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

by Peter Kerr

  The king was standing at the vessel’s stern, his back to the weather, his hair and robes soaked by the spray being whipped off the whitecapped waves. He was peering into the gathering gloom, one hand raised to shield his eyes, the other holding on grimly to the gunnel rail while the deck rolled and pitched beneath his feet.

  ‘What will be the ruin of us?’ he yelled at the captain.

  ‘The Llebeig – this south-west wind, senyor. It’s driving us off course.’ The captain pointed forward. ‘And just look – the galleys were ordered to encircle the large sailing ships to protect them from any Moorish attack, but now the formation of the fleet is being blown into total disarray!’

  The king glared at Pedrito, who was struggling gamely to control his kicking and tugging tillers. ‘You and your unholy Moorish sea shanties!’ he bellowed. ‘No doubt Mohammed himself answered your call by sending this wind to scupper our crusade before it’s even begun!’

  Pedrito’s logical answer to this accusation would have been that the negative results of the Bishop of Barcelona’s prayers could have been equally to blame for this unfortunate turn of meteorological events, but he held to his earlier resolution of self-preseravtion by keeping his lip tightly buttoned.

  The vessel’s galley master and sailing master now clambered onto the heaving poop deck. After paying the king the obligatory courtesies, Berenguer Sagran, the sailing master, told him that they had come to support the captain’s view, stressing that they also spoke on behalf of the entire ship’s company.

  ‘We’ll never reach Mallorca with this wind, senyor. We’ll miss the island by miles and end up somewhere in the Gulf of Genoa off the north-west coast Italy!’

  Their expressions deadly serious, his two companions muttered in agreement.

  ‘While intending no disrespect to your competence as mariners,’ the king began, ‘I suggest you may be exaggerating the situation slightly, Master Sagran.’ He was obliged to pause while he grabbed the gunnel rail with both hands as the galley was hit by a huge wave. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued with all the composure he could muster, ‘although we seem to have encountered a slightly turbulent patch of weather, we must continue undaunted for Mallorca.’

  Then up spoke the captain again. ‘My lord, as your subjects, we’re bound to guard you life-and-limb and to give you the best advice we can. For that reason, I must stress that it’s absolutely impossible to make Mallorca with this south-west wind. So, if you take my advice’ – he gestured towards his two senior crewmen – ‘our advice, you will put about and go back to land.’ He gave the king an imploring look. ‘God will give you a wind for crossing soon enough, I promise you.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Pedrito watched King Jaume silently weigh the captain’s words for a few moments. Inexperienced in naval matters as he doubtless was, and impulsive as he appeared to be in certain ways, it had become obvious to Pedrito that this young monarch did give due consideration to the opinions of others before coming to any decision. In this case, the king quickly came to the decision that his own judgement was best.

  ‘Your concern for my safety is much appreciated, gentlemen, but it’s entirely unfounded. You see, it was for the love of God that I launched this crusade against the disbelievers, and it was my solemn vow that I would either convert them to the faith of our Lord, or destroy them.’

  The captain and his two subordinates exchanged worried glances.

  ‘We understand what you say, Majestat,’ the captain piped up, ‘and as righteous as your motives are, the fact remains that the Llebeig is driving us off course and –’

  ‘And the fact remains,’ the king cut in, ‘that since God knows we go in his name, He will surely see us safely to Mallorca.’ King Jaume then scrutinised the faces of the three men, quickly arriving at the conclusion that, being common seamen and not blessed with the unshakeable faith of a God-chosen king, they would require some more convincing. Common seamen though they were, the continuation of the mission now depended totally on their nautical skills, so he knew that all of his powers of persuasion would never be more crucially put to the test.

  Pedrito, eavesdropping while still valiantly wrestling with the tillers, realised this as well, and although the wailing of the wind and the crashing of the waves against the galley’s hull made it difficult to hear all of the king’s words, he strained his ears to pick up as much of his address as possible.

  ‘You’re all well-seasoned men of the sea,’ the king told the captain and his two cohorts, ‘master mariners with salt water in your veins. But, you know, not everyone in this armada can boast those qualities.’ He pointed in the direction from which they’d sailed. ‘You must have noticed the dozens of barcas that followed us out from Salou – little boats carrying perhaps a thousand men – not hardened soldiers, but peaceable fishermen and coastal villagers, who joined this expedition at the last moment of their own free will, simply to support me, their king.’

  The captain and his shipmates nodded their heads, a tad sheepishly.

  ‘Well,’ the king continued, ‘how do you think these brave men would react if they saw the royal galley turn tail and head back to the mainland at the first puff of an unfavourable breeze?’

  The captain was about to venture a reply, but the king cut him off.

  ‘And what of all the hardened soldiers crammed into those sailing ships and transports ahead of us – the booty-seeking mercenaries from all over Europe who are strangers to the sea, who mistrust, hate and fear the sea, and would scurry back to a safer land battle anywhere, irrespective of reward, if they saw the leader of this venture succumb to a threatening wave or two?’

  The captain made to say something, but the king got in first again.

  ‘I’ll tell you what would happen if we put about and returned to the mainland as you advise, gentlemen – this crusade, which took me the best part of a year to prepare, after gaining the support and financial backing of all the leading clergymen, city elders, merchants and nobles in my realm, would be sunk, never to resurface. Ever! So, Captain Guayron, I suggest that you and your shipmates here take courage from the brave villagers who followed us out of Salou in their little barcas, and use your superior seamanship to do as they’re doing by pressing on determinedly for Mallorca.’

  This time, the king did allow the captain to speak.

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ he said, bowing reverently, but with a note of reluctance in his voice. ‘We’ll do our best for you, and as you lead us in the name of God, surely He will help us make safe passage to Mallorca – somehow.’

  King Jaume wagged an admonishing finger. ‘God helps those who help themselves, Master Guayron, and it’s up to you to use your skill to help this ship stay on the correct heading, whichever way the wind blows.’

  ‘As you say, Majestat, as you say,’ the captain replied, though still without much conviction. He pointed forward again. ‘As you can see, all order has been lost, with vessels mixed together like twigs in a whirlpool, and all struggling to make headway in the right direction. And anyway, if you’ll permit me to ask, senyor, how are we to convey our intentions of trying to maintain our proper course to the rest of the fleet in a storm like this?’

  At that very moment, the bow of the galley was submerged when a mighty wave crashed over it and lashed the rest of the ship with sheets of water. Caught unawares, Pedrito lost his footing on the soaking deck timbers, allowing one of the tillers to be snatched from his grasp by the surge of the wave.

  In an instant, the king was at his side, gripping the flailing shaft with both hands and fighting to control it as he would a rearing horse.

  ‘You ask how we’re to signal our intentions to the other ships,’ he shouted to the captain. ‘Well, we’ll do it by overtaking all of the fleet and leading the way to Mallorca, that’s how. This galley and the lead ship are the only two vessels showing a lamp, so the rest will know who we are well enough as we pass them.’

  ‘But, my lord,’ the captain protested, �
�that would take a superhuman effort by my crew at the best of times, but in these conditions…’

  ‘I never ask anyone to do anything I wouldn’t do myself,’ the king yelled back, while fighting with all his strength to align his tiller with Pedrito’s. ‘And just as I’ll help your helmsman steer the ship through this storm, I’ll gladly take over from any crewman who isn’t up to his job either.’ His blue eyes shot arrows at the captain. ‘Now, be about your business, Master Guayron, and show me what you and your sailors are made of!’

  *

  Although the captain didn’t waste a second in detailing a capable seaman to take over from his overlord, the young monarch insisted on standing firm by Pedrito’s side until the end of the evening’s two-hour dog watch. Since he was facing the ranks of rowers, King Jaume’s determination to successfully control his tiller against the violent pitching and yawing of the ship served as an inspiration to all of the crew to redouble their own efforts. And, sure enough, by nightfall the royal galley had overtaken all of the fleet and was drawing level with the leading ship.

  The king’s strength and tenacity at the helm had certainly impressed Pedrito too. Yet it took more than just persistence and brute force to maintain the correct bearing in such heavy seas. When two helmsmen were on the tillers, each had to mirror the other’s movements precisely, and that required a degree of mutual understanding that usually only came with experience. King Jaume, though totally unschooled in the discipline, had taken to it like a veteran. And Pedrito told him so when they were relieved at the end of the watch.

  The king gave him a world-weary look. ‘Believe me, camarada, when you’ve worn a full hauberk of chain mail in battle at only nine years of age, as I did, and if you’ve swung a heavy sword for your life when surrounded by a sea of enemies as many times as I have, then spending an hour or so grappling with a wooden pole on a bucking ship isn’t all that demanding – not to demean the honed skills of you and your fellow helmsmen, of course.’

  Pedrito acknowledged that backhanded compliment with a wry smile.

  ‘However, Master Blànes,’ the king said, while raising a cautioning eyebrow, ‘it could be said that I’ve done you a favour today, no?’

  ‘Sí, senyor,’ Pedrito readily agreed, ‘and I promise you it’s a favour I’ll make a point of returning.’

  ‘Indeed you will, Master Blànes,’ the king replied, in a way that left Pedrito in no doubt that he meant what he said. ‘Sí, sí, indeed you will.’

  With a flamboyant sweep of his surcoat (sodden though it was), he stepped down from the poop deck and, as if cocking a snook at the rolling of the deck, made his way like a victorious gladiator between the cheering ranks of oarsmen all the way to the galley’s prow. He then hailed the sailor guarding the lantern of the leading ship, which was was now off the galley’s port side…

  ‘Oy del vaixell!’ he yelled. ‘What ship is that?’

  ‘The ship of En Guillen de Muntcada,’ the sailor called back. ‘And what galley is it that asks?’

  ‘My galley, marinér! The galley of King Jaume of Aragon and Catalonia! There,’ he shouted, pointing to the lantern mounted at the galley’s stern, ‘you can see my lamp – the only lamp showing in the fleet tonight, bar your own.’

  As the sailor squinted in disbelief through the darkness, the king laughed into the windblown spray. ‘So you can tell my noble friend El Gran Senyor Muntcada that I’ll see him at Mallorca – if he manages to get there in time for the invasion!’

  Thus the royal galley headed off in defiance of the persistent south-westerly, running all night without shifting or shortening sail. And the rest of the ships followed suit, close hauled to the wind as possible. By dusk the following day, the king’s galley was so far ahead as to be out of sight of the rest of the fleet. Then, just as the mission-threatening Llebeig finally abated, the island of Mallorca appeared in the distance, the saw-toothed peaks of its mountains floating like a mirage above the eastern horizon and shimmering pink in the glow of the setting sun.

  On the king’s orders, his galley hove to. After a while, two solitary ships approached from astern, one of them being that of En Guillen de Muntcada, who shouted to the king that the others were following as best they could. However, when last seen by him, several vessels had been faring badly in the storm. He feared that some of them might even have foundered.

  This, in an additon to a possible attack by Moorish ships, was an eventuality the king had dreaded. At least the latter hadn’t happened, yet. However, it did nothing to diminish the increased danger of having to face the enemy’s land forces, which would already greatly outnumber his own, with perhaps many hundreds of his troops and horses now lost to the sea. But the thought of aborting the crusade when so much had already been committed to the cause wasn’t one that King Jaume was prepared to entertain.

  ‘We’ll wait here to see who’s made it this far,’ he called over to Guillen de Muntcada, whose ship had now drawn alongside. ‘And to let the fleet know we’re here, each of our three vessels will show a lamp, with blankets shielding their light from Mallorca.’

  This prompted a response from Muntcada that was anything but optimistic. ‘I fear, my lord, that, although we’ve lowered sail, the Moorish lookouts on the island will already have seen us, distant though we are.’

  The king made his irritation blatantly obvious. ‘Well, my friend,’ he bristled, ‘you’re more experienced in naval tactics than I am, so just what do you propose we do, eh?’

  Guillen de Muntcada was a member of one of Catalonia’s most eminent aristocratic families. A stern-looking man of stocky build, he had formerly been leader of a group of renegade nobles who had vehemently resisted King Jaume’s accession to the throne. He had also deeply offended the king by later attempting to lay waste lands in southern France that had been bequeathed by Jaume’s father, King Pedro, to his cousin and staunch ally, the Count of Provence. Although King Jaume had been but fourteen years of age at the time, his fierce defence of the rights of the Count and his son Nunyo Sans had served as an abrupt lesson to Guillen de Muntcada that his own interests would be best served by admitting the error of his ways and swearing allegiance to the boy king. He had since become one of King Jaume’s most faithful liegemen, and it was for the king’s good that he now offered his advice…

  ‘Under the circumstances, there’s only one thing we can do, senyor, and that’s to head back out of sight of the island until we know how much of the fleet has survived. With luck, the Moors will think that, after being battered by the storm, we’ve given up hope of –’

  ‘No!’ the king barked. ‘Not even as a ploy to dupe the enemy! If our ships see us heading back towards them, they’ll think the worst and about turn themselves. No, no, amic, I didn’t risk life and limb leading the way here just to yield to the same faint hearts who would have scurried back home at the first puff of wind yesterday.’

  ‘I understand that, Majestat, but what I suggest perhaps poses less of a risk than holding our position, which may invite a pack of Saracen ships to sally forth from the island and attack us before our own have been able to join us.’

  The king rejected that speculation with a shake of his head. ‘At least, if we hold our station here, we’ll be able to see any enemy ships that do set out from Mallorca, whereas, if we slink back out of sight…’

  Guillen de Muntcada said no more. He’d learned enough of the young king’s doggedness over the years to know that, when in this mood, there was nothing to be gained by arguing with him. Besides, as he was obliged to concede (albeit only to himself), the king was in all probability right on this occasion.

  As it transpired, no Moorish ships did set out from Mallorca, and by midnight the king was counting the lamps of more than forty vessels of his fleet being lit as they came over the western horizon. Standing beside the captain at the galley’s stern, his face was wreathed in a self-congratulatory smile.

  ‘There, just as I said, Master Guayron – they’ve seen our lanterns
and have read the situation perfectly.’

  ‘Indeed they have, senyor,’ the captain replied, then added toadishly, ‘A just endorsement of your wise decision earlier, if I may say so.’

  ‘You may indeed say so,’ the king grinned back. ‘You may indeed.’

  The moon was shining bright in a cloudless sky, so the outline of Mallorca was still clearly visible away to the east.

  ‘What headland is that on the left of the island?’ the king asked the captain.

  ‘It’s called the Cape of Formentor, Majestat – the northernmost point of Mallorca.’

  ‘So, behind that is the Bay of Pollença, our planned landing place, correct?’

  ‘Sí, senyor. I’ve only sailed past there once, but I recall that the bay is wide and well-sheltered. A perfect place for the fleet to anchor and for your men and horses to rest before starting the advance southward to the capital. Again, if I may say so, you made a wise choice, senyor.’

  ‘Again, you may indeed say so, Captain Guayron,’ the king replied with a gracious smile, conveniently passing over the fact that it had been his cousin and most experienced general, En Nunyo Sans, who had made all such crucial campaign decisions. After all, King Jaume told himself, even royalty can benefit from accepting a bit of reflected kudos when the opportunity arises. Helps keep the the regal profile suitably high in the eyes of the populace.

  A light breeze that had started to blow from the west a few minutes earlier was now freshening, setting the galley rolling gently on the swell. The king couldn’t have been more pleased.

  ‘Your Ponent wind has returned at the perfect time,’ he told the captain, then turned to Pedrito Blànes, who was resting with his arms draped over one of the tillers. ‘And with more air in its lungs than when we left Salou yesterday, Master Blànes, no?’

  ‘And at the perfect time, as you say, Majestat.’

  ‘Yes, with that wind behind us we can reach Pollença, and no better time than now!’ King Jaume nudged the captain with his elbow. ‘Well, Captain Guayron. What are you waiting for? Give the order to get under way.’