by Peter Kerr
Predictably, their number was estimated to be the same as that calculated by King Jaume’s generals back at Sa Palomera – that’s to say some five thousand foot soldiers and two hundred horse. So, while it might be a fairly even match for the cavalry on both sides (with the Moors enjoying a slight advantage), every Christian infantryman would be pitted against at least seven of the enemy. The risk of this had been known in advance, of course, but the gamble taken had been that, due to the difficult terrain they’d have to traverse, the Moors would arrive piecemeal in relatively small numbers, thereby giving the Christian expeditionary force a reasonable chance of holding ground until the remainder of their own army had come ashore.
Now, while the Moors assembled in combat formation facing the hill, an unnatural silence fell on a tract of rustic serenity that was about to become a cacophonous, blood-soaked battlefield. As if directed by an invisible hand, the dawn chorus of birdsong ceased. Not a horse neighed, not a solitary leaf stirred. Death was in the air, and the things of nature smelt it.
Pedrito smelt it too, and he felt the same chill of fear that had coursed through his veins when taken captive by pirates those five years earlier.
It appeared, though, that no such feeling was troubling the Christian soldiers amassed ahead of him here. The smell now invading their nostrils was also of death, but the death of their enemies, not their own. They were hardened campaigners all, and the adrenalin-rush of impending battle, combined with the prospect of plunder to be snatched from fallen adversaries, made them impatient for the fight, no matter how unfavourable the odds against them.
Agitated murmurs began to spread from man to man; a contagious surge of hostility that could only be satisfied by making real the nebulous stench of death. And their eagerness for the kill intensified rapidly when the beat of the Moors’ drums began to resound across the field – quietly at first, just as had happened at Sa Palomera, then gradually increasing in volume as thousands of Saracen voices joined in a tumult of noise meant to strike terror into the hearts of the enemy.
It had the opposite effect on this particular enemy, however. They started yelling their own threats and, despite their comparative lack of numbers, succeeded in matching the din being produced by the Moors. Hundreds of Christian foot soldiers were beating swords against shields and bellowing for the attack to commence, which in turn provoked many a knights’ horse to rear up and strain impatiently at the bit. Even Pedrito’s dozy old mule began to fidget, tugging against her rope, ears back, teeth bared, braying hoarsely as she finally became aware of the mounting excitement.
Just when it seemed that the entire Christian contingent might be about to descend into chaos, En Remon de Muntcada himself rode back through their lines urging restraint and, most of all, silence. As their commander, he was about to give an order, and it was plain that he wanted everyone to hear it.
He was some years the senior of his kinsman Guillen, but of a similar stocky build and with the same dour, determined look about him. ‘Harnessed’ in full battle attire of chainmail suit and heraldic tabard, he was sitting astride a charger with the butt of his lance resting in a stirrup, its tip pointing ominously heavenward. Looking every inch the warrior nobleman, he spurred his horse to the top of a rocky knoll, where he could be seen and heard by all the troops, including those already posted on the hill behind him.
He removed his helmet, waited for the ongoing clamour to subside, then shouted, ‘Save your anger for now, men, and save your energy as well! You’ll need all of it soon enough, I promise you!’ He then pronounced that not everything about that great throng of Saracens might be as appeared on first impression. Numbers, after all, weren’t everything. ‘For this reason,’ he continued, ‘I’m about to have a closer look at them, and let none of you dare follow me. I go alone! ’
‘But, senyor,’ one of his accompanying men-at-arms protested, ‘– their archers. They’re bound to see you, so what if –’
En Remon raised a gauntleted hand. ‘I’ll be able to establish what I want to without venturing within arrow-shot. And anyway, if what I saw when they were trying to shoot the turncoat Ali in the Bay of Palomera is anything to go by, I’ll have little to fear even if I do.’
Having made his intentions absolutely clear, he motioned the crush of troops to make way, then trotted off through a copse of wild olive towards enemy lines.
By now, the rays of the rising sun were drawing long, receding shadows over the countryside, where little farmhouses the colour of weathered straw sat amid almond groves and orchards of orange, apricot and fig. Sheep and goats still grazed the weedy stubble between the trees, though Pedrito guessed that the peasant families who shared the land with them had already fled. He noted how most of the farmsteads had a tall palm tree or two standing sentinel by their gates, reminding him once more of his own home overlooking the sea at Andratx, so near from here in times of peace, yet so far now that warring armies barred the way.
He was jolted from his musings by someone giving him a nudge in the back, then turned to see a grizzled old fellow dressed in a sleeveless quilted coat that may once have been part of a knight’s battle attire, but was now fit only for a tramp. He was holding the bridle of a saddle-backed nag, its scrawny frame suggesting that it had at least one hoof in the grave. On taking a closer look at the horse’s master, however, it appeared to Pedrito that he was perhaps somewhat younger than he’d seemed at first glance. Small and wiry in build, he had the calloused hands of someone who’d known a life of manual labour, and his leathery, sun-wrinkled skin hinted that he’d spent that life toiling on the land. Yet a sparkle of youthfulness still danced in his eyes.
With a sideways twitch of his head, he indicated the direction in which En Remon de Muntcada had just ridden.
‘How the other half lives!’ he grunted, then spat into the dust at his feet, which Pedrito now noticed were shod – no, ‘wrapped’ would be more accurate – in strips of sacking bound with twine. ‘I tell you, boy,’ the man went on, ‘even that baron’s horse is wearing better clothes than anyone in my village back in Aragon ever set eyes on.’ His face creased into an impish grin. ‘Sí, and by the look of it, the son of a whore’s horse is a hell of a lot better-fed than any of my neighbours as well! Sí, sí, camarada,’ he chortled, ‘it’s an ill-divided world we’re born into, but maybe next time I’ll be lucky enough to come back as a nobelman – or even a horse!’ He looked askance at his own pathetic animal, then muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Though, pray to Christ Almighty, not like this poor bastard, eh!’
He went on to say that his name was Rafael, forty years old, give or take a couple of years, and a born-and-bred peasant, who tried to scrape a living for his wife and twelve children on a patch of mean, stony land in the foothills of the Pyrenees some way to the north of the Aragonese capital, Zaragoza. He had been following King Jaume on his battle expeditions since his arrival in the city to assert his right to the throne of Aragon at the age of nine – more than eleven years ago.
Rafael patted his old horse on the forehead. ‘Sí, and that was when El Cid here could still pull a plough all day without stopping for a rest every five minutes.’
Pedrito was amazed. ‘You rode that all the way from Zaragoza to Salou?’
Rafael smiled and nodded his head.
Pedrito frowned and scratched his. ‘Zaragoza to Salou? But – but that must be well over a hundred miles!’
‘Could be, as the crow flies,’ Rafael shrugged, then patted his nag again. ‘But it seemed more like three hundred at the speed this bag o’ bones hobbles along at them days.’
‘But why?’
‘Because he’s bloody ancient, that’s why!’
‘No, no, what I mean is why would you want to leave your family so far away, just to come here and lug the wounded off a battlefield – yes, and maybe even risk stopping an arrow yourself?’
‘Well, like I say, I’ve been doing it on and off for years – following King Jaume’s armies into battl
e – and it hasn’t been because I’m all that bothered whether or not a soldier dies where he falls or at the hands of some sawbones back at camp. Hey, I may look as stupid as that mule of yours, boy, but I’m not, believe me!’ As if to punctuate the point, Rafael launched another missile of spit into the dust. ‘No, camarada, all I’m after is a chance to rip some decent swag off the bodies of them that’s already croaked their last – you know, collect enough valuables to let me make a better life for my missus and the kids.’
‘Ah, I see. So, you’ve been building a nest egg over the years, eh?’
Rafael gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Sure, and Muslims eat pigs! Nah, by the time the cavalry and infantry have raked over the bodies, all that’s left for us tail-enders is dross.’ He looked disparagingly at Pedrio’s borrowed helmet and gambeson. ‘As you know well enough already, judging by that rubbish you’re wearing.’ Rafael shook his head. ‘Nest egg, you say? Nah, truth to tell, boy, after I’ve made my way back to Zaragoza and flogged my miserable bits and pieces to old Moses the Jew, I’ve usually only made enough out of the entire exercise to get blind drunk for a couple of days before staggering back home to the finca.’
Pedrito frowned. ‘Seems to me there must be easier ways of getting a hangover, so why keep doing it?’
‘Well,’ Rafael shrugged, ‘it’s more exciting than growing beans. Besides, like I said, I’ve got a wife and twelve kids – one for every campaign, as it happens! – so there’s more peace and quiet on some battlefields than at home.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘Also, there’s a half-witted whore in Zaragoza who gives discount rates to returning war heroes. Enough said, huh!’
Pedrito rolled his eyes. No wonder this character looked older than his years.
All at once, a roar went up as the waiting troops caught sight of En Remon de Muntcada heading back towards them at speed.
‘Just as I thought,’ he shouted as he reined in his horse, ‘– those Moors are worthless – nothing but a bunch of camel milkers and carpet sellers masquerading as soldiers. I tell you, men, no matter how many there are over there, they’ll be no match for us!’
This news was greeted with another roar, even louder this time and loaded with aggression.
Pedrito suspected that En Remon was deliberately stretching the truth in order to work his troops into a frenzy of belligerence. And it was having the desired effect.
Waving his shield above his head, he silenced the uproar, then proceeded to orchestrate the offensive. Firstly, he deployed detatchments of archers to the forward flanks, telling them that their first task would be to let a deluge of arrows rain down on the heads of the enemy, to ‘soften them up a bit’ before the cavalry charge.
‘We are honoured and fortunate to have many Knights of the Temple within our number on this crusade, and our assault against this infidel mob will be led by them in their distinctive, unflinching way. The rest of you men-at-arms will heed their example and bear down on your opponents at full gallop and with a steadfast will to run them through and kill them.’ He paused to address the infantry, telling them to follow the cavalry into the melee with urgency, and to show no mercy to any member of the enemy still able and willing to fight. ‘You will take no prisoners. From what I’ve just seen, there will be few Saracens worth much in ransom anyway. Also, provisions are going to be scarce enough for a while without having to feed hostages. So, I repeat, you will take no prisoners, and neither will you dally to plunder the fallen!’
As disgruntled mutterings rumbled through the ranks, Rafael nudged Pedrito again.
‘He’ll be lucky! Even among his regular soldiers, there’s plenty toerags like me who’re only here for what they can swipe from corpses.’
‘I repeat,’ En Remon shouted, ‘no prisoners and no plunder!’ He pointed his lance eastward. ‘If what the turncoat Ali told your king is true, there’s a vast garrison within the walls of the capital city of Medîna Mayûrqa, just twelve miles away in that direction, so we do what we have to do here as swiftly as possible, then regroup back at the beachhead – with luck, before any Saracen reinforcements have sallied forth from the city.’ That said, he held his lance aloft, stood high in his saddle and declared, ‘We are in good heart, brothers, for God is with us! So, let battle commence, and may the spirit of our Lord Jesus Christ lend courage to our hearts and strength to our arms as we dispatch those spineless disbelievers to the depths of oblivion!’
No sooner had the first barrage of arrows plunged down on the Moors than the screams of their stricken horses sliced through the battle cries of the Christian troops, all of them still holding back from the charge, though reluctantly. Then, as Moorish shields were raised in anticipation of another aerial bombardment, En Remon de Muntcada gave the signal for his archers to fire directly into their front line. The sickening thud of crossbow bolts hitting unprotected bodies was the result, and not a single Moorish bowstring was drawn in retaliation. Without a moment’s delay, En Remon signalled his archers to repeat the initial action of releasing their arrows on a trajectory which would enable them to pelt the enemy from above. Yells of agony and shouts of confusion resounded across no-man’s-land. Then, and only then, did Remon de Muntcada commit his forces to the assault.
With banners flying and lances couched for action, a squadron of Knights Templar led the onslaught, thundering forward knee-to-knee, their horses kicking clouds of dust into the faces of the following surge of troops. But a little dirt in the eye deterred no one. Battle fever, a cantageous affliction spread by the elation and terror of impending combat, had infected the Christian soldiers, and even the possibility of their own demise at the hands of a vastly greater force could not contain it. Valour, or aspirations for it, and the power of raw bloodlust had seen off whatever vestiges of discretion still lurked in anyone’s breast. The charge had become a one-way journey to victory or heaven. It would be glory – or death.
To gain a better view of the ensuing activity, Pedrito hauled his mule onto the mound from which En Remon had delivered his address. And it didn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that the the baron’s declared assessment of the Moors’ military capability hadn’t been such an exaggeration after all.
The mounted knights and supporting foot soldiers who had rallied earlier to the Catalonian flag on Na Morisca hill were now careering down its northern slopes to join En Remon’s forces in the attack. Through the billowing dust, Pedrito could see that the havoc wreaked on the Moorish front ranks by the Christian arrow strikes was having a multiple effect. Those Moors who had been injured but could still run were doing just that – or trying to. Their movement wasn’t intended to counter the Christian advance, however, but to get away from it. And as they struggled to force their way back through their own lines, those troops at the rear of the vast formation were pressing ever forward, unaware of the pandemonium developing ahead. Even a non-miltary man like Pedrito could see that the consequences were unlikely to be in the Moors’ favour.
En Remon’s stratagem for the use of his archers had been an inspired one, and his assessment of the enemy’s capacity for fighting was already proving to be admirably accurate as well. The majority of the Moors were clearly not professional soldiers, but in all probability just ordinary citizens from the more modest walks of life, drafted in to make a show of numbers, which their ruler had hoped would be sufficiently intimidating to hold off the Christain invasion until his anticipated reinforcements arrived from Morocco. The outcome, though, was already promising to be the humiliating rout of his five thousand men by a force of considerably less than nine hundred.
Panic spread like wildfire throughout the Moorish lines. Carnage without reprisal would be the inevitable result. What Pedrito was seeing from the safety of his vantage point was less a theatre of war than a pageant of mass slaughter. Deadly flashes of steel glinted through a hazy blur as the Christian pack carved into the mayhem that had formerly passed as an orderly battle formation. Savage roars erupted from the attackers, while their victims’
cries of distress, combined with the shrieks of pain from horses caught up in this commotion of violence, added further dimensions of ugliness to an already repugnant scene.
A cloud of dust hung above the tumult in the still morning air – still, that is, except for the whirlwind of butchery sweeping over the ground below. As the Christian forces charged, hacked and lunged their way forward, more and more men behind the Moorish van were falling over themselves in a desperate bid to escape, not only from the advancing enemy, but also from their retreating comrades. In the ensuing crush, those who stumbled were trampled and fallen upon by their own wounded. They lay pinned to the ground, cringing helplessly as they awaited their fate at the hands of an unstoppable adversary, a focused and brutal foe who had already made it painfully clear that no quarter would be given.
It now appeared that King Jaume’s promise of a Mallorcan heaven on earth would have to wait until after an embodiment of hell itself had been created on the island – and at his behest too.
Pedrito took the old mule by the bridle and led her down from the hillock, then slowly over no-man’s-land towards the site of the initial clash of arms. The shallow valley they were passing through was still embalmed in a strange hush, in which the only sound was the steady, muted plod of the mule’s hooves. Yet behind him, Pedrito could make out the distant clamour of troops and equipment being offloaded from the Christian ships at Santa Ponça Bay. And up ahead, there were the war cries of En Remon de Muntcada’s men; the baying of hunters bearing down on a hapless quarry; the bloodthirsty noise of the chase, growing ever more faint as those Moors still capable of running scattered for their lives.
