by Peter Kerr
LATER THAT AFTERNOON – ‘EL REAL’ CHRISTIAN CAMP…
As soon as the ‘cat’ had reached the edge of the moat and her litter of sappers were seen to have made a successful start to their tunneling, the construction of two more of En Jaspert’s mantellinas was ordered – one by the king himself, the other by the Count of Empúries, a veteran of many such sieges, who had now been put in charge of the entire mining operation. Time was of the essence, and every available man, irrespective of rank or title, was put to work.
Not so Pedrito, however. To his immense relief, a messenger arrived to summon him to the royal compound, where King Jaume was waiting, flanked by two guards, whose brief was clearly to keep a watchful eye on a young Moor cowering in front of them.
‘This fellow was apprehended by our sentries outside the north gate,’ the king told Pedrito. ‘He was making signs that suggested he wanted to speak to someone, so they took him to a man in my train called Abel Babiel – a rabbi from Zaragoza, who’s with us to ensure a fair return for that city’s financial contribution to this crusade. But he’s also known to have a knowledge of Arabic.’ The king shrugged impatiently. ‘Anyway, it seems he could make little sense of this man’s babbling. Said he must be speaking some sort of Mallorcan dialect or other, and that’s why I sent for you. Sí, and you may as well tell him right away that, if what he has to say turns out to be a waste of my time, he’ll have babbled his last.’
The king was making no attempt to disguise the fact that he was tired, harrassed and preoccupied with ongoing military matters, so in no mood to be be trifled with.
Pedrito noticed that the young Moor, although in a slightly dishevelled state, was dressed in expensive robes and, despite his nervousness in the presence of the king, had a quietly dignified air about him. The Arabic he spoke was indeed heavily tinged with the vernacular of rural Mallorca, a patois with which Pedrito was totally familiar. Consequently, it took no time for him to ascertain the purpose of the lad’s arrival at the entrance to the Christian stronghold. Unlike the defector Ali, who had swum to King Jaume’s initial landfall on the islet of Es Pantaleu bearing what some regarded as a fairly fanciful prophecy of the successful reconquest of Mallorca, this young Moor said he brought the promise of real material benefits that would significantly boost the prospect of a Christian victory. All Pedrito could do, however, was relay his message to the king and let him decide whether to believe him or – as was very likely in his present mood – behead him.
‘He says his name is Akeem, and he comes as an emissary from a wealthy Moor called Ben Abbéd, the wali, or governor, of the towns and surrounding districts of Inca and Pollença to the north-east of here. He says his master also owns large tracts of land in that most fertile area of the island, including the magnificent estate of Alfàbia.’
The king scowled. ‘So?’
‘So, he says his master believes that your siege of Medîna Mayûrqa is likely to bring about the downfall of the Moorish king, although it will be essential to obtain a reliable source of food to sustain your army for however long the siege lasts – which could be months.’
‘Does this Ben Abbéd character think I don’t already know that?’ King Jaume snapped. He glared at Pedrito. ‘And I hadn’t forgotten, Master Blànes, that finding out how to obtain such supplies was one of the tasks I set for you on your foray into the city.’ With a sardonic raising of an eyebrow, he tilted his head. ‘And do I recall being told what you found out?’
‘No, because I found out nothing, senyor, and when I’m given the opportunity, I’ll tell you why.’ Pedrito knew he was asking for trouble by being so abrupt, but he was also aware that shilly-shallying would achieve nothing. He was just as tired as the king and had plenty worries of his own to cope with, less momentous though they might seem to His Majesty. Meanwhile, a young Moor had risked his life to venture into enemy territory, and Pedrito was determined to help him deliver his message, no matter how volatile the king’s present state of mind. So, with deliberate calm, he asked Akeem to continue with what he had to say.
The smile that tugged at the corner of King Jaume’s mouth when the translation of Ben Abbéd’s overture had finally been conveyed to him was a blend of pleasant surprise and instinctive mistrust. He addressed Pedrito.
‘He says that his master will do what?’
‘That if you promise to view his master’s position favourably after the war, he will guarantee you a regular supply of all the food you need to sustain your forces for the duration of the siege. On top of that, he will prove his goodwill by immediately placing into your control territories that amount to one third of the entire rural area of island – from Andratx to Pollença along the mountainous west, and from Inca eastwards to Manacor on the plain.’
The king raised his eyebrows. ‘Fine words, and no mistake!’ He frowned again. ‘But talk is cheap.’ He stared stony-faced at Akeem for a few moments, then shook his head. ‘No, this reeks of a Saracen ploy. Tell him, Master Blànes, that this Ben Abbéd fellow will have to do more than make extravagant promises. Ask him how he intends to give me proof of his allegiance. Sí, and tell him also that if this turns out to be some sort of trick, I will personally make him and his master wish they’d never tried to get the better of a Christian king.’
Pedrito turned to Akeem. ‘The Christian king thanks your master for his most generous offer, which he will be pleased to accept.’
Akeem’s face opened into a broad smile. He bowed deeply and offered the king his obeisance – in Arabic.
The king looked askance at Pedrito. ‘He seems surprisingly pleased to be threatened with his life, no?’ He pursed his lips, nodded slowly, half closed his eyes, then added under his breath, ‘And I advise you not to play the politician, Little Pedro. I can easily summon Babiel the Jew to check what you’re saying. I’m sure he’ll get the gist of the Arabic you two are speaking, bastardized as it may be.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Pedrito agreed with an innocent smile. ‘But I know a little of the Moorish nature, and I can tell you that threatening them with the scrutiny of a Jew isn’t the best way to get their cooperation – especially when they’re offering the hand of friendship.’
King Jaume looked as though he was about to have a seizure. ‘Just get him to answer my question, will you! And get a move on!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘God knows I’ve enough on my plate without having to stand here waiting for the foibles of the Saracens to be explained before I decide whether or not to have this one executed!’
Pedrito gave Akeem a reassuring smile. ‘The king says he would value an opportunity to meet with Ben Abbéd. Perhaps, uhm – perhaps you could invite him to come here?’
Akeem replied that he would be glad to, adding that he was sure his master would regard the invitation as a great honour. He bowed to the king again, before reiterating his words of obeisance – in Arabic.
King Jaume, nostrils flaring, fiddled with the pommel of his sword.
Pedrito touched Akeem’s shoulder. ‘And, uh – perhaps your master would agree to come unarmed, with only a small group of retainers, and, let’s say, with a sample of the type of provisions he would be prepared to supply?’
Indeed, this had been the crux of the message he had been sent to deliver, Akeem replied with an eager nodding of his head. All the Christian king had to do was say where and when, and Ben Abbéd would regard it as a great privilege to comply with his wishes.
‘Tell him tomorrow morning after matins – on open ground – a league to the north of here,’ was the king’s curt response to Pedrito’s diplomatically amended translation of this exchange. ‘Sí, and be sure to repeat, Master Blànes, that he and his master will find no hiding place from my sword if this turns out to be some kind of Saracen treachery!’
Not having understood a single word, Akeem looked at Pedrito, wide-eyed and hopeful.
‘King Jaume bids you convey his compliments to your master,’ Pedrito lied through a comforting smile. ‘He looks forward to meeting him and to thanking
him personally for his generous offer of allegiance.’
*
The sun was dipping towards the southernmost ridges of the Serra de Na Burguesa when En Nunyo Sans rode back into camp at the head of his troops. He brought with him news of a total rout of the Moorish opposition. He also brought with him a gruesome memento of the encounter.
‘One of the Amir’s foremost warriors,’ he said, throwing a bloody sack at the king’s feet. ‘At least that’s what he implied just before I cut his head off. Called himself Fatih-billah. Means something like “great conqueror by the grace of Allah”, according to one the Templars who picked up a bit of Arabic during his exploits in the Holy Land.’
‘It would appear that the grace of Allah was in short supply on this occasion,’ King Jaume came back, then took the sack on the tip of his sword and emptied its contents onto the ground. ‘Hmm, and his gift of good looks was clearly wanting in this fellow’s case as well.’
Pedrito almost threw up.
The king didn’t even flinch. ‘I’ll show the Amir what I think of his so-called great conqueror in due course,’ he muttered. ‘But first, En Nunyo, tell me of the mission. You say the Moors were totally thrashed again?’
En Nunyo went on to confirm that any resistance offered by the enemy had been swiftly and ruthlessly wiped out by his men – most prominently by the squadron of KnightsTemplar, who had spearheaded the attack in their customary do-or-die way. ‘As you know, Majestat,’ he enthused, ‘even the horses of those Templars are fearsome fighters, trained to kick and bite the mounts of their enemies.’ He allowed himself a self-satisfied chuckle. ‘Those Saracens hadn’t a hope. We left a good five hundred of them dead – the heads of many brought back here as trophies on the lances of my men. The rest were sent scurrying back to the mountains.’ En Nunyo shook his head emphatically. ‘You won’t see any more resistance from that miserable mob of goat-herders, senyor.’
‘And what of the spring at Canet? Has the vandalism been put right?’
‘My men are busy re-directing the stream even as we speak.’ En Nunyo raised an assured finger. ‘Have no fear, Majestat – the water will be running pure, sweet and plentiful through this camp again by nightfall.’
The king’s delight was obvious. ‘You and your men have done right well. Now, let’s show the Moorish king what we think of the great conqueror who tried to dehydrate us into defeat.’ He motioned to one of his guards. ‘Pick up that ugly Saracen head and follow me.’ He mounted his horse and prepared to trot off in the direction of the palisade, but paused and called over his shoulder to Pedrito, ‘And you come along as well, Master Blànes. I want you to experience an aspect of siege warfare that you may not have considered before.’
*
The men manning the Marseilles trebuchet were ordered by the king to interrupt the launching of their usual missiles while his ‘personal messenger’, as he put it, was loaded into the cradle of the great machine’s sling.
Pedrito gagged as he watched the gory head of Fatih-billah emptied once more from the sack. He stared transfixed at the glaring, lifeless eyes, the crimson slime still oozing from slashed neck veins, the blood-matted beard framing a grimace that, even in death, seemed to spit defiance and hatred at its adversaries.
‘You will recall,’ King Jaume called out to the crowd of men now milling around, ‘that the Saracen King insulted me, my army and moreover our Lord Jesus Christ by holding aloft the impaled head of one of our people during the Battle of Na Burguesa. Well, I said then that the infidel swine would pay for that.’ He pointed towards the city. ‘And, by Saint Mary, he will, just as soon as we’ve entered his sty yonder!’ The king then dismounted, sauntered over to the loaded sling and gave the severed head a kick. ‘Meanwhile, I will reply to his disrespect at Na Burguesa by returning this to him.’ With a few muttered words, he instructed En Nunyo Sans to have his men bring forward all other such ‘trophies’ that had been won at today’s Canet encounter, then shouted, ‘And with interest!’
At that, he gave the order for the trigger mechanism to be sprung, and with a great cheer from the gathered assembly, his gruesome gift to King Abû Yaha Háquem was dispatched from the trebuchet to soar high over no-man’s-land before plunging out of sight behind the city walls.
Pedrito noticed that the inspirational monk, Friar Miguel Fabra, had positioned himself at the side of the seige engine and had pronounced some sort of mumbled, though flamboyant, benediction as the Saracen head took to the heavens. And he repeated this performance for every one of the next dozen or so heads delivered likewise into the midst their former comrades. Meanwhile, the rock-hurling barrage by the other machines in the Christian battery continued uninterrupted.
King Jaume had remounted and remained in a prominent position throughout, his eyes glinting with satisfaction, his teeth gritted in a vengeful smile. His look reminded Pedrito of the day he first saw him on the deck of his galley when about to set sail from the mainland. Then, his boyish features had been radiating a glow that seemed to combine excitement for the coming adventure with a kind of childlike apprehension, if not full-blown trepidation. Now, though, that almost innocent look had become poisoned by the venom of battle and his smile polluted by the bitter taste of death. A shout ringing out from the city ramparts changed his expression yet again, however.
‘What’s that damned Moor trying to tell us, Master Blànes?’ he scowled. ‘Good God Almighty, waging war with the infidel would be a whole lot easier if only they had the grace to speak in a decent Christian tongue!’
The soldier doing the shouting was now joined by several others, who were shoving a huddle of naked, shackled men towards the edge of the battlements. The first soldier called out again.
Pedrito strained his ears, then told the king that the shackled men were Christians, taken prisoner at one of the earlier battles. The threat being made by the Moorish soldier was that, if the bombardment of the city didn’t stop forthwith, the captives would be suspended on crosses along the face of the wall on which the barrage of rocks was currently focused.
A gutteral laugh rumbled in King Jaume’s chest. ‘So, they think they can hide behind a screen of defenceless Christians, do they? And they revile the memory of our Lord Jesus Christ by threatening to condemn our brothers to death on the cross!’ He twisted round in his saddle and shouted to the commander of the nearest battery of siege engines. ‘Tell your men to continue pelting the city walls with everything they’ve got. Sí, and tell them not to let up, no matter what!’
As soon as it became plain to the Moors that their warning was being ignored, they duly bound their prisoners to crosses and lowered them over the battlements, where they were immediately exposed to the full force of the Christian onslaught. Amid the ensuing clamour, a lone, quavering voice was heard to call out from the row of victims spreadeagled against the wall. Of the few words he uttered, the only one audible to Pedrito was ‘God’.
‘There! Did you ever know a more devout follower of Christ?’ King Jaume exclaimed to everyone within earshot, his sense of hearing considerably more acute, apparently, than Pedrito’s. ‘Even in the face of death he urges us to continue our assault on the Saracen cowards. And for the glory of God at that!’ He then urged his siege engine commanders to redouble their efforts. ‘See!’ he shouted, pointing over no-man’s-land. ‘See how your boulders batter the walls close enough to our men to shave the beards from their faces, yet none is even scratched.’ He brandished his sword above his head and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Those brave Christian soldiers have faith in our Lord God in whose name and for whose glory we fight this war! So batter away, lads, and fear not for the lives of your bold comrades yonder! God and His Son our Saviour are already rewarding their faith, and your faith, for all to see!’
While he had everyone’s attention, he then called for a ballista, a wheeled catapult resembling a massive crossbow, to be rolled forward. This vicious machine, so powerfully constructed that its bowstring had to be drawn by a windlas
s, was capable of launching several projectiles at once, and with breathtaking velocity at that. On this occasion, however, King Jaume commanded that it be loaded with only one large javelin.
He motioned towards the setting sun, told the bowman precisely what to aim at, then declared, ‘Let us bid our Saracen foes good night with something appropriate to dream about!’
Pedrito watched the projectile streak from the ballista with that now-familiar sound of the air being slashed by a giant whip. The javelin struck the shield of one of the Moorish soldiers with such force that it penetrated the metal as if it were paper, then continued on through the soldier’s body, eventually coming to a halt having fatally skewered a second man standing behind him.
The king winked at Pedrito. ‘What your ancient Balearic Slingers might have called killing two birds with one stone, eh?’ Without waiting for a reply, he then ordered the soldier in charge of the Marseilles trebuchet to load its sling with a few more severed heads from the Canet encounter. ‘Sí,’ King Jaume said with a resolute jerk of his head, ‘and that’ll teach them to treat prisoners of war with respect in future!’
22
‘AN ANGEL FROM THE NORTH’
EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING – ‘EL REAL’ CHRISTIAN CAMP…
The last thing King Jaume had said to his entourage at nightfall was that his ignoring of the Moors’ threat would ultimately prove to be to the advantage of the Christian soldiers who had been so cravenly used as human shields. Everyone should mark his words – God would reward those men’s unwavering devotion to Him by shaming their Moorish captors into returning them unscathed during the night to their dungeon, from which they would be released as heroes just as soon as their brothers in arms had entered the city.
Sure enough, it became evident at daybreak that the crucified men were indeed gone, but (perhaps significantly) so had the section of wall they had been hanging on. To a doctrinal waverer like Pedrito, this suggested that there was more chance of the men having been annihilated by the Christians’ nocturnal bombardment than of their captors having been shamed into clemency. However, the king stood by his reasoning of the night before. This was reiterated by the redoubtable Friar Miguel Fabra during Mass, and appeared to be accepted without dispute by his congregation of combat-conditioned soldiers. This was war, God was on their side, and such illustrations of His support would be questioned at the doubter’s peril.
