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

by Peter Kerr

  Pedrito couldn’t help marvelling at the beauty of this spot, which he thought even more stunning viewed from here than from the sea. Mallorca really was an island blessed with the most precious of nature’s gifts. Little wonder, then, that it had been regarded as an earthly paradise by all the different peoples who had invaded and inhabited it since prehistoric times – Pheonicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, Arabs. Now Mallorca had been invaded again, and Pedrito wondered if the damage that was bound to be inflicted upon it during the ensuing struggles would destroy much of the qualities that had made it one of the brightest jewels in the Mediterranean crown to all those fortunate enough to have known it down the ages.

  A hoopoe bird, flitting like a giant butterfly on black-and-white striped wings, landed on the branch of a nearby olive tree. Normally, this dandy of a creature, with its pink breast, its long, curved beak and striking, fan-like head crest, would announce its presence with a rather haughty ‘Poop! Poop! Poop!’. But not today. As had happened before the hostilities of the previous day, the island’s feathered occupants had fallen silent, as if sensing the human violence that was about to erupt within their peaceful habitat. It created a weird ambience, totally at odds with the visual charms of the surroundings.

  ‘Why so gloomy, Little Pedro?’

  The king’s words, spoken in a strangely detatched sort of way, stirred Pedrito from his musings.

  ‘Not gloomy, senyor,’ he lied, ‘– just, you know, just admiring the scenery. Yes, I was actually thinking that this must be one of the prettiest views on the island. Maybe not the most spectacular, but a truly beautiful one, nonetheless.’

  The king was pacing up and down, first looking in the direction of the departed troops, then towards where those of En Nunyo Sans would be expected to appear. ‘Well then,’ he said absently, ‘once the war for Mallorca is won, we’ll call this stretch of coast after you. The Costa d’En Blànes. How would that please you?’

  Pedrito was about to reiterate his original judgement that, flattered though he was, he didn’t warrant the lofty prefix of ‘En’ before his name, when the silence was shattered by the clamour of battle bursting forth from the direction of the seaward extremity of Na Burguesa ridge.

  ‘Holy Mother of God, Saint Mary!’ the king exclaimed. ‘Our men have fallen in with the Saracens already, and still En Nunyo and his reinforcements aren’t here! How in heaven’s name could he serve me so badly, and today of all days?’ He turned to Pedrito. ‘Mount up, amic! Get back to camp as fast as that old hack will carry you and tell En Nunyo to delay not a moment longer.’ Agitatedly, he looked towards the intensifying noise of the fray. ‘How can any general allow his rearguard to be so late as this? It can’t be right for them not to be at least within sight of the advance forces – which could be getting hacked to pieces even as I speak!’ He gave Pedrito a boost up onto his horse. ‘Quick, Little Pedro, go like the wind!’

  Pedrito wasn’t happy about this. ‘But I can’t leave you here alone,’ he objected. ‘I mean, you’re not armed. What happens if you’re attacked by an enemy patrol?’

  ‘And what difference would having you with me make? A slingshot expert you may be, but I doubt if you’d be able to scare off a pack of murderous Moors with just one piece of string.’ He slapped Pedrito’s horse on the rump, though notably to no avail. ‘Get back to camp with that message for En Nunyo and don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.’ He smacked the horse’s hind quarters yet again, but still it didn’t budge. ‘Dig your heels into its ribs!’ he growled at Pedrito, then whacked the horse one more time. ‘Yah-h-h-h! Arri-i-i-i!’

  And to think that Pedrito had originally believed this old hack to have none of the self-willed tendencies of a mule! The more he spurred it and the more the king yelled abuse, the further back the horse pinned its ears and the more rigidly it planted its hooves in the dirt. It wasn’t going anywhere for anyone. Not surprisingly, the king had almost burst a blood vessel through sheer exasperation by the time the reason for the beast’s obstinacy became apparent.

  Through the almond groves from the direction of Santa Ponça came cantering the cream of the Christian cavalry, wave after wave of them, following the banners of En Nunyo Sans and several other barons. Horse sense had prevailed yet again, it seemed, and had saved Pedrito an unnecessary journey – while also sparing his backside even more saddle sores.

  ‘What are you doing here, my lord?’ En Nunyo called out to the king, scowling as he pulled up his horse in a flurry of dust. ‘I thought you would be with the Muntcadas.’

  Hurriedly, King Jaume explained how he had been obliged to take it upon himself to rush out of camp in pursuit of an unauthorised expedition by the infantry. He then alerted En Nunyo to the sounds of battle emanating from the slopes of Na Burguesa. ‘The fight has already started, and I fear our advance troops may be fatally outnumbered.’ He shot Sans a reproachful look. ‘I thought you were never going to come, so for God’s sake let’s not waste another second!’ He then shouted instructions for word of the commencement of battle to be urgently conveyed to the nobles whose cavalry units were now arriving on the flanks of the main body. ‘Tell them to be on their guard and, whatever happens, to fight for the glory of God!’

  ‘Rather tell them to watch my banner!’ En Nunyo chipped in. ‘They know their orders, so let no man take matters into his own hands!’

  An almost palpable friction was building up between the king and his cousin, a feeling of antagonism exacerbated by the impatience permeating the ranks of barons and their trains now so frustratingly halted on their final approach to the battlefield.

  ‘I take it that my banner and its followers are among your number?’ King Jaume asked En Nunyo.

  ‘In your absence, I instructed them to bring up the rear of the main column.’

  ‘Then we shall bring them forward to advance alongside your own men. Sí, and I will lead the charge!’

  En Nunyo drew him aside. ‘I think you have forgotten, Majestat,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘that you are neither armed nor harnessed for battle.’ He nodded at the hack the king was riding. ‘And frisky as that animal apparently is, it’s about as useful a war horse as my wife’s cat!’

  Much to King Jaume’s chagrin, there was no denying that he was well and truly undone. What En Nunyo Sans had pointed out was painfully true. So desperate had the young king been to head off the ‘over-zealous’ infantry at dawn that he had neglected to gird himself with even a dagger or to clad himself in anything more protective than his surcoat.

  ‘You have acted bravely,’ En Nunyo conceded, ‘but, as ever, with a rashness that will be the downfall of us all, if it isn’t curbed. Why didn’t you take a moment to tell someone you were about to rush out of camp so suddenly this morning?’

  ‘I’m the king, so I needn’t tell anyone anything,’ King Jaume retorted with what was a fair affectation of authority, though also with a hint of almost childlike guilt.

  It was a chink of vulnerability in the king’s armour that didn’t go unnoticed by his cousin. ‘You are indeed the king, my lord, but you have appointed me to be your senior general on this crusade, so when it comes to a battle situation –’

  ‘You are indeed my senior general,’ the king interrupted, ‘but I’m your commander-in-chief, and if I say I’ll lead the charge…’ His words trailed away as he realised the futility of this attempted show of superiority. He was totally ill-equipped for combat, and the more he argued with En Nunyo, the longer it would be before the cavalry support now present would reach those Christian forces already engaged in fighting for their lives up ahead. The best the king could do to save face was to stand high in his saddle and shout at the top of his voice that every nobleman, knight and his squires should now follow En Nunyo Sans into battle. ‘And may God bless you all!’ he bellowed. ‘I, your king, will be behind you and with you all the way!’

  Whether to steal the king’s thunder, or merely to put a premeditated plan into
action, En Nunyo then instructed one of his company to signal the ships lying off the Punta de Sa Porrassa to weigh anchor and set sail for Porto Pi. ‘That’ll distract the enemy long enough for us to hit them with a surpise attack!’ he called out to the king, a trace of smugness in his smile as he finally led his troops away.

  *

  Fortunately for King Jaume, Lorenç, his personal armourer, had followed En Nunyo’s forces mounted on the royal charger, while also leading a pack mule carrying the king’s coat of mail, his helmet, shield, sword and lance.

  ‘Knowing that your Majesty, in all your indomitable courage, would wish to be equipped for battle whenever and wherever you saw fit,’ he truckled, ‘I thought it best to come prepared for that eventuality.’

  The king couldn’t hide his delight – or his relief. ‘Lorenç, you’re an absolute genius!’ he grinned, swiftly undoing the ropes that tied his accoutrements to the mule’s back. ‘Now,’ he panted, ‘help me get dressed for the conflict. I must make all haste to catch up with the others. Hurry, man – my gambeson first!’

  The self-satisfied smirk that had been on the armourer’s lips gradually faded as it became evident that the vital garment hadn’t been packed.

  ‘And if I’m hit on the chest by a Saracen’s axe, a fat lot of protection my mail hauberk will afford my ribs without the padded undercoat to soften the blow!’ The king was livid. ‘Lorenç,’ he snarled, ‘you’re a complete cretin!’

  While the hapless Lorenç struggled to come to terms with his rapid demotion from brilliance to idiocy, Pedrito took off the quilted coat he’d been handed by young Robert St Clair de Roslin at Sa Caleta creek the previous morning.

  ‘It’s an old one of yours anyway,’ he told the king, ‘so you may as well make use of it again now. For once,’ he added with an impish smile, ‘I seem to have chosen the right time and place, no?’

  King Jaume accepted the gambeson with alacrity. ‘It may have seen better days,’ he grunted, while slipping his arms into the sleeves, ‘but it’ll have to do.’ He fired a hostile glance at Lorenç. ‘Certainly better than nothing! But what about you?’ he asked Pedrito as he struggled into his cumbersome hauberk. ‘You can hardly follow me into battle wearing only a linen shirt.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely,’ Pedrito replied, wide-eyed and unashamedly perturbed. ‘And the fact that I’m also unarmed troubles me ever so slightly as well.’

  Flustered as the king was, he acknowledged Pedrito’s drollery with a smile, albeit a cursory one. He then asked him to help Lorenç heave him up into the saddle of his charger.

  ‘But ill-prepared as I am,’ Pedrito said with a stoical shrug, ‘I did promise to do your bidding in this conflict, and I won’t go back on my word now.’

  ‘Never fear, Master Blànes,’ King Jaume puffed, adjusting his steel helmet and arranging his weaponry while his warhorse snorted and stomped irritably under his weight, ‘I wouldn’t expect you to get within range of the enemy archers. However, I’ll still need you to hitch the reins of my hack to yours and follow on behind me. If I’m unhorsed in the field, I’ll be relying on you to bring a spare mount to get me out of there.’

  Pedrito couldn’t resist another quip. ‘Let’s hope you’re unhorsed well away from all of the enemy then, senyor. My sailor’s shirt is just as vulnerable to swords and lances as it is to arrows.’

  But the king didn’t hear him. With a yell of ‘God be with me!’ and a kick of his spurs, he was off towards the slopes of the Serra de Na Burguesa, and whatever God – or Allah – had in store for him there.

  12

  ‘PATIENCE PROVOKED TURNS TO FURY’

  LATER THE SAME MORNING OF 12th SEPTEMBER – THE FOOTHILLS OF THE SERRA DE NA BURGUESA…

  Presently, the king and Pedrito came to a glade, where a makeshift medical post had been set up. A few monks were tending the wounds of a line of soldiers who, despite some fairly serious injuries, had managed to make it back from the combat.

  ‘How far to the battlefield?’ King Jaume asked a young knight, still gamely straddling his horse, though with an arrow embedded in his thigh.

  ‘Just over that next rise, Majestat. About a mile – not much more.’

  ‘And how goes it for our people?’

  ‘I was in the mounted company of the Count of Empúries. We attacked the enemy’s centre with the Knights Templar, while En Guillen and En Remon de Muntcada led the charge to their left.’

  ‘And you know no more?’

  ‘Only that it was a hellish fierce fight, especially having to battle our way uphill. We drove the Moors back three times, and they did the same in return.’

  Suddenly, worry was writ large on the king’s face. ‘Are you telling me the Saracens have the better of us?’

  ‘I was one of the lucky ones. I saw many slain on both sides before I took this arrow in the leg. But I’d say our men were more than holding their own, although we’re up against a much larger army, senyor, so things could still go badly.’

  Just then, another knight came trotting into the clearing.

  The king recognised him. ‘En Guillen de Mediona! Well met, but why aren’t you still fighting?’

  ‘Because I’m injured, my lord. I came to have my wound treated by the good friars.’

  The king squinted at him. ‘Are you badly hurt? You seem able to ride well enough.’

  The knight pointed to a smudge of blood beneath his nose. ‘I was struck by a stone, Majestat.’

  This revelation was greeted with a gasp of disbelief from the king. ‘Struck on the lip? And you think that’s reason enough to quit the battle?’ He then made a point of attracting everyone’s attention. ‘Can you believe this, men? We have here a brother knight renowned throughout Catalonia for his jousting prowess. None bolder in the lists or more skilled with the lance, it’s said. Indeed, many’s the time I’ve seen him in action myself, and he can tilt at the best of them. Yet he retires from a real fight with nothing more serious to hamper him than a grazed lip!’ King Jaume wasn’t about to spare the knight’s blushes now. ‘Well, let me remind you, Guillen de Mediona – this isn’t a tournament, and there are no pampered damsels looking on and swooning at the very thought of your handsome features being bruised by a pebble. This is war, the real thing, and a true knight would have been enraged by such a trifling blow – not used it as an excuse to cut and run. So, amic, you will turn about right now and ride back into the thick of it!’

  Suitably conscience-stricken and visibly contrite, En Guillen de Mediona did just that.

  The king and Pedrito followed in his tracks until they caught up with En Nunyo Sans, who was mustering his troops at the foot of the rise where the first clash of arms had taken place. Even here, on the periphery of the action, the ground was strewn with bodies, all of them showing evidence of the brutality of hand-to-hand combat.

  Surveying the carnage surrounding him now, Pedrito was struck by how different this scene was compared to those he had witnessed the day before. Then, he had passed through killing fields that bore all the hallmarks of an unequal massacre, whereas here, it was evident that a fierce battle had taken place, with both sides giving no quarter and suffering a corresponding share of the losses.

  However, the first surge of hostilities appeared to be already over, with the Moors having been put to flight – at least temporarily. Christian cavalrymen and foot soldiers were coming down from the hill, some in orderly fashion behind their respective banners, others straggling alone or in little groups, either nursing personal wounds or helping injured comrades and horses back to the safety of their own lines. There would be no question of these men and animals taking part in any further fighting this day, or, in many cases, for some considerable time to come.

  Yet the king had the smell of victory in his nostrils, and he was keen to press any advantage already gained by his advance troops. He drew En Nunyo Sans’ attention to a large group of Moorish soldiers on top of the hill from which the Christian vanguard was now descending.

/>   ‘Look there – in the midst of that body of infantry – all clad in white astride the white horse. See the red-and-white striped standard flying beside him. It’s the flag of the Amir, the Saracen King of Mallorca!’

  En Nunyo nodded his agreement, but without saying a word.

  The king’s eyes were ablaze. ‘And can you see what’s adorning the top of his lance? A head! The head of one of my people! A severed Christian head impaled on a heathen’s spear!’ King Jaume’s show of bitterness was rapidly degenerating into a fit of blind hatred. ‘The disbelieving swine will pay for this!’ he snarled. Then, turning to En Nunyo Sans, he declared, ‘And no time like the present!’ He pointed to the hilltop again. ‘Mira! You can see they’re still in a state of disarray, so they’ll be easily beaten if we launch a fresh attack immediately.’ Goading his steed into readiness for the charge, he shouted, ‘Call your troops to order, En Nunyo, and have them follow me!’

  At this, En Nunyo and two other barons who had been listening to this royal outburst grabbed the bridle of the king’s horse.

  ‘Your madness today is going to be the death of us all!’ En Nunyo hissed. ‘For God’s sake, Majestat, have patience!’