corner of the island, having kept the lan
guage alive by sea-trading with Catalonia over the centuries. Of course, we speak Arabic as well – just as everyone does in Muslim Spain.’

  ‘A humiliation which is going to cease the moment we’ve driven the Saracen hordes back to Africa,’ the king declared through clenched teeth. ‘Catalan, or Latina as you call it, will be spoken throughout my kingdoms, and the Arab language, like everything else that reeks of the Moors, will be stamped out for ever. This I have promised in the name of God.’ Then, as if to put such daunting obligations to the back of his mind for the moment, he adopted a less austere manner. ‘But what of this strange animal of yours – the horse that isn’t a horse?’

  A wistful smile traversed Pedrito’s lips. ‘My father’s mule,’ he murmured. ‘But he always insists on calling it a horse – his cavall.’

  The king’s eyes lit up. ‘Or caballo, as they say in Castile. And if, as you claim, you’re accustomed to handling your father’s caballo, then you’re entitled to be called a caballero – a horseman, a gentleman, a knight!’ He gave Pedrito a manly slap on the back. ‘There, I told you that you deserved the title of En before your name. So then,’ he grinned, ‘I take it you will fight at my side as one of my squires, En Pedrito Blànes?’

  Pedrito lowered his eyes. ‘Ah, but I know your Majesty’s merely jesting, and –’

  ‘Oh, but I assure you I am not!’

  ‘Then you do me a great honour, senyor, and I’m truly grateful. But…’

  ‘But?’

  Pedrito detected an ominous note in the king’s delivery of that single word. He could only guess what the consequences of rebuffing a royal invitation to arms would be, and the prospect didn’t appeal. He would have to tread extremely carefully here. He cleared his throat.

  ‘You, ahem, you said you respected my frankness, senyor…’

  ‘Yes, so if you have something to say, say it.’ King Jaume squinted at Pedrito through half-closed eyes, then asked tauntingly, ‘Or are you a mouse after all?’

  Pedrito raised his eyes to meet the king’s. ‘That depends. I’m not a fighting man by nature, and I’ve no wish to inflict harm on anyone – not even the Moors. But that doesn’t mean I’m a –’