by Peter Kerr
Despite his exhaustion, Pedrito had slept fitfully, and it wasn’t only because of the snoring and flatulent eruptions of the group of royal guards with whom he was sharing a tent. No, it was the images of Farah and Saleema invading his dreams every time he did drift off that were the main culprits. His crippled mother and the vulnerable girl in whose care he had left her had been contstantly in his thoughts during waking hours, and the associated concerns for their safety became amplified in his sleep-hungry mind as the night wore on.
His overriding wish now was to be with them, not just to check on their wellbeing, but to take them somewhere that would provide the comfort they deserved, and which would also afford them protection from the desperate characters who would surely now be afoot in the war-torn countryside. But the more he thought about it, the more it became obvious that Farah’s choice of their current sanctuary was still as good, or probably better, than anything he could come up with himslef. Even so, he still had a burning compulsion to go to them. But that would require the king’s sanction, and he hadn’t even told him of their existence yet. This was going to be a tricky revelation to make, given the religious and genetic complications involved, so the moment would have to be chosen with care.
‘I trust you slept well,’ the king beamed as he ushered Pedrito into his tent to join him for breakfast.
Pedrito nodded and offered a drowsy smile.
The king stretched. ‘Ah, yes, Little Pedro,’ he yawned, ‘that’s the first decent sleep I’ve had in several nights myself, and I have to admit that it makes me feel hungry.’ He tore a chunk of bread off a loaf that a servant had brought to the table, accompanied by a large wedge of cheese and a jug of goat’s milk. ‘And it’s good to have a real base again. Gives the cooks a chance to do what they’re here for.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Simple fare in the field can seem better to a soldier than a lavish banquet produced in the kitchens of his own castle.’
‘Yes, the smell of new-baked bread always reminds me of home as well,’ Pedrito said without thinking. He realised too late that this may have given the impression that he’d been indulging in a bit of self-pity. And, in truth, he probably had.
King Jaume cast him a searching look. ‘Hmm, still hurting from the loss of your family, eh?’ He gave him a pat on the back. ‘But as I told you before, keeping busy is the best way to get over bereavement, and that’s precisely why I’ve made sure you haven’t had an idle moment.’
‘I’m grateful to you for that, senyor,’ Pedrito replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
The king poured him a cup of milk. ‘Come on, amic – eat up and drink up! We have a busy morning ahead of us!’ He gave a slightly self-conscious laugh. ‘And, uh, if I seemed a mite blunt with you yesterday on the matter of your not having found out anything about the potential supply of provisions during your visit to the city, I apologise. I had a lot on my mind, and what with the lack of sleep and so on…’
Pedrito nodded. ‘I know exactly what you mean, senyor. I’ve, well – I’ve had a lot to think about myself of late. Nothing as weighty as the things you have to concern yourself with, of course, but…’ He rolled his shoulders uneasily. ‘Well, more sort of personal matters, really, but things I’d like to talk to you about anyway … sometime, you know, when you can spare a few moments.’
‘No problem at all,’ the king breezed. ‘Always glad to listen to the private problems of my people.’ He then made what Pedrito took to be an unwittingly dismissive gesture with a lump of cheese. ‘But first, you said yesterday that you would tell me about the local availability of food supplies for our forces – or rather why you hadn’t been able to glean any information on the subject.’
‘Exactly, and it ties in with the personal things I want to explain. You see, I chanced to meet two people while in the city – two women, actually – and because of their particular predicaments, which I sort of became involved with, I had to get out of there as fast as I could, and so I had no time to –’
The king cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘I knew it!’ he guffawed, almost choking on his cheese. ‘Women, eh? Underneath that goody-goody front, you’re just like me. I mean, given half a chance, you’re after them like a randy young bull let loose in a pen of heifers, right?’ He stifled Pedrito’s attempted remonstrations with a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘And I must say I’m glad to hear it, amic! Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if all that time spent with Arabs had bent you in the same perverted direction as them.’ He gave Pedrito a lewd wink. ‘Know what I mean?’
‘No, no, no, it’s not that,’ Pedrito flustered.
‘It isn’t?’ the king queried, devilment twinkling in his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to disappoint me after all.’
Pedrito was getting himself into a flap. ‘No, I won’t – what I mean to say is – well, what I want to tell you is – it wasn’t a bull-and-heifer situation that –’
Laughing delightedly, the king interrupted him again, this time by throwing a crust of bread at him. ‘Hey-y-y-y, I’m only teasing you, Little Pedro! And it’s all right – I don’t want to hear about your indiscretions with those two women. And anyway, we won’t need to worry about where our provisions are going to come from, if it’s true what the quisling Moor Akeem said yesterday, that is.’ He took on a serious look. ‘And that’s why I invited you here this morning. I need you to translate when I meet this Benahabet character.’
‘It’s Ben Abbéd, senyor.’
‘Call him what you want. He’s still a sly, scheming Saracen to me – and will be, until he proves otherwise.’
Pedrito felt something bump against his ankle, and looked down to see a tousled black head in the process of putting itself on the outside of the piece of bread the king had thrown. ‘Hello, Nedi,’ he grinned. ‘Where did you appear from all of a sudden?’
‘Probably the other side of the camp,’ the king suggested. ‘Has a fantastic nose for food, that dog.’
‘Don’t they all?’ Pedrito chuckled as he popped another crust into Nedi’s upturned face. He gave the dog’s head head ruffle. ‘You’re a lucky boy. I met someone in the city who had to beg on the streets for a scrap of bread like that.’ He looked over at the king. ‘And, ehm, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, senyor. You see –’
King Jaume held up a hand. ‘It’s all right, Little Pedro, I know all about the hardships a siege can inflict on the innocent. I’ve seen the evidence all too often, believe me, but as cruel as it may seem, a military commander just has to harden himself to it.’
‘No, that’s not what I –’
‘Yes, yes, and I know you think my giving the order for the heads of the enemy to be catapulted into the city seemed heartless.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘I saw how disgusted you were when the first one was loaded into the trebuchet yesterday evening.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Yes, and that’s exactly why I insisted you went along to see it happening. War’s a dirty business, amic, and you have to give as good as you take – better, even.’ King Jaume thumped the table. ‘Those Saracen cowards tried to cut off our sole supply of water. Hardly an act of bravery, huh?’
Pedrito hunched shoulders.
‘Precisely, Little Pedro. There’s nothing more heartless than to sneakily deprive an army of its water.’ He wagged a finger admonishingly. ‘So don’t you go thinking I’m a heartless man. I stand by the most honourable Christain values, including praying for the souls of the besieged who are starved to death.’ He gave a slow, pious nod of his head. ‘Ah yes, because I’ve always brought about their demise for the further glory of God, and He will endorse the righteousness of my actions here by granting me victory once again. You’ll see.’
Pedrito could sense a one-sided conversation developing here, so he sat in silence while the king continued his address on the legitimacy of war’s cruelties. It was patently obvious that informing him of the existence and parlous circumstances of Saleema and his mother would have t
o wait until a more appropriate moment.
A LITTLE LATER THAT MORNING – A LEAGUE TO THE NORTH OF ‘EL REAL’ CAMP…
King Jaume seemed to have made a shrewd choice of location for his rendezvous with Ben Abbéd – the centre of a wide area of flat land, with good lines of vision in all directions, and therefore no risk of being ambushed. All the same, an advance detatchment of twenty knights and their followers had been sent out from the camp to observe the wali’s arrival, and only when they were satisfied that there was no sign of intended treachery did they signal that it was safe for the king to come forward. Even then, the advance detail took the added precaution of riding round to the far side of the Moorish party to ensure that no others joined them, and also to cut off their escape route, should their forthcoming conduct justify the need for one.
The king, mounted on his charger and wearing a chainmail hauberk, approached the meeting place flanked by archers and members of his personal guard, all fully armed and battle-ready. He had an intuitional mistrust of this Ben Abbéd fellow, so no chances were being taken.
Pedrito, as had become his wont, followed at a respectful distance, riding the steady old hack he’d waggishly nicknamed Tranquilla after her nervy behaviour on the road to his family home at Andratx a few days earlier. When the king was about a hundred paces away from a little almond grove in which the Moors had stationed themselves, he halted his company and beckoned Pedrito to his side.
‘It’s impossible to make out how many of them there are or what their pack animals are carrying, if anything,’ the king muttered. ‘Trust a devious Saracen to set up his stall in the only clump of trees for miles around!’ He nudged Pedrito with his elbow. ‘Trot off in there and see what’s what. Have a word with this Benahabet, or whatever his name is, then come back and let me know what you think.’ Noticing Pedrito’s concerned look, he then added, ‘And don’t worry – if you haven’t returned in five minutes, we’ll charge in and slaughter the lot of them.’
Suitably reassured, Pedrito did as instructed.
In the event, the king’s suspicions proved to be unwarranted. What Ben Abbéd had brought to the rendezvous was a generous and tantalising array of the season’s produce from his estates. A team of twenty mules had been laden with sacks of barley and flour, with chickens, kids and lambs, with amphoras of wine, and with a mouthwatering variety of fruit, including baskets brimful of plump grapes so tenderly handled that a guarantee was given that not a solitary one would be found to have been bruised. What’s more, Ben Abbéd, a tall and swarthy Moor, whose robes and bearing identified him as a man of substance, had taken the trouble to have this cornucopia of nature’s gifts displayed in the most decorative of ways, given the restrictions imposed by an improvised presentation in the middle of an isolated almond grove.
King Jaume was impressed and didn’t hold back from letting it be known to his benefactor…
‘Tell him, Master Blànes, that we are delighted with what he has on offer. Splendid – absolutely splendid!’ He squinted up at the sun, then glanced at his surroundings. ‘And, uhm, tell him it was most considerate of him to chose this shady copse for our meeting.’
In response, Ben Abbéd, bowing reverentially and gesticulating extravagantly, ushered the king towards an open-sided tent that had been pitched in the middle of the grove. Here, with the ground covered by a rug of intricate arabesque design, a cushioned couch had been positioned beside a table displaying samples of all the produce brought for the king’s appraisal. He was invited to be seated while a quartet of veiled, though conspicuously curvacious, hand maidens served him morsels of his choice on delicate little silver dishes.
‘Sí,’ the king enthused, ‘most impressive! Hmm, most impressive indeed!’
Pedrito noted that, while the king was uttering this final superlative, it was the serving girls rather than what they were serving that he was devoting his attention to. If the young monarch’s reputation hadn’t preceded him (and it was most unlikely that it would have), then Ben Abbéd had made a very fortuitous choice of personnel when preparing this exhibition. Any doubts he may have had about the king’s cooperation – or, indeed, vice versa – were soon to be proven groundless.
Within half an hour, the conversation conducted via Pedrito had resulted in an understanding between the two men which confirmed everything young Akeem had offered on his master’s behalf the previous day. In return for the king’s assurance that his position would be ‘respected’ after the war, Ben Abbéd would pledge to provide – each and every week that the siege lasted – supplies equivalent to those he had brought today, and in sufficient quantities to satisfy the entire army’s needs. All he would require from King Jaume in the meantime would be one of his flags, so that his men conveying the provisions could pass unharmed through ground already held by the Christians. This, the king readily agreed to.
A deal had been struck, and to endorse his commitment to his side of the bargain, Ben Abbéd solemnly affirmed that his offer to place approximately one third of rural Mallorca into the king’s control would be implemented at the earliest opportunity. As soon as the king found it convenient to appoint two of his nobles to act as governors of the relevant areas, the peaceful transfer of their administration and associated revenues would be put into motion without delay.
This, the king readily agreed to as well. And in so doing, he made no attempt to conceal his liking for the ‘fellow’ he had so recently dubbed a sly, scheming Saracen. Formal pleasantries were exchanged in the most amicable of atmospheres before the two partners in this unlikely alliance finally prepared to go their separate ways – Ben Abbéd back to the spleandour of his Alfabia estate, and King Jaume (with Ben Abbéd’s twenty laden mules in his train) back to the relative austerity of his encampment.
Of all the paradoxes this meeting had produced, the one that struck Pedrito as the most bizarre was that it was still possible to hear the horrific noises of siege warfare drifting over the plain into this tiny oasis of bonhomie and opulence. This spawned the thought that it might require weeks of death and destruction on an unthinkable scale to enable King Jaume to take the capital city, yet a few minutes spent bartering food in exchange for the promised continuation of a rich wali’s privileges had already won him a third of the island’s entire hinterland.
Pedrito mentioned this to the king after he had bid adéu to his new friend.
‘Ah, but that’s war for you, Little Pedro. It throws up the most unexpected changes of fortune – good or bad, depending on which side you’re on, but invariably tied to the survival of someone of influence.’
Pedrito sighed. ‘Every turncoat has his price, I suppose.’
‘Sí,’ the king smiled while waving to the departing Ben Abbéd, ‘and that one came surprisingly cheaply!’
THAT EVENING, ‘EL REAL’ CHRISTIAN CAMP…
Though a little disconcerted by the spirited resistence the forces within Medîna Mayûrqa were showing in the face of the unrelenting bombardment of their city, King Jaume was heartened by the good progress being made by the Count of Empúries and his three teams of sappers. However, while their tunnelling work beneath the moat continued, the Moors’ missiles were now inflicting considerable damage to the southern extremities of the Christain stockade, and to those defending it. Fortunately, though, such activity was sporadic, the pattern and timing of the attacks dictated by how quickly the Moors could replace or repair any war engines knocked out by the Christians. King Jaume’s men were still having the better of these artillery exchanges, but the speed of the Moors’ repairing of the resultant damage to the city walls, together with an increasingly evident spirit of resistance, indicated a long and painful siege for both sides.
But that, as the king had told Pedrito on more than one occasion, was war. And the good news for his people was that, thanks to the ‘forward-looking’ Ben Abbéd, they would now have the ability to starve the enemy into submission, should they persist with their determination not to surrender the city. The king c
onsidered this worthy of celebration, and what better way to celebrate than by enjoying the unexpected bonus of all those edibles brought into camp on Ben Abbéd’s mule train. So, even in the midst of the ongoing combat, the campaign’s leading nobles and churchmen joined the king in his tent that evening for a right royal feast.
*
Pedrito had been afforded the privilege of joining members of the king’s retinue of younger knights for their apportionment of the fare, to be served in the open air at tables set round a fire in the centre of the royal enclosure. After the pleasant warmth of the day, the evening air was noticably chilly, as is normal in Mallorca at this time of changing seasons. It soon became abundantly clear, however, that the falling temperature was of no concern to the gathered company of young warriors. Even without the benefit of the fire, their spirits had been lifted sufficiently by the occasion to set the blood surging hotly through their veins. And the potency of Ben Abbéd’s sweet Mallorcan wine doubtless played its part in boosting this sensation of euphoria.
Pedrito had witnessed the same effect that just such a welcome release from the rigours of warfare had had on another group of young Christian soldiers when huddled round a fire to share a simple supper after the Battle of Na Burguesa. And although the meal here was considerably more sumptuous, an outpouring of identical banter developed in its wake. Harmless insults were bandied about amid raucous eruptions of laughter, while each man sang the praises of his own place of birth more effusively than the next. The understandable outcome of a temporary escape from the fear of death in the first instance, and the unwitting exposure of a carefully concealed longing for home in the second. That, at least, was Pedrito’s reading of the situation.
