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

by Peter Kerr

  ‘Well, you tell me – how else can we spring one on the Moors when, as you say, all those eyes over there are on us?’

  Now it was En Nunyo’s turn to laugh, except there was nothing mischievous about it. ‘I’ve known you to yield to your own impetuosity often enough,’ he scoffed. ‘That’s just the impatience and inexperience of youth, but what you’re suggesting now is the height of folly, and as your kinsman and senior military counsellor I strongly advise you to – ’

  ‘As your king and supreme commander,’ the king cut in, ‘I strongly advise you to remember your place!’

  En Nunyo’s jaw dropped.

  But the king wasn’t finished with him yet. ‘You may be eighteen years older than me, cousin, but don’t forget that, although you have more experience as a commander than me now, you and your father still had to depend on the intervention of my army under my leadership to save your possessions in Provence from being taken by En Guillen de Muntcada. Sí, and I was only fourteen at the time!’

  ‘I understand that,’ En Nunyo said with an apologetic spreading of his palms, ‘but all I’m trying to do now is – ’

  ‘And I haven’t forgotten that you then sided with En Guillen when he turned against me, and to make matters worse, you both ultimately demanded to be paid for your loyalty.’

  En Nunyo’s face flushed.

  The king was on his high horse now. ‘And if it hadn’t been for what you call my impatience and impetuosity, the huge fleet that’s anchored here now would have turned back to the mainland on the very first day of this expedition!’

  ‘I do truly understand that, Majestat,’ Nunyo Sans truckled, ‘but I worry that you’re thinking of going against my advice – which is genuinely given in your very best interests – simply because of the word of a Saracen with a scratch on his shoulder, which could have been deliberately put there before he even got into the water.’

  ‘You obviously didn’t see what he had to swim through to reach here,’ the king countered. ‘Those Moorish archers must be superhuman if, from such a distance, they can aim their arrows as close as they did to a moving target while all the while intentionally missing it.’

  ‘All the same, who’s to say that he really knows about the size of the Saracen army on Mallorca and if there really are reinforcements on the way from Africa?’

  ‘I say so,’ the king growled, ‘and if you can produce anyone with more reliable inside information, now’s your chance!’

  En Nunyo was clearly tempted to argue his case further, but chose to keep his own counsel, albeit reluctantly.

  Up to now, it had been all Pedrito could do to catch what King Jaume and En Nunyo Nans had been saying to each other, but he’d heard enough to ascertain that the young king was asserting his authority and reminding his general that, blood relation or not, he was still a subordinate. No matter how subdued the king’s voice had been in the exchange thus far, however, what he said next might have been heard half way across Es Pantaleu, and he obviously intended that it should be…

  ‘My friend,’ he called to Ali, ‘you’re welcome to be a member of my retinue. And you can rest assured that, if what you say turns out to be true, I shall grant you, your mother and your children – when or if you have any – sufficient rewards to allow you all to prosper. And this is my solemn promise as God’s chosen King of Mallorca.’

  He then turned back to En Nunyo Sans and barked, ‘Tell all commanding nobles and ship masters to make ready for the voyage to Santa Ponça. We weigh anchor tonight – at midnight, the very moment this sabbath day is ended!’

  THE BAY OF SA PALOMERA (SANT ELM), SOUTH-WEST MALLORCA - MIDNIGHT, SUNDAY 9th / MONDAY 10th SEPTEMBER …

  It had been decided that all lamps in the fleet should remain unlit, that strict silence be maintained and that all manoeuvres involved in setting out from the bay of Sa Palomera should be undertaken with sufficient care to ensure that the Moorish forces on the shore remained unaware of what was happening. The agreed strategy was for twelve galleys to leave first. Each of those would tow a transport carrying a body of knights, their mounts and their detatchments of foot soldiers, whose mission was to establish a defensive position on the hill called Puig de Na Morisca overlooking Santa Ponça Bay and hold it against any enemy opposition until the remainder of the vessels, including the slower sailing ships, had arrived.

  The chant of ‘Ayos’, customarily used by sailors to keep in time when weighing anchor, had been forbidden in favour of the discreet tapping of a stick on the prow of each galley. As luck would have it, a layer of cloud had veiled the moon, while a gentle onshore breeze sent ripples whispering onto the beach in front of the camp of the sleeping Moors, thereby masking the sound of oars delicately stroking the water out at sea.

  It seemed, then, that optimum conditions prevailed for the stealthy departure of the great armada. Yet, before the twelve galleys had cleared the Punta Galinda headland at the eastern extremity of the bay, the breeze freshened enough to part the clouds, though only for a second or two. Nevertheless, a cry rang out from the shore, from where it was feared a Moorish lookout may have caught a glimpse of mastheads moving acrosss the fleetingly-moonlit horizon. Could it be that King Jaume’s bold decision to make a nocturnal invasion of Mallorca was about to be baulked at the very outset?

  All oars were raised, and not a word was spoken in the entire flotilla.

  Then the moon disappeared once more behind the clouds. A tense hush enveloped the bay.

  Pedrito had been assigned to the lead galley of En Nunyo Sans. He was to act as pilot to guide the fleet along the ragged coastline; a hazrdous enough exercise in daylight for anyone unfamiliar with these rock-strewn waters, and at best a reckless undertaking at night. But Pedrito was well up to the task. He was manning the twin tillers himself, with En Nunyo standing immediately behind him on the elevated poop deck.

  He touched Pedrito on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps,’ he whispered, ‘the shout from the Saracens was some kind of a false alarm. We’ll give it a few more seconds, then set the oarsmen rowing again – but gently.’

  Pedrito nodded his agreement. He knew what En Nunyo meant. Whoever had called out from the Moors’ encampment hadn’t actually used a recognisable word of warning – more a crude expletive of the type that might be uttered by someone who’d just had his foot trodden on by a horse. If nothing else, it was a comforting thought, but not one destined to stand the test of time. A moment later, whirls of sparks could be seen rising from the remains of the dying camp fires dotted along the shore. Then a blazing arrow shot into the sky, to be followed by an eruption of others; scores of them, their trajectories carrying them high above the bay, their flames flooding the entire area in golden glow.

  ‘Damn them to hell!’ En Nunyo growled. ‘We’re discovered!’

  In the few seconds that the light from the arrows persisted, a flurry of activity could be seen within the Moorish camp: men running from tents while buckling on scimitars, others throwing saddles over horses, still more pointing excitedly at the departing Christian fleet as they dashed about in preparation for giving chase over land.

  ‘Ràpidament!’ En Nunya Sans barked at his galley captain. ‘Set your men rowing for Santa Ponça! Sí, and don’t spare their backs! If we fail to make a landing before the Saracens get there, we’re done for!’

  Then, as darkness closed in again, a murmur of voices, faint at first, drifted out from the shore. The sound grew louder, like the roll of approaching thunder, until the bellow of thousands of male voices filled the enclosure of the bay with a war cry intended to put the fear of death into its foes. No sooner had this roar reached a crescendo than it was augmented by the beating of drums. Again, the sound was muted to begin with, but steadily increased to an ear-splitting pitch.

  This combination of frantic shouting and loud, repetitive drumming may well have had the desired psychological effect on many of the Christian soldiers at whom it was directed, but not so upon their supreme commander. Though with reluc
tance, King Jaume had agreed with his senior generals that, for the sake of military prudence, he, the crusading force’s figurehead and inspiration, should allow the expeditionary group of twelve galleys and transports to lead the way, then follow on himself in the vanguard of the main body of the fleet.

  ‘Oy del vaixell!’ he cheerily hollered from the prow of his own galley as it drew alongside the stern of En Nunyo’s. ‘Ahoy there, marinèrs!’

  The moon peeped out from behind a cloud at that very moment, illuminating a broad grin on the king’s face. His right hand was raised in hearty greeting, his robes and hair billowing in the freshening breeze.

  En Nunyo was almost speechless. Almost, but not quite. ‘What in heaven’s name is he up to now?’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, his impatience will be the death of us all yet!’

  King Jaume shouted over to his cousin that his royal galley had already proved itself to be the fastest in the fleet, so it made sense for it to act as pacemaker for the others at this vital time. Now that their cunning ploy had been so unfortuitously exposed to the enemy, it was crucial that they secured their landing place at Santa Ponça before the Saracens got there. ‘Otherwise,’ he stressed, ‘we’re done for!’

  ‘My thoughts entirely,’ En Nunyo called back with as much self control as he could dredge up, ‘but the agreed plan was to – ’

  ‘And,’ the king butted in, ‘I’ve given instructions to be passed down the convoy that each vessel should show a lantern at its stern – a beacon for the one behind to follow. After all, now that the enemy knows what we’re about, there’s no point in making our fleet’s passage along this treacherous shore any more hazardous than is absolutely necessary.’

  This time, En Nunyo was speechless. Completely.

  Pedrito, for his part, couldn’t help smiling at the young king’s determination to do things his way. Impetuous and impatient he most certainly was, and possibly to a fault, but his fervent commitment to the cause and his will to see it through had to be admired.

  ‘Oh, and one other thing, En Nunyo,’ King Jaume added, ‘– I’ll make sure that my Captain Guayron and his crew here don’t get ahead of you.’ He motioned with a jerk of his head towards Pedrito. ‘I haven’t forgotten that Master Blànes is the only one who knows has way along this coast.’ He let rip with a hearty laugh. ‘But we’ll be pushing you all the way, so you’d better make sure your oarsmen get their backs into it with a vengeance!’

  As if on cue, the breeze then stiffened and swung round behind them.

  ‘See,’ the king cried, ‘see how we’ve been sent yet another wind to speed us on our way.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘And a wind from the north-west to boot. Perfect! So then,’ he called across to Pedrito, ‘what name in your song of the eight winds matches this one, Master Blànes?’

  ‘The Mestral, senyor. They call this one the Mestral.’

  ‘Then thank God for the Mestral. Why, even the sailing ships will be able to match the speed of our galleys now.’

  With that, what sounded like roars of contempt rang out from the Moorish troops striving to keep pace with them along the shore.

  King Jaume laughed again. ‘Ànims!’ he yelled. ‘Let’s go, men, and may God go with us!’

  8

  ‘INTO DEATH’S DARK VALE’

  EARLY MORNING, MONDAY 10th SEPTEMBER – THE BAY OF SANTA PONÇA, SOUTH-WEST MALLORCA …

  The rosy flush of dawn was spreading along the skyline when the first of the galleys slipped into the pine-fringed creek of Sa Caleta at the far end of Santa Ponça Bay. Men and horses poured from the transports as they berthed on either side of the narrow inlet, soon all but clogged with vessels struggling to ease their way past one another without oars and tow ropes becoming hopelessly entangled. Meanwhile, the bay itself was alive with small boats from the next wave of ships, all pulling for shore loaded with soldiers making haste to join their peers in whatever challenges lay ahead.

  To Pedrito’s untrained eye, this appeared more like an every-man-for-himself stampede than the start of a carefully coordinated invasion involving upwards of sixteen thousand men.

  Nevertheless, the nocturnal voyage along the coast from Sa Palomera had been completed in surprisingly quick time, the effects of a following breeze and no further need to keep the enemy unaware of their activities combining to speed the Christian expedition on its way. Also in their favour had been the fact that the deeply serrated coastline and the mountainous nature of the seaboard in this part of the island would have made it difficult, especially in the dark, for the pursuing Moorish land forces to match the progress of their seaborne adversaries.

  Certainly, Pedrito could discern neither sight nor sound of the Moors from his position on the deck of En Nunyo Sans’ galley, which was tied up immediately forward of the king’s at the head of the creek. King Jaume himself had been one of the first ashore and could now be seen standing tall in the stirrups of his horse, a winged coronet on his head, the royal insignia of red and gold embellishing the breast of his surcoat, his sword wielded aloft, while he cantered back and forth shouting words of exhortation to the droves of men swarming onto the beach. He was the king, God’s chosen leader of the Reconquista of Mallorca, so it behoved him to ensure that his followers’ appetite for the fray should be sharpened by his presence at this critical time.

  Out of all this confusion, some semblance of order began to emerge as individual commanders rallied their troops to their respective banners. Suddenly, a mighty cheer rose up when, in the half light, a junior knight by the name of Bernardo de Riudemeya was spotted hoisting the Catalan flag on the hill called Puig de Na Morisca, a short distance inland from Sa Caleta creek. Then, as had been planned, a body of cavalry and supporting infantry set off to join him, their task to prevent any Moorish advance towards the shore before the remaining bulk of the Christian forces had disembarked.

  While men, horses, pack animals and supply wagons continued to spill from successive flotillas of landing craft, Pedrito secretly hoped the king would be too preoccupied with the complex logistics of the situation to remember the pledge he had made on the islet of Es Pantaleu a couple of days earlier. It had been one thing to promise to do the king’s martial bidding in the relative tranquility obtaining then, but another matter entirely now that the air was charged with the pulse-quickening proximity of war. Indeed, Pedrito would have been content to leave active participation in the forthcoming conflict to those more favourably disposed to heroics than himself. But it wasn’t to be.

  ‘Ho there, Master Blànes! Your king bade me deliver his orders to you!’

  Pedrito recognised the voice of Robert St Clair de Roslin, the devil-may-care young knight from northern Britain, who, back in that quayside tavern in Salou, had been responsible, even if indirectly, for his being taken on as helmsman of the royal galley in the first place. Mounted on a charger and resplendent in a long white mantle adorned with the red cross of the Knights Templar, Robert was clutching the reins of his prancing steed in one hand, while holding a rope attached to the bridle of an old she mule in the other. He was grinning from ear to ear, his expression more reminiscent, in Pedrito’s view, of a little boy about to steal apples than of a soldier steeling himself to ride into the gaping jaws of eternity.

  ‘His Majesty tells me you’re skilled in handling one of these,’ he called out, laughing delightedly as he nodded towards the mule. ‘There’s a litter strapped to her side. You’ve to follow behind the company of En Remon de Muntcada when they engage the enemy. Aye, it’ll be your job, along with the other porters, to pick up any of our wounded and bring them back here.’ Noticing the sudden apprehension in Pedrito’s eyes, Robert indicated the metal helmet resting on the pommel of his saddle, then added chirpily, ‘And don’t worry, laddie, there’s one of these – only a leather one, mind you – and a padded gambeson undercoat strapped to your friend here as well. They’re spare ones of the king, and they’ve seen plenty of service.’ He winked misch
ievously. ‘All right, they’re passed their best, and while the leather helmet won’t absorb an axe blow and the gambeson won’t stop an arrow, they’ll slow them down a bit, so be sure to put them on before you set out!’ He lobbed Pedrito the rope, wished him God’s blessing, reared his horse in deliberately spectacular fashion and, with a loud ‘whoop’, galloped off through the pines to rejoin his troop.

  En Remon, the older of the two Muntcadas, had been one of the earliest nobles to go ashore, and his detatchment of cavalry and foot soldiers was the first to proceed inland to reinforce the advance party already established on Na Morisca hill. This had been in accordance with the orders of the the king’s foremost general, En Nunyo Sans, who had also recommended that the king should remain at the beachhead for the present, both to boost the spirits of those men still landing and for his own safety, until such time as the size and capability of the Moorish opposition had been established. King Jaume, hungry for battle, had been reluctant to comply, but had yielded eventually to the advice of his senior barons, who had reminded him that he was the figurehead and inspiration of the entire Christian army. Losing his own life – or even sustaining a serious injury – at this early stage of the campaign could have such a demoralising effect that it would be tantamount to handing victory to the enemy.

  It had been calculated that, once En Remon de Muntcada’s company had augmented those troops already installed on the high ground, the full complement of Christian forces set to hold this vital position would amount to approximately seven hundred infantry and one hundred and fifty horse. Consequently, it came as something of a shock when the first rays of the rising sun revealed a vast army of Moors assembling on the landward side of that selfsame Puig de Na Morisca bridgehead.

  En Remon gave the order for his forces to halt. Being in the vanguard, he was only a few hundred paces from the lower slopes of the hill, therefore close enough to the Moors’ position to ascertain the extent of their forces. Pedrito, conversely, was standing with a group of other supporting personnel to the rear of the main body of fighting troops, so unable to see the deployment of Moors for himself. However, word soon came back through the ranks that, because of the Moors’ line of approach from the west, it could be assumed that these were the same forces that had been confronting the Christians across the bay of Sa Palomera during the previous two days. Confirmation was established as column after column of them emerged through an early-morning mist to occupy a stretch of fairly level land between the Puig de Na Morisca and a sequence of higher hills to the north.