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

by Peter Kerr

  Pedrito held his breath for the royal retaliation, but none materialised. On the contrary, King Jaume merely smirked like a misbehaved schoolboy and raised his shoulders in an all’s-well-that-ends-well shrug.

  Sheer frustration glowed crimson in En Remon de Muntcada’s cheeks. He swatted the air with his hand. ‘Pah! Sometimes I wonder why I bother!’

  But his kinsman En Guillen took an altogether more pragmatic approach to the situation – an attitude, Pedrito suspected, born of the prospect of the riches and lands of Mallorca that the king would be granting them and their fellow barons on the successful conclusion of this campaign.

  ‘It’s true, En Remon, that the king has done a very foolish thing, yet it was also the act of a true knight. Any one of us would have been angry and impatient at not being included in the first battle for the island. And, lest we forget, the king surely has more reason than any for wanting to be involved in every aspect of winning the war.’ He then addressed the king. ‘But you must restrain yourself, Majestat, for in you lies life or death for us all.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ King Jaume sighed, ‘– the figurehead and inspiration. I’ve been told it often enough, believe me.’

  En Guillen gave him an understanding smile. ‘But you can comfort yourself with one thing, my lord – that from the moment you set foot on Mallorcan soil, you became its rightful king. And we will do all in our power to help you hold it for your own, just as God Himself decreed you should. But,’ he concluded with a sage look, ‘you will do more for the glory of His name alive than dead.’

  10

  ‘HELL IS WHERE HEAVEN IS NOT’

  SANTA PONÇA – SHORTLY BEFORE DAWN – TUESDAY 11th SEPTEMBER, IN THE TENT OF KING JAUME I OF ARAGON-CATALONIA…

  So congested had the waters of the cove become the previous evening that the masters of the hindmost ships, which had fully three hundred knights and their horses still onboard, found it impossible to find places to moor. Again, Pedrito’s navigational knowledge of the local coastline was called upon by the king’s senior generals, who decided he should set out aboard a small barca and lead the larger vessels eastwards round Sa Porrassa peninsula to the cape of the same name, where, as he had advised them, they would find good anchorage. The Punta de Sa Porrassa was little more than three easy miles overland from the current base camp, its location affording an unobstructed view across the wide bite of the island’s southern bay towards the capital city of Medîna Mayûrqa, from where it was assumed the main military threat of the Moors would ultimately emerge.

  Although it had been almost nightfall when they arrived off Sa Porrassa point, a lookout on Pedrito’s boat spotted a large army, which was taken to be that of Abú Yahya Háquem, the Moorish King of Mallorca, already encamped on the side of a mountain called Na Burguesa. The Moors’ position overlooked the little haven of Porto Pi, just over a league away from the Punta de Sa Porrassa on the western flanks of the city. Without delay, Pedrito sought out En Pere Ladron, the nobleman commanding this arm of the fleet, who decided that, while it would now be risky for the large ships to do anything other than anchor here for the night, Pedrito should return immediately to Santa Ponça in the barca to inform the king of the situation.

  *

  It had been midnight when Pedrito finally accomplished his mission. However, all the king could do at that hour was send messengers to the individual quarters of his chief barons, telling them to post scouts far enough from the camp to allow a warning to be relayed back in time for preparations to be made in the event of an enemy advance.

  Now, with the dawning of the new day, it emerged that no such precautions had been taken, due to the relative state of disarray that the travel-weary commanders and their troops were still in. This, at least, was the excuse given to King Jaume by En Guillen de Muntcada.

  The king was not best pleased. ‘Only yesterday you told me that I would serve God better alive than dead!’

  ‘Yes, my lord, but the men have endured much and were suffering from total exhaustion – especially those involved in the skirmishes yesterday, so –’

  ‘So, if the Moorish King had chosen to fall upon us with his army while we slept, how many of us would still be here to continue the crusade?’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, Majestat, but –’

  ‘But it’s a pity more people in this army of brave Christians don’t share my fault of impetuosity! If they did, an appropriately large guard would have ridden out in the early hours, even if their commanders were too tired to enforce my order!’

  En Guillen was suitably contrite. ‘You’ve made your point, senyor.’ He gave a respectful nod of his head. ‘But I’m sure you would agree that an army of soldiers who take it upon themselves to do things on a whim would be an ineffectual army indeed.’

  ‘Ah, but there was no whim involved, amic. I sent a firm order to my barons, and not one of them chose to obey it. So, I’ll put to you the question your cousin En Remon put to me yesterday – did they want to kill themselves and all the rest of us as well?’

  Pedrito had been listening to this tense exchange from the most discreet distance that the limited space within the tent allowed.

  En Guillen now gestured towards him. ‘While I continue to take your point,’ he said to the king, ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t embarrass me by making it in the presence of a lackey.’

  A wry smile came to the king’s lips, but it was accompanied by a steely look in his eyes. ‘Are you referring to Master Blànes?’

  En Guillen replied somewhat caustically that he didn’t see anyone else in the tent.

  The king inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. ‘And you regard Master Blànes as a mere lackey, do you?’

  En Guillen hunched his shoulders. ‘What else?’.

  The king scowled. ‘Yet you never paused to think that you might be embarrassing me, your king, by berating me in front of him, a mere lackey, when I returned from that skirmish yesterday?’

  It was obvious that En Guillen couldn’t defend himself with an acceptable answer to that one, so he went on the offensive instead. ‘I’m bound to tell you,’ he said with an air of confidentiality, ‘that your trusting of this ex-pirate is the talk of your nobles. They believe you are both lowering yourself and risking the security of your forces by accepting a person of such dubious origins into your suite.’

  The king’s frown deepened. ‘Lowering myself?’

  ‘That’s what’s being said behind your back, senyor, and I believe I serve you better by saying it to your face.’

  The king narrowed his eyes. ‘A person of such dubious origins?’ he repeated, his voice oozing resentment.

  En Guillen’s mounting unease was betrayed by the colour rising in his cheeks, yet he maintained a façade of self-confidence. ‘He told you himself that he’s a foundling, and now it’s common knowledge throughout the –’

  ‘And what objection have you to foundlings?’ the king butted in, his demeanour quickly shifting from displeasure to an ostensibly benign curiosity.

  ‘Foundlings?’ En Guillen released a mocking little laugh. ‘Ha! We all know what that means within the peasant classes.’

  ‘Do we indeed?’ said the king, his head tilted to one side.

  Pedrito cleared his throat. ‘Perdona, Majestat, but I – well, I apologise for interrupting, but I think it may be better if I take my leave until –’

  ‘I summoned you here to advise my barons on the situation as you saw it at Na Burguesa and Porto Pi, Master Blànes, and I’ll be grateful if you’ll do me the service of remaining right here until the rest of them arrive.’ King Jaume then calmly addressed En Guillen again. ‘Now, you were about to tell me the meaning of “foundling” within the peasant classes, I believe.’

  ‘It’s just a euphemism,’ En Guillen pooh-poohed, ‘a crude cover-up of the truth.’

  ‘And the truth is?’

  En Guillen glanced over at Pedrito before replying. ‘I’ve no wish to decry your – your retaine
r here, my lord, but foundlings are usually the bastard offspring of whores. It’s well known that much of the population of seaports is made up of generations of so-called foundlings.’

  Pedrito felt his hackles rising, but he kept his composure. What else could he do anyway? His pedigree, or lack of it, was being discussed by a king and a high-ranking aristocrat, both of whom, if the notion took them, could have him flogged for no particular reason. He decided that confronting them now would give them reason enough, so he held his tongue.

  The king, however, was in a position to take a more robust stance. And, to Pedrito’s great relief and no little surprise, he did just that.

  ‘The bastard offspring of … whores?’ he checked.

  ‘Absolutely! I mean, how else would harlots manage to continue in business if they didn’t leave their unwanted brats somewhere where they’d either be found and cared for by other members of the lower orders, or eaten by stray dogs?’

  En Guillen now found himself on the receiving end of a distinctly disapproving look from the king, who cautioned him that he would do well to be mindful that high rank does not justify arrogance.

  ‘Rank? Arrogance?’ En Guillen shook his head. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Let me put it this way – what difference is there between a common whore and a high-born woman whose marriage to a nobleman is arranged for the material benefit of one or even both parties?’

  It was now the king who was subjected to a dark look. ‘That, Majestat, is tantamount to saying that those of us born into the aristocracy have whores for mothers!’

  ‘It could be taken as such – in some cases,’ the king shrugged, ‘and if their offspring, bastard or otherwise, are given away in infancy to be educated, as is often the case, it could also be said such children aren’t all that far removed from your definition of foundlings.’

  Pedrito recalled that the king had divulged to him the less-than-enviable details of his own parentage. He had also admitted that, at the tender age of three, he had been handed over by his father to the tyrannical Simon de Montfort, allegedly for his education, but actually to be used as a pawn in a complex and unsavoury game of land grabbing. So, he was clearly not excluding himself from the provocative proposition he had just put to En Guillen de Muntcada. For this, Pedrito thought all the more of him.

  But not so En Guillen. He glared at the king. ‘You demean all those of high rank by making such inappropriate comparisons, senyor!’

  The king gave him an exaggeratedly genial smile. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, my friend – merely expanding on what I told you a few moments ago.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘That having high rank doesn’t justify arrogance. Nor does it justify a lack of respect for the lower orders, as you choose to call them. After all, as I suggested, the only real difference between them and the upper classes is the privilege that comes with inherited wealth – or the semblance of it.’

  This took the wind out of En Guillen’s sails. Suddenly, his manner became less self-assured, almost submissive. ‘Again, I take your point, my lord. And let me assure you that I didn’t intend to offend your, uhm, your –’ he glanced briefly at Pedrito again ‘– to offend Master Blànes. It’s merely that I was a little surprised that you’d called on someone other than an experienced military man to brief us on the situation at Na Burguesa.’

  ‘And I’d have thought you would have realised that I did so for the same reason that En Pere Ladron sent Master Blànes back here last night instead of coming himself.’ King Jaume then proceeded to remind En Guillen that Pedrito had more knowledge of the coast and seaboard in this part of Mallorca than anyone else in his entire army. ‘Which, as you may recall, was the main reason that Nicolas Bonet, the captain of your own ship, hired him as my helmsman back in Salou.’

  En Guillen acknowledged that with a somewhat grudging, ‘Yes, of course, and a wise decision it was, I’m sure.’

  ‘And so,’ the king concluded, a triumphant twinkle in his eye, ‘when Master Blànes has briefed you on the situation of the Moorish army as he saw it from Sa Porrassa point and has described the lie of the land in the vicinity of Na Burguesa mountain, you and the other generals can make the requisite military decisions, no?’

  ‘Absolutely, senyor.’ En Guillen dipped his head. ‘And I meant you no personal discourtesy when I questioned the wisdom of putting your trust in Master Blànes. I was merely trying to –’

  The king cut him off with a snap of his fingers. ‘Save your breath for fighting Moors, which is what we’re here for. And one final thing – when you’re next discussing my choice of aides with the other nobles, you may wish to remind them that none of us would have reached here at all if it hadn’t been for helmsman Blànes. One, he steered my galley – with a little help from myself, admittedly – through that first storm, when others had begged me to turn the fleet back to the mainland. Two, his advice saved fifty of our vessels, including your own, from being wrecked during that second storm when we were trying to round Cape Formentor for the original landing place at Pollença. Three, he guided those same ships south to the shelter of the bay at Sa Palomera, where the remainder of our fleet was able to join us in safety. And four, he directed us to our present location, from where, on this very day and with God’s help, we will launch a victorious battle against the pride of the infidel forces.’

  En Guillen managed a sheepish smile. ‘Indeed, Majestat, you have chosen your local advisor well.’ He cast Pedrito a cold glance. ‘And I’m sure you will reward him well for his … assistance.’

  King Jaume didn’t like the tone of that remark. ‘For your information,’ he snapped, ‘Master Blànes seeks no personal gain from his involvement in this campaign, even though his assistance in getting us here ensures that everyone else, not least yourself, will have the opportunity to benefit from the spoils of war.’

  ‘As is my right!’ En Guillen bristled. ‘Why else do you think I pledged four hundred armed knights to this crusade?’

  The king canted his head again, then asked softly, ‘For Spain, your king and the glory of God, perhaps?’

  Clearly riled, En Guillen growled that this surely went without saying.

  ‘Indeed it does, my friend,’ the king replied impassively. ‘Indeed it does. And I respect you for that. However, I respect no less Master Blànes’ reason for being here, which, although perhaps less noble than yours or mine, is a source of envy for me, nonetheless.’

  At first, Pedrito’s face mirrored En Guillen’s look of puzzlement. Then it dawned on him what the king was coming to, and a shiver of emotion ran down his spine.

  King Jaume stared inscrutably at En Guillen for a few seconds, then asked, ‘What better cause for embarking on a perilous journey could any man have than the simple wish to be reuinted with his family?’ He hesitated before adding in a hushed voice, ‘Would that I could look forward to the same opportunity.’

  While En Guillen struggled, unsuccessfully, to come up with an apt response, the king strode over to Pedrito, laid a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘In the little time I’ve known this fellow, he has proved himself to be a good companion, without any thought of what might be in it for himself.’ He looked directly at the baron again. ‘It’s the first time I’ve encountered such a person in my entire life – a life which, you may be interested to know, he was on hand to save yesterday. Yes indeed, En Guillen, a foundling he may be, a soldier he’s not, but a friend he is, and I believe him to be a true and selfless one at that.’

  Pedrito felt a lump rise in his throat. Yet, as much as he was touched by the king’s words, he felt it best to remain circumspectly silent. When all was said and done, he was still nothing more than a fly on the wall, witnessing a young king tactfully but firmly reminding one of his most powerful vassals that, no matter how staunch his present motives might be, his disloyalties of the past, though long forgiven, were certainly not forgotten.

  *

  With the first light of day, the king and his
nobles heard mass in the royal tent from En Berenguer de Palou, a rather grey and gaunt man, with a grave look that befitted his status as the Bishop of Barcelona. He was dressed, however, not in his customary ecclesiastical robes, but in the garb of a fighting knight. He addressed the assembly as follows…

  ‘Barons, this is not the time for a long sermon. The occasion does not allow it. But bear in mind that the enterprise in which the king, our lord, and you are engaged is the work of God, not ours. Therefore, you should reckon upon this, that whoever should die in this meritorious work will die for our Saviour, and will pass through the gates of Paradise and have everlasting glory therein for all time. And they who shall live will have honour and praise in life and a good end at death.

  ‘So, strengthen yourselves in God, because our lord the king and all of us here desire to destroy those who deny the name of Jesus Christ. Accordingly, each man should, and can, trust that the Son of God and His Mother will not depart from us, but rather will help us triumph over our foes.

  ‘For this reason, you should have good heart and trust that we will overcome all.’

  He paused to look into the face of every man in turn, then lowered his voice and said, ‘The decisive battle, gentlemen, will be this day.’

  He then raised his eyes and smiled a pious smile, before declaring dramatically, ‘But comfort you well, barons, and rejoice, for we go with our good liege lord, the king. And God, who is over him and over us all, will guide us onward to victory!’

  Pedrito, as was right and proper for someone of his humble status, had left the tent immediately after giving the king and his nobles the benefit of his local knowledge in relation to what he had seen of the Moorish army’s mountainside position the previous night. Since then, he had been listening to the bishop’s sermon from outside, and not for the first time on this campaign was he prompted to wonder if the same exhortations would be preached to the Moors, but in the name of Mohammed and Allah instead of Christ and God. The promise of everlasting life in Paradise would certainly be a common element of both sermons, although the Christian version had stopped short of guaranteeing a generous supply of full-breasted virgins to its own potential martyrs and victims of war. That detail aside, it did still strike Pedrito that there was something basically flawed about any doctrine that offered eternal sublimity as a reward for dying while engaged in the destruction of those who didn’t happen to share your belief in ‘the one true faith’ – no matter which variety you opted for.