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

by Peter Kerr

  Even now, with the first light of day, there was something unsettling about the place. The surrounding fields and orchards bore the scars of two armies having stormed through, one in retreat, the other in attack, but both paying scant respect for the crops that had been so carefully husbanded by the local Moorish farmers until a few hours before the so-called battle. There were even signs that some of the houses and farmsteads had suffered wanton damage, perhaps as part of a crudely conducted scorched earth policy by the fleeing Moors, perhaps as an act of subjugation by the victorious Christians. In any case, the homes and livelihoods of many innocent people had been ruined, and the victims, wherever they were now, would have to pick up the pieces by whatever means possible, if or when they were given the opportunity.

  ‘You may as well dismount and give your backside a rest, laddie, because you’ll have to wait here for a while,’ Robert St Clair told Pedrito. Grim-faced, he indicated a spot about fifty paces ahead, where a huddle of men were standing, heads bowed, under a solitary pine tree. ‘It’s the king and a few of his high-ranking nobles. Sentry pickets have been posted all around here.’

  Pedrito frowned. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘They’ve just buried the bodies of En Guillen and En Remon de Muntcada. Aye, and I don’t mind telling you, man, there’s been much weeping and lamenting, even by the king, no matter what he said about everyone putting a brave face on things for the sake of army morale.’ He motioned again towards the funeral party. ‘A really sad affair, but it’ll soon be over now, I think. Looks like the Bishop of Barcelona has started the benediction.’

  The stench of death still hung in the air here, close as it was to where thousands of Moorish corpses lay where they had fallen in the first clash of arms. Somewhere, someone would be lamenting the loss of each and every one of them, but there would never be any grave to weep over, never any man of the cloth to conduct their passage to a better place. Such was the outcome of battle, Pedrito supposed, and such was the difference between the deaths of a few high-ranking victors and the mass slaughter of the vanquished.

  With the dawn, a light rain had started to fall, the accompanying grey skies adding another element of gloom to an already morose scene. Dismal weather was the last thing Pedrito needed in his current state of mind. He glanced down at Nedi, who was already looking up at him, his panting face still radiating canine bonhomie and optimism.

  Pedrito gave him a pat on the head. ‘You’re a good boy,’ he said, then added, a tad apprehensively. ‘Don’t go making a beeline for your master just yet, though. I don’t think he’d appreciate one of your rough-and-tumble reunions at this particular moment in time.’

  Nedi tilted his head in a way that seemed to say that he was perfectly aware of this blatantly obvious fact, thanks all the same. This quirky little gesture brought a much-needed smile to Pedrito’s face.

  Away to the north, the hill that had been dubbed Es Puig del Rei, or The King’s Mount, in recognition of King Jaume’s impromptu military action on its slopes during the first day of the invasion, was hidden under a hood of cloud, swirling slowly in the grey light like the cape of a passing ghost. Pedrito shivered. He was still clad in the only clothes he owned, a baggy linen shirt and pantalons of the same coarse material. Once, a long time ago, they’d been white, but now the grubby, travel-soiled cloth was clinging to his body in damp, uncomfortable wrinkles. These same clothes had been soaked through by waves breaking over the pirate galley’s rowing deck more often than he could remember, but that had never seemed as unpleasant as the effects of this persistent, misery-inducing fall of light rain. He confessed as much to Robert St Clair.

  ‘Ach, it’s nothing!’ Robert retorted. He swatted the air. ‘No, no, no, it’s just a wee sprinkle of drizzle, and that never hurt anybody!’ He held out the palm of his hand and looked up at the sky. ‘Man, where I come from, we don’t even call this rain! Scotch mist, that’s all it is, and that never hurt anybody, so cheer up, for heaven’s sake!’

  Pedrito immediately felt like telling him that he had a lot more to be miserable about than a downturn in the weather, but thought better of it. After all, hundreds of Robert’s colleagues, including many good friends, had also met their deaths over the past few days, so why would he want to hear about Pedrito’s own bereavements? He forced a smile instead and asked jokingly if the twist of red hair protruding from Robert’s helmet was a result of all that Scotch mist having rusted his head.

  Robert, however, had a keener sense of perception than Pedrito had given him credit for. Ignoring Pedrito’s attempt at levity, he shot him an enquiring look.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway? I thought you’d be spending a bit more than one day with your family, after all those years away.’

  Pedrito hung his head, but he didn’t say anything.

  Robert nodded knowingly. ‘You can tell me, Pedrito, no matter what it is.’ He waited for a response, but when none was forthcoming he gently reminded Pedrito that, although the Templars were warrior knights, they were also monks. ‘I don’t claim to be a very godly one myself – not yet anyway – but I’ve been taught a little about compassion and forgiveness, so if there’s anything you want to get off your chest…’

  Pedrito struggled to hold his emotions in check as he related, albeit reluctantly, everything that had happened during the previous twenty-four hours: how old Baltazar had broken the news about his parents’ murder and his little sister’s abduction by the same band of Moorish pirates that had taken him as a slave; how he had mourned at his parents’ grave for much of the day; how Nedi had followed him and had given him succour; how he had eaten, or, to be more accurate, had picked at the food Baltazar’s wife had made for him; and how, unable to bring himself to enter his own home with all the poignant memories it held, he had snatched a few hours of fitful sleep in an abandoned stable on his way back here.

  Robert looked at him, his eyes revealing that any lessons he’d been given in compassion had been well enough learned. ‘Don’t be ashamed of your grief, Pedrito,’ he said, quietly enough to avoid being heard by any of the other guards, ‘and don’t be afraid to cry. It’s all part of the healing process – not a sign of weakness.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the Muntcadas’ burial party. ‘Even the bold king and his gallant nobles there have shed buckets of tears over the deaths of their brothers in arms today, so why shouldn’t you weep over the loss of your family?’

  Pedrito thanked him for his kindness and understanding, before adding that he had wept so much since first looking down on the graves of his parents that he didn’t think he had another teardrop left to shed.

  ‘Ah, but there will be, my friend, there will be.’ Robert draped an arm round Pedito’s shoulder. ‘And I can tell you this from personal experience, having lost my own mother and father when I was a child.’ He looked into Pedrito’s eyes again. ‘There will be times, even years from now, when some little thing – a sound, a smell, a flower, a sunset, a word, a song – will bring the fond memories flooding back, and with them the tears.’ He smiled and pinched Pedrito’s cheek. ‘So don’t be afraid to cry, man – ever. It’s nature’s way of soothing the pain … which does ease in time, believe me. Oh yes,’ he declared, his smile broadening, ‘no matter how much it rains, the sun always shines again – even in Scotland, where I come from!’

  Robert’s chuckle at this self-mocking quip was followed, almost uncannily Pedrito thought, by a gentle breeze. Soon, the chilly fog that had been lying in banks on the valley floor began to drift away, and as the rain clouds rolled from the hilltops, so did a hazy glow appear in the eastern sky.

  It was Pedrito, looking heavenward, who chuckled now. ‘You say you’re not yet all that godly, Robert, but if this is anything to go by, you must be in touch with someone with a bit of influence up there!’

  ‘Well, I have to admit,’ Robert said with contrived coyness, ‘my miracle-working has been coming on leaps and bounds of late.’

  And the gloom lifte
d with the rising of the sun. And as its warmth dispersed the last of the lingering mists, the magical aromas that permeate the Mallorcan countryside after rain intensified apace. Luxuriantly, Pedrito inhaled the musty smell of damp earth, the resinous tang of the pinewoods, the intoxicating perfumes of myrtle, thyme, rosemary, heather and countless other herbs and wild flowers that inhabit the island’s landscape.

  And memories of home did come flooding back, just as Robert had predicted. But the tears they brought to Pedrito’s eyes weren’t tears of sadness and despair, but tears of gratitude and hope. Gratitude for having been blessed with the love and care of a wonderful family after such an ill-omened start in life, and hope that one day he would find his little sister Esperança.

  Esperança – hope – the shining light at the end of what would otherwise have been an interminable tunnel of darkness. Pedrito owed it to his parents to find her, and he vowed on their memory that he would … one day … somehow.

  16

  ‘PREPARING THE ENGINES OF WAR’

  LATER THAT MORNING – ON THE SOUTHERN FOOTHILLS OF THE SERRA DE NA BURGUESA…

  The temporary encampment that En Nunyo Sans had set up two nights previously had been dismantled by the time Pedrito reached the place the king had named Bendinat, but he could see in the distance that another base was already being established to the north the city. This vast new camp was within the projectile-throwing range, he presumed, of the war engines presently being brought ashore from transports at Porto Pi.

  The nearer Pedrito got to the site, the more obvious it became that this was intended to be the permanent centre of operations for the Christian siege of the city. A ditch was being dug around the camp’s perimeter, and within that a stout wooden palisade was under construction. From what he knew of the countryside around here, it seeemed that the location had also been chosen because it straddled a stream which ran from a spring rising some way farther north at a place called Canet, nestling in the lower folds of the Tramuntana Mountains. He did wonder, however, why this main camp was being built almost four miles inland from the supply base at Port Pi. Then it occurred to him that this was, in all probability, the nearest suitable site on the opposite side of the deep torrent channel which served as a moat on the western perimeter of the city and which, as the king himself had already perceived, would have been an extremely difficult obstacle for assault forces to overcome, even when dry. It appeared, then, that Nunyo Sans’ reconnoitering scouts had done their work well.

  In contrast to the chaotic conditions that had prevailed when the first landing was taking place at Santa Ponça, this operation was being conducted with a conspicuous degree of order. It was an ants’ nest of activity, involving, in one way or another, every surviving soldier and sailor in this mighty invasion force. Not a moment was being wasted and not a man spared in the effort to establish what was to be the main tented barracks for the fighting troops, a launching pad for missiles from the huge timber-framed catapults now being made ready, and headquarters from where the king and his generals could orchestrate the siege and the ultimate taking of the great city of Medîna Mayûrqa.

  Pedrito had waited a suitably respectful time before following King Jaume and his accompanying barons from the burial place of the Muntcadas, but had reported to the royal compound immediately on his eventual arrival at the camp. The king, although understandably preoccupied with logistical matters in hand, had made a point of conveying his condolences to Pedrito on his tragic personal loss, details of which had been told to him by Robert St Clair de Roslin. And the fact that the king chose not to dwell on the subject actually came as a relief to Pedrito. His emotions were still in a fragile state, and any overly effusive show of sympathy would only have risked an embarrassing onset of self-pity.

  ‘Life must go on, Little Pedro,’ said the king, while laying an encouraging hand on his shoulder, ‘and the best way to overcome the sorrow of bereavement is to keep busy.’

  As an illustration, he related how even his most esteemed knights were helping the lowliest of foot soldiers gather and stockplie rocks as ammunition for the siege engines, the knights bringing the stones balanced before them on their saddles, the soldiers carrying them on frames slung round their necks. And, he pointed out, there was hardly a man among them who wasn’t mourning the recent death of a brother in arms.

  To Pedrito’s surprise, the king then reached out and felt his biceps. ‘And you could carry rocks with the best of them, eh? Ah, sí,’ he winked, ‘but I’ve an even more strenuous job for you and your old hack, my friend, weary as I’m sure you both are after your travels.’

  Before Pedrito could emphasise just how physically and mentally exhausted he actually was, King Jaume informed him that he himself had had no sleep for three nights now, and he expected an equally selfless commitment from all of his men.

  ‘But just think of the prize that awaits us all, Little Pedro,’ he enthused, ‘– the reconquest of Mallorca for our Lord God Almighty, and a share in the riches and assets of this beautiful island for each and every one of us who labours and fights in His name.’

  Pedrito could have reminded the king that he and his family had already enjoyed, in the form of their humble little finca at Andratx, the best share of Mallorca’s riches and assets that they could ever have wished for, even if their overlords worshipped Allah instead of God. But to say this would have been tantamount to blasphemy in King Jaume’s ears, and Pedrito had recovered sufficient of his will to live to render such a potentially suicidal statement highly unwise.

  ‘So, senyor,’ he said, with as much eagerness as he could affect, ‘what is it you want me to do for you?’

  ‘Well, as I mentioned back at the tent of En Oliver the night before last, I do have a very important task in mind – a delicate one that could be crucial to the outcome of this war. But first I need those muscles of yours.’

  He explained that a Christian patrol had seen, from a distance, the Moorish King return to the city with about twenty of his horsemen, the assumption being that the rest of the Saracen troops who survived the most recent battle had headed for the mountains to join the thousands of their comrades already taking refuge there. That being the case, the Christian objective now would be to ensure that none of these routed forces either mounted a surprise attack on the camp or made their way back into the city to reinforce whatever remained of the original garrison. But, even more crucially, the bombardment of Medîna Mayûrqa by the Christian seige engines would have to deliver maximum damage as quickly as possible in order to sap the resistance of its inhabitants and, consequently, to force the Amir into submission.

  ‘However,’ the king cautioned, ‘that could be easier said than done, because we’ve already seen that the Moors are preparing their own defences, and that includes at least one large trebuchet and some smaller mangonels.’

  Pedrito raised his eyebrows. ‘Trebuchet? Mangonels?’ He then raised his shoulders. ‘Sorry, senyor, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  At that very moment, a large rock whistled over their heads and thumped into the ground several rows of tents behind where they were standing.

  ‘That,’ said the king, rising gingerly from the ducked position, ‘came from a mangonel, a type of trebuchet, but smaller and without a sling attachment. The Moorish version is called an algarrada, I believe.’

  Pedrito was none the wiser, and it showed.

  The king was becoming impatient. ‘Look, I haven’t time right now to give you a lecture on the history and finer points of war engines. Suffice it to say that, at the moment, we have two each of the most up-to-date variants almost ready to use.’ He nodded to an open space on the side of the stockade facing the city, where the machines he referred to were being prepared. ‘You’ll notice that both types have a vertically-swinging boom – in effect a catapult arm powered by counterweights. The larger machines are the trebuchets – the ones with slings attached – and they’re used for hurling projectiles over walls as well
as into them. As you can see, their frames are the height of three men, and their booms when released almost as high again. The smaller ones, the mangonels, launch their ammunition in a low trajectory aimed at the target. They’re more powerful than trebuchets, but less accurate.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Pedrito with a leery look. He hooked a thumb towards the landing place of the recently delivered rock. ‘A bit more accurate than that and we’d be spitting teeth.’

  The king gave him a wry smile. ‘Yes, but at a great distance from our bodies, my friend. Those machines are for battering holes in castle walls, so it would take a pretty thick head to survive a direct hit, don’t you think? Anyhow, this is neither the time nor place for whimsical chatter. The hard fact is that I’ve taken part in many sieges, and I can tell you that the mangonel the Moors are using here is the best I’ve ever come across. What’s more, they’ve positioned it on their ramparts well out of range of our machines, so that’s why I need all the muscle I can muster – and fast.’

  Pedrito could see that the king was revelling in this situation, one ideally suited to his instant-action way of thinking. As he hurried Pedrito out of the compound, he divulged, and with obvious pride, that the masters of five ships donated by the French city of Marseilles had advised him that they could construct a type of trebuchet to equal, or even better, the range of the Moor’s mangonel. Furthermore, they’d said that they would gladly build one out of the yards and spars of their own vessels, if the king could mobilise sufficient manpower to help dismantle the heavy timbers and lug them all the way up here from Porto Pi.