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

by Peter Kerr

  Thus Pedrito and old Tranquilla spent most of what was destined to become a very long day indeed. And, as it would transpire, an unimaginably fateful one for Pedrito as well.

  LATER THAT DAY, IN ‘EL REAL’, THE CHRISTIAN CAMP OUTSIDE THE NORTHERN WALLS OF THE CITY OF MALLORCA …

  During the afternoon, periodic shots had been exchanged between the besiegers and the besieged, but the projectiles were hurled more to enable fine adjustments to made to the war engines than as serious attempts at inflicting damage. Nevertheless, the presence of flying boulders did nothing to alleviate the tribulations of heaving and hauling bulky lengths of timber from ship to shore and from shore to camp. By early evening, Pedrito was in a state of near collapse. But his day wasn’t over yet – not by a long chalk.

  The king handed him a bundle of cloth. ‘This is a Moorish robe and head scarf. I had them stripped from one of their battlefield dead, and I want you to put them on, Little Pedro.’

  Pedrito glanced at the bundle, then at his own soiled clothes. He then peered at the king through narrowed eyes. ‘I may smell like a dog, senyor, but I’d rather smell of my own smells than those of a dead man. Anyway, my shirt and pantalons are better than a robe for doing manual work, no matter how high they stink.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the king laughed ‘I had all the blood stains and scraps of flesh scrubbed from the robe, and the headdress has been checked for lice – plus, my man went to great lengths to find a tall Moorish corpse, so you needn’t worry about showing too much leg. Now, go and wash all that sweat and muck off yourself, then come back and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.’

  The spring water trickling through the camp may have been on the bracing side of cool for Pedrito’s liking, but it did at least refresh his aching muscles, and once his skin had shivered off its goose pimples, he had to admit that it felt wonderful to have a clean body again. It didn’t feel quite so good, though, to be the butt of soldiers’ ribbing once he had donned the Moorish garb. The white robe was full, flowing and, as the king had predicted, long enough to reach his ankles; the blue head scarf of sufficiently generous dimensions to wrap turban-style round his head, with ample cloth remaining to bunch over his mouth and shoulders. From what he could discern from the distorted image reflected in the metal shield the king held up for him back in the royal enclosure, he did indeed look the real thing, swarthy skin, dark, deep-set eyes and all. He slightly resented, however, the king’s declaration, no matter how mischievous, that he had been transformed into ‘every bit the shifty, heathen Arab’ he wanted him to be.

  To make matters worse, even Nedi growled and took several swift steps backwards to peer furtively at him from behind his master’s legs.

  The king did his best to suppress a smirk. ‘He obviously doesn’t recognise you in those clothes, eh?’

  ‘He’s probably just confused by the lack of smell,’ Pedrito suggested, trying to give the impression of indifference. ‘First smell, then hearing, next sight – that, in descending order, is the sharpness order of a dog’s senses.’

  Nedi barked a nervous bark, wagged his tail briefly, cocked his head and, without venturing out from behind the refuge of the king’s legs, stared nonplussed at Pedrito.

  ‘I think his hearing has recognised you,’ the king said, deadpan. ‘Only smell and sight to go before he latches onto you like a barnacle again, no?’

  This was the first time the king had made reference to his dog’s relationship with Pedrito, and there was no telling from his expression whether he resented it or not. Pedrito decided to play it safe.

  ‘I can only apologise sincerely for his absence yesterday, senyor. I had no idea he’d followed me out of camp the night before. I mean, even when he did let me know he was there, he took off again and I honestly thought he would have headed right back to –’

  ‘Given the chance,’ the king interrupted, ‘the dog chooses the master, not vice versa. And I can tell you, amic, that smell, sound and sight, no matter how sensitive, are nothing compared to the magical ability a dog has to communicate with the man he chooses to own.’ King Jaume’s hitherto inscrutable expression melted into a broad smile. ‘And if Nedi does ever decide to adopt you instead of me, who am I to question his choice? After all, he’s a dog, and I’m merely a man.’

  Pedrito found himself unable to reply. It wasn’t that he couldn’t think of any words to say, but simply that they stuck in his throat, so touched was he by this young king’s generosity and his sense of humility towards creatures of a supposedly lesser order than himself. Pedrito thought again about the story the king had told him of how, during a long seige, a pair of swallows had chosen his tent in which to to build their nest, and how, against all military advice, he had forbidden the tent to be moved before the little birds had hatched their young and had nurtured them through to the day when they were able to take to the skies by themselves. Yet this same man could kill a fellow human without a second thought, and for no other reason than that he held different religious beliefs from himself. It set Pedro wondering if the king assumed, perhaps, that all dogs and swallows were by nature Christians.

  Meanwhile, the king had adopted a more serious mien. Leading Pedrito into the privacy of his tent, he proceeded to reveal why he had asked him to dress as a Moor…

  ‘Although you’re not a soldier, Little Pedro, I’m sure you can imagine that a siege of a well-defended city like Medîna Mayûrca can be a long and uncomfortable experience, for those on either side of the walls. And while starving the besieged into defeat is the longer-term alternative to swiftly battering them into submission with our war engines, the continuous supply of sufficient food can be a problem for the besiegers too. That’s obvious, no?’

  Pedrito nodded.

  ‘And, amic, when the city being besieged is on an island like this, the besiegers have two additional problems to concern themselves with. One is that enemy reinforcements may arrive by sea, as is the threat here. The other, as ever, is that there’s a limit to the amount of provisions we can glean from the immediately surrounding area. But, unlike a siege situation on the mainland, there’s no way of bringing food supplies from farther afield – except by ship, with all the risks that this would involve. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Pedrito gestured that he did indeed. He was also beginning to suspect that he understood why the king had got him dressed up like an Arab. His suspicions left him feeling distinctly apprehensive.

  Precisely how justified this feeling might be was promptly revealed by the king. ‘I need you to get inside the city walls – and tonight!’

  Pedrito’s apprehension increased commensurate with the bluntness of this revelation, as did his heart rate.

  ‘I hope you’re not thinking of catapulting me over from one of your trebuchets,’ his mouth said, indulging itself in that risky old habit of not first consulting his brain. ‘Flying’s one thing, but landing in one piece could be another matter entirely.’

  Fortunately, King Jaume’s response was more droll than reproachful. ‘We never hurl the living into enemy cities, my friend – unless, of course, the living are carrying leprosy or the plague. Even then, it’s much easier to hurl the dead.’

  Pedrito had heard enough rumours about siege procedures in his time to know that the king was unlikely to be joking.

  In any case, the king got straight back down to business by informing Pedrito that his mission was to get himself into the city, by whatever means he could, and then to ascertain the true size and weaponry of the Moorish garrison, also whether or not a fleet of ships bearing reinforcements was really on its way from Africa. The king reminded him that all they had to go on at present was the word of Ali, the Saracen deserter, and while he had no reason to disbelieve him, confirmation or otherwise of Ali’s assertions was now vital to the Christian effort. ‘Oh,’ he appended, ‘and there’s also the matter of where, how and from whom we may be able to obtain a reliable and plentiful supply of provisions, without the risk of sending
foraging parties too far afield. After all, there are still many thousands of the enemy holed up in the mountains around here.’

  ‘And there are still many more thousands of them holed up in the city there, but you don’t mind risking this one-man foraging party, it seems.’ Pedrito instantly wished he hadn’t said that, but, surprisingly, the king seemed to take it in good part.

  ‘Ah, but don’t forget you’re posing as an Arab, amic, and as I told you before, you would pass for one any day.’

  ‘Hmm, that makes me feel a whole lot better,’ Pedrito mumbled.

  Once more, the king let Pedrito’s apparent recalcitrance go without rebuke.

  The two young men stood looking at each other, both wondering what the other was thinking. Then, without saying a word, Pedrito got down on his knees and scooped up some earth, which he proceeded to rub all over his clean robe, before doing the same to his face and arms. He responded to the king’s quizzical frown by explaining that this was all part of his instinctive plan for gaining entry to the city.

  The king arched an eyebrow. ‘Yes, well, I think I’d prefer not to know the details. But whatever they are, you’ll need this.’ He handed Pedrito a small dagger. ‘Tuck that away under your robe somewhere.’

  Pedrito shook his head. ‘One dagger against a garrison of soldiers? I don’t think so. No, thanks all the same, senyor, but if I can’t survive on my wits, I’m done for anyway.’

  ‘Well, you’d better keep all your wits about you, because survive you must. The information I’ve asked you to root out could be the difference between the success and failure of this crusade.’ The king then took a leather purse from the pocket of his surcoat. ‘If you won’t take a weapon, then at least take this. It’s some Moorish money we found on the previous owner of your clothes. It may come in handy. You never know – you may have to buy something to eat.’

  Pedrito gave an uneasy little chortle. ‘Starving isn’t what I’m worried about. No, it’s those boulders flying about that bother me. So, can I take it you won’t be launching any into the city while I’m in there?’

  The king’s response was unequivocal. ‘This is war, and we certainly won’t be sitting here taking the enemy’s missiles without giving as good as we take – or better, especially after the new trebuchet is ready. No, no, make no mistake, as soon as there’s enough light to see the city walls tomorrow morning, we’ll be hitting them with everything we’ve got, so you’d better get yourself in there and out again as fast as you can.’ Noting Pedrito’s worried look, he cleared his throat and added, ‘And, uh, may God go with you.’

  Pedrito dipped his head reverentially, then muttered into his chest, ‘This time, just make sure that Nedi doesn’t.’

  17

  ‘THE GATE OF CHAINS’

  LATER THAT DAY, ON THE WESTERN PERIFERY OF MEDÎNA MAYÛRQA…

  While the new camp was under construction, it had been decided that those foot soldiers still awaiting tented accommodation should accompany the sailors back to their ships at Porto Pi each evening. This both afforded the soldiers a sheltered place to sleep and provided the ships with a degree of protection should the Moors’ threatened seaborne reinforcements arrive under cover of darkness. So it was that Pedrito tagged onto a large body of men as they headed coastward at dusk.

  It was taken for granted that this activity would be closely monitored by the Moors on the city-wall ramparts, so the trek south was made by a route well out of crossbow and missile range. With his own interests to the fore, Pedrito made sure that he was on the far side of the column and well hidden from the Moorish lookouts. It went without saying that their suspicions would have been raised by the sight of a man in Arab garb marching with Christian forces.

  The strategy he had decided upon was to try and gain entry to the city by one of the gates farthest from the northern perimeter, against which the Christian bombardment would commence at dawn. What the king had asked him to do promised to be a risky enough business as it was, without leaving himself open to annihilation by a ‘friendly’ flying boulder. Accordingly, he stayed with the Christian column until it reached the coast at a point where the road south to Porto Pi was crossed by one leading eastward to the city. There, he hid in a pine grove and waited for darkness to fall.

  *

  Yet again, the island was illuminated by the moon rising in a cloudless sky, thereby lighting Pedrito’s way along the beach until he could see the twin towers of the gate the Moors called Bab-al-balad rearing above the city walls ahead of him. It was obvious, even in the dim light, that the towers and adjacent ramparts were heavily manned by archers. It had to be assumed, therefore, that if Pedrito could see them, they in turn would be able to see him, conspicuously dressed as he was in a white robe. For that reason, he decided to forestall any likelihood of becoming the target for a hail of arrows by making his presence blatantly obvious.

  ‘Allah is great!’ he shouted in Arabic, while waving both hands above his head.

  ‘Matha tureed?’ a guard called back. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

  Pedrito pointed over his shoulder. ‘I’m a farmer from west of here. My home was destroyed by the infidel invaders, and I seek sanctuary within the city walls, inshallah.’

  ‘Not by this gate,’ came the firm reply. ‘It’s barricaded against any attack by the Christian dogs, as are all entrances to the city, except the Gate of Chains, along the waterfront there by the mole. They open the postern occasionally to let men who’ve been fishing from the quay back in with their catch. Try there.’

  Pedrito bowed deeply and flamboyantly. ‘Shukran, akh. Thank you, brother, and may peace be upon you and your house. Allah is great.’

  So far, so good. Out in the bay, he could see a curve of Christian ships blockading the harbour, their outlines silhouetted against the moonlit water. Perhaps their presence should have been of some comfort to him, yet it only served to emphasise in his own mind just how alone he was. It also brought home to him that he was probably only being used as a cat’s paw in one small element of this mighty conflict. Although both King Jaume and Robert St Clair de Roslin had put forward the suggestion that he would now be keen to avenge the wrongs done to his family by contributing in any way possible to the downfall of the Moors, Pedrito still felt no animosity towards them as a people. He knew that Muslims and Christians could live side by side in Mallorca, each respecting, to a reasonable extent, the other’s beliefs, customs and culture. This had been his own experience while growing up on the island, and he’d never had any reason to wish that situation to change. Yet change it would. Intertwining religious, political and commercial forces far greater than he had ever imagined had been unleashed by King Jaume and his high-ranking Christian supporters, including the Pope himself. Nothing Pedrito could do would alter that.

  So, why was he continuing on this dangerous assignment, when he could just as easily have disappeared into the mountains at nightfall, never to cross paths with the Christian king again, no matter what the outcome of current hostilities? Trust, that was the reason. The king had put his trust in him, and Pedrito’s conscience would never allow him to betray that. Besides, he’d grown to like the charismatic young monarch. Despite the disparity of their backgrounds, there was something common to their natures, based on frankness and a freedom of spirit, perhaps, that had helped create a bond of friendship between them. No, Pedrito wouldn’t let the king down, although he found it hard to share his alleged belief that what he’d asked him to do this night would have all that much bearing on the outcome of the crusade. But then, as the king had pointed out, Pedrito wasn’t a soldier, so doubtless there were subtleties of war which he didn’t understand. What he did understand, though, was that getting as far away as possible from those rock-hurling seige engines made absolute sense, and this, if precious little else, gave him a sense of relief at being where he was at present.

  It also helped that he was now in a place with which he was fairly familiar. Here was the palm-fringed seafron
t of the city that King Jaume had admired from the heights of Na Burguesa after his victorious encounter with the Moorish king’s army a few days earlier. Pedrito had frequented these wharfs and quays countless times in his youth, when landing fish from his father’s boat to sell in the bustling waterside markets. But that had usually been in daylight, and there had been no thought of venturing inside the stout city walls, which now towered above him in an intimidating way that he’d never felt before.

  The other thing that struck him was just how devoid of life the area was – apart from the occasional squealing, scurrying rat, that is. Not another solitary human shadow apart from his own fell on flagstones that would normally be resounding with the voices of hundreds of mariners, trinket-sellers, beggars, pickpockets, pimps and prostitutes, all bent on spending or making money in the age-old ways typical of seaports everywhere. And although there were still several vessels berthed alongside the mole, whether pirate galley, fishing boat or merchantman, none showed a lamp or any sign of occupation whatsoever. It was clear, then, that all those who had chanced to be on the waterfront of Medîna Mayûrqa when the first ships of the great Christian armada entered the bay from Santa Ponça had taken themselves safely within these same city’s walls that now stood between Pedrito and the accomplishment of his mission.

  He could see guards patrolling the battlements high above him and could hear their muttered snatches of conversation as they passed each other. He assumed that they had also seen him, so he shouted, ‘Marhaba! Allah is great!’ just in case any trigger-happy crossbowman decided to take a potshot. But his salutation was ignored completely, Pedrito’s supposition being that, if he had been granted freedom of passage by the lookouts back at the Bab-al-balad gate, he posed no threat to the security of the city anywhere along the seafront wall. Then again, the guards here probably thought he was only one of the usual waterside fishermen, on a nocturnal quest for any nice, plump octopus that might be lurking in a nearby rock pool.