by Peter Kerr
As a child, he had heard his parents quote things which they said were the very foundation stones of the Christian religion: simple maxims along the lines of, ‘Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,’ and, ‘Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God.’
Well, from what Pedrito had seen of the two rival armies here on Mallorca, it wouldn’t be the meek who would inherit this little corner of the earth, and the only people likely to be called the children of God would be those who proved to be best at making peace with the point of a sword. Strange anomalies indeed, but wholly acceptable, it seemed, to those high-ranking Christian soldiers gathered here to pay pre-battle homage to their chosen divinity.
It prompted Pedrito to recall what the king had said to him back on the islet of Es Pantaleu three nights earlier: ‘God’s Commandments tell us that “Thou shalt not kill”, yet when we’re compelled to do it for the furtherance of God’s glory, killing clearly isn’t a sin, but a virtue.’
Then the words of al-Usstaz, the pirate galley ‘Professor’, came back to him: ‘Never mistake a religious war for a holy one, my friend.’ Here was a once-confusing tip that was beginning to make more sense to Pedrito by the moment.
Just then, he overheard the Bishop of Barcelona state that the king and all his barons, with the exception of one, had celebrated holy communion before leaving the mainland. Now, through a chink in the tent’s canvas, Pedrito caught a glimpse of the usually self-assured En Guillen de Muntcada, kneeling before the bishop to belatedly receive the body and blood of Christ. En Guillen was sobbing, the tears running down his face like those of a lost child. At length, he stood up and approached the king, fell to his knees again and vowed to God in His mercy that he would prove his unswerving loyalty to the young monarch in whatever trials lay ahead.
It was a moving scene, but one which brought home to Pedrito how fragile these warrior nobles could actually be when faced with the stark reality of their potential death. They were men of violence who lived by the sword and were prepared to die by the sword. Yet, beneath all that, they were normal human beings with normal human frailties and fears. For them, therefore, religion and its rites served as crutch, comfort, stimulus and shield at such critical times as this.
The king laid a hand on En Guillen’s head and motioned him to stand up, then embraced him warmly, but without saying anything. There was no need for words, as it was obvious to everyone present that he was deeply touched by his nobleman’s public demonstration of devotion.
It occurred to Pedrito that what he was witnessing now was in stark contrast to the friction that had existed between these two men only a few minutes earlier – an example, perhaps, of the diametrically opposite ways in which the tensions, elations and terrors of impending battle can be minifested, even in the bravest of hearts.
Meanwhile, the news which Pedrito had conveyed to the king at midnight had clearly spread like wildfire through the camp by dawn. While the barons had been engaged in their reverential proceedings inside the royal tent, the rest of the vast Christian army had been coming to life, refreshed by a good night’s sleep and fired up by the prospect of confronting at last the elite of the Moorish forces on Mallorca. Without any apparent order or organisation, horses were being harnessed and men were arming themselves while exchanging shouted words of encouragement from one division’s compound to another. The euphoria of war was in the air and, as Pedrito was becoming ever more accustomed to noting, its effect was both virulent and overwhelming.
Inside the king’s tent, conversely, the atmosphere was altogether more controlled. Matters had moved on from the solemn and sacred to the militarily practical. Pedrito could hear the voices of En Nunyo Sans and the two Muntcadas discussing the final tactics of engagement. The question of who should lead the attack came first.
‘You take it, En Nunyo,’ said Guillen de Muntcada.
‘No, I think it’s better that you take it today,’ Sans replied.
This drew a cynical little chortle from Remon de Muntacada. ‘En Nunyo, we know well enough why you say that. I’m sure you’re speaking out of love for the hard blows we’re bound to get in this battle, aren’t you?’
A nobleman’s honour was being questioned here, but this was hardly the proper time to debate it. Accordingly, En Guillen was quick to snuff out any flame of animosity that might be about to flare up. ‘Anyhow,’ he shrugged, ‘none of this matters to me one way or the other.’ He then addressed En Remon. ‘To settle it, you and I will ride together in the vanguard and we won’t spare our horses until we reach the Saracan lines. Agreed?’
At that very moment, the king, looking understandably harrassed, exited the tent and beckoned Pedrito. But before he could say anything, one of the royal porters came running towards them through the pines.
‘Majestat,’ he shouted, ‘a large body of our infantry – maybe as many as five thousand men – is heading out of camp! They’re hell bent on advancing on the Moors immediately!’
‘On whose orders?’ the king demanded. ‘My three top generals are still inside the tent here, so the command didn’t come from them.’
The porter indicated that he had no idea what had spurred the foot soldiers into this impromptu act. All he knew was that they were on the march without even waiting for the customary cover of cavalry to lead the way.
King Jaume punched the palm of his hand. ‘Damned idiots! God knows I’m all for a measure of spontaneity in my fighting men, but this is complete stupidity.’ He threw his head back in anguish. ‘Holy Mother, how could they! Yet again I’m tormented by people who risk scuppering the Reconquista before it’s even started!’
Pedrito assumed that the king’s immediate reaction to the porter’s news would be to rush back into the tent and alert his generals, but instead he grabbed Pedrito by the elbow and hustled him towards the nearest stabling enclosure.
‘Let’s take the first two saddled horses we see!’ he growled. ‘We’ll have to head off these blockheaded infantrymen before the Moors catch sight of them!’
Pedrito hardly had time to contemplate what might be the difference, to the king’s way of thinking, between spontaneity in his men and his own impetuosity before he was being given a leg-up into the saddle of the same ‘nice, docile’ hack he’d been teamed up with for the king’s spur-of-the-moment incursion into enemy territory the previous day. For this stroke of good fortune, he offered up a silent prayer to the god (or gods) of horse sense. Then, with the king mounted on a markedly more spirited beast, Pedrito dashed off through the woods behind him in pursuit of the miscreant mob of foot soldiers.
If this was to be one of the most glorious military operations in the history of Christian Spain, it appeared to Pedrito yet again that it would be due more to good luck than good guidance.
*
When they caught up with the renegade band of infantry, its rearguard was spread out shoulder-to-shoulder over a wide area of open country, where the only cover comprised clumps of dwarf palms and copses of shrubby mastic and juniper which the local folk called monte bajo.
‘Make way for your king!’ the king hollered as he hurtled towards the unsuspecting backmarkers. ‘Out of the way, for Christ’s sake!’
As the great body of men opened up like Moses’ fabled parting of the Red Sea, Pedrito could see the undulating summits of Na Burguesa ridge up ahead, though still far enough off to keep the Christian troops out of sight of the Moorish army encamped on the seaward slopes away to the right. It was now a question of whether or not the king could put a stop to this uncontrolled advance before it was spotted by enemy scouts, thereby setting in motion the inevitable disintegration of the entire Christian campaign.
When King Jaume had eventually barged his way to the front of column, he wheeled round, reared his horse and shouted a command for the forces to halt.
‘What in the name of the Virgin Mary do you think you’re doing?’ he bellowed. He was in a blind rage and made no attempt to disgui
se the fact. Pointing to the wooded hillsides stepping upwards to the soldiers’ left, he yelled, ‘You have no cavalry protection, neither have you archers deployed on that flank. So, if a large troop of Saracen horse charged down on you from there, you would be killed to a man.’
A hush of embarrassment descended on the huge throng, before a young man-at-arms stepped forward, bowed before the king, then called out to his colleagues, ‘What His Majesty says is right. We were acting like an army of blockheads – letting our excitement blinker our common sense.’ He turned to the king. ‘I beg your forgiveness, my lord, for we have let you down badly.’
There was no doubt that these men had been guilty of an act of utter folly, but the king preferred to tell himself that they had been swept along by some kind of mass hysteria for action, rather than by any sense of mutinous self-interest, as, for example, in a frenzied lust for plunder. Also, it was essential to bear in mind that each and every one of them would be expected to fight to the death for his king, country and God in the mighty battle that awaited them. Accordingly, amelioration and encouragement were what was required now – not chastisement. Prudently, then, King Jaume adopted a suitably conciliatory mien.
‘I understand your impatience,’ he called out with a sympathetic nodding of his head, ‘and I share it. You are all brave fighting men, and many of you have come from faraway lands to join me in this great crusade against the infidel, for which you have my heart-felt gratitude and my reaffirmed royal promise of generous rewards.’ He half turned in his saddle and pointed towards the ridge of Na Burguesa. ‘But in the hills yonder there lurks a huge Saracen army, which, if my information is correct, consists, not of puny fakes like those who were so easily defeated yesterday, but of seasoned and fearless professional soldiers like yourselves, who are committed to killing us or to driving us back from this island which was stolen from our Christian forefathers three hundred years ago.’
The vast assembly was now hanging on King Jaume’s every word.
‘We face an able adversary today, men, but we have God on our side, and if we put our trust in Him, we surely have nothing to fear.’
Mutterings of assent rippled through the lines of troops.
‘That said,’ the king went on, ‘we cannot be complacent. We cannot expect God to be our guardian if we ask too much of Him. God helps those who help themselves, but it is up to us, his vassals, to help Him by going into battle in a way that will be a credit to ourselves, His chosen defenders of the Christian faith.’
King Jaume allowed a few dramatic moments of silence to elapse before adding, ‘I have the most experienced generals in Spain with me, as well as the foremost Knights of the Temple and their mounted retinues. Therefore, with such military excellence to guide us – and to bring out the best in you, the bravest fighting men in Christendom – those Saracen thieves on the mountainside yonder will be eliminated, and this heaven on earth, with all its riches, will be returned to God … and to us, His obedient and faithful servants!’
11
‘BETTER LATE THAN NEVER’
A FEW MINUTES LATER – ON THE WAY TO NA BURGUESA MOUNTAIN…
The storm of cheering which the king’s oration whipped up could well have been heard by the waiting Moors, who, if not alarmed by its ferocity, would surely have been put on their guard. So, it was not a moment too soon that three large platoons of Christian cavalry now approached at the gallop to join King Jaume at the head of the successfully restrained yet freshly stimulated horde of foot soldiers.
The mounted troops were following the banners of En Guillen and En Remon de Muntcada and that of the Count of Empúries, the first two detatchments comprising four hundred and one hundred knights and their squires respectively, the latter made up of sixty knights and their followers. Together they made an impressive sight, the steel of their helmets, lances and chain mail glinting in the morning sun, their colourful surcoats and coordinated trappings of their horses completing a picture that would have done justice to the most spectacular of victory parades. But the prospect of victory was still a long way off, and no matter how uplifting their young monarch’s words had been, many who had heard them would never live to see that day.
The frown on En Guillen de Muntcada’s face indicated that he was both surprised and displeased to find the king here. ‘What brings you to this place, my lord? I expected you to wait in your tent to hear our final battle plans, but you simply disappeared.’
‘And if I hadn’t, the five thousand or so foot soldiers you see assembled before us here would have marched on to their deaths, and to the likely end of this crusade.’
En Guillen’s expression became slightly less chastening. Leaning in towards the king, he lowered his voice to almost a whisper. ‘It was a foolhardy thing you did, Majestat, and I’m bound to say yet again that your impetuosity is a constant source of worry to all of us who know how essential your wellbeing is to the success of this mission.’
‘Though perhaps no more essential right now than the wellbeing of some five thousand foot soldiers, no?’
The irrefutability of the king’s observation was acknowledged with a deferential dip of En Guillen’s head. ‘You have done right well, my lord. But I must now ask, no beg, that you remain here to await the arrival of En Nunyo Sans’ reinforcements. Meanwhile, we will press onward to confront the Moors with the cavalry and infantry forces already here.’ He gestured towards the scrub-dappled slopes of the foothills immediately ahead. ‘The enemy will have had lookouts posted there, so the sooner we attack their camp, the less time they will have had to prepare a welcome.’
Pedrito could see that this request for his personal abstinence went right against the grain with the king, whose appetite for being in the forefront of the approaching showdown was keener than anyone’s, and doubtless more insatiable as well. Yet, for once, he agreed to his general’s proposal without objection. The logic of restraint, it seemed, had finally tempered his inherent response to a challenge.
While the troops were being mustered into orderly formations for the advance, and tactical orders relayed for the engagement of the enemy, Pedrito approached the king, who was watching proceedings from an elevated position nearby.
‘Excuse the intrusion, senyor, but this is the first chance I’ve had to ask you why you beckoned me when you came out of your tent this morning.’
King Jaume gave him a vague look, thought for a moment, then replied, ‘Oh that? I’d all but forgotten. I just wanted to ask you to skip along to the nearest field kitchen and grab me a bite to eat.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m starving, and God only knows when any of us will next see a decent meal – in this life, at any rate.’
Pedrito looked at his mount grazing a tuft of shrivelled weeds. ‘Yes, as Rafael the scavenger told me, maybe we’d all be better off coming back as horses.’
The king glowered at him. ‘There you go talking in riddles again, and, as ususal, this is neither the time nor place!’
It was obvious that the king was not only preoccupied with the enormity of the task facing his army today, but was also itching to be involved from the outset himself. Pedrito withdrew a few respectful paces as the king watched the great body of his men head off, banners fluttering, shields raised, lances and swords at the ready, towards the foothills of Na Burguesa ridge and the battle that would surely decide the fate of this momentous campaign.
Pedrito took advantage of this temporary lull to dismount from his horse and give his saddle-sore backside a much needed rest. He sat down on a tree stump and cast his eyes over the surrounding landscape. Behind him, the land rose steadily through woods of evergreen oak to the westernmost heights of the Serra de Na Burguesa chain, where wisps of white cloud drifted upward and evaporated in the warmth of the early autumn sun. This was the time of year Mallorcan country folk called the season of ‘Winter Spring’, so benign was the climate in the wake of the equinoctial storms that farmers chose now to sow and plant crops that would not have survived the fiece heat of
summer. Beans came immediately to mind again. Beans. As long as he lived, he would never forget what, as a small boy, he regarded as the drudgery of shuffling through the horta, plopping seed beans into drills that his father was opening up ahead of him with his hoe. Drudgery indeed. How little he knew then, and how much he now longed to to be doing that same chore again – except that his father would now expect Pedrito to do the real work with that old hoe. The thought made him smile.
In front of him here, almond trees dotted with harvest-ready nuts descended in neat, evenly-spaced rows towards the sea, which seemed so close on this fine morning that Pedrito felt sure a well-delivered pebble from his sling would reach the shore with ease. He was tempted to try, just for the fun of it, but one look at the king’s expression persuaded him to desist. Fun was clearly the last thing on King Jaume’s mind at this moment in time, and understandably so. His destiny would be decided this day, and its deliverance lay in the hands of others – at least for the present.
Pedrito looked out to those clear-as-crystal azure and emerald waters that he had sailed so often with his father. Over to the right, there was the Punta de Sa Porrassa, a rugged, pine-fringed finger of rock pointing eastward to where the rear squadron of the Christian fleet had been resting at anchor overnight. From this distance, with their masts swaying lazily on a gentle swell and only a few sailors going unhurriedly about their duties on deck, there was no indication of the manpower and machinery of war that waited within their hulls, ready to be brought to bear on the enemy at the most opportune moment. And, if all went according to the Christian commanders’ plans, as revealed to the troops by En Guillen de Muntcada a few minutes earlier, the vital cargoes of those vessels would be brought ashore at the little harbour of Porto Pi, only just visible across the vast bay to Pedrito’s left. A short way beyond that again lay Medîna Mayûrqa, the City of Mallorca, nestling in the lee of the green-cloaked Serra de Na Burguesa mountains, the only sign of its existence a gossamer haze of wood smoke floating motionless above in the limpid September air.
