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

by Peter Kerr

  It was a long story, Pedrito replied, the details of which could wait for now. The king could rest assured, however, that there was absolutely no doubt that this woman, Farah, had given birth to him and had been obliged, through circumstances beyond her control, to abandon him on the quayside shortly afterwords.

  The king nodded reflectively. ‘As En Guillen de Muntcada once said, such is the fate of the newborn infants of young women like that.’

  Pedrito glared at him. ‘Young women like what?’

  Now it was the king’s turn to react uneasily. ‘En Guillen was talking generally, of course, so I’m sure he wasn’t casting aspersions at you, but –’

  ‘I remember exactly what he said,’ Pedrito interrupted. ‘As you’ll recall, I was there, and what he said was that foundlings are the bastard offspring of whores.’

  The king, as befitted someone of his status, defended himself by going immediately on the offensive. ‘Ah yes, but as you’ll recall, I censured En Guillen severely about that, and I made a point of doing it in front of you. Believe me, I wouldn’t normally give a nobleman – and a relation of mine to boot – a dressing down in the presence of a – a –’

  ‘A peasant like me?’

  Awkwardly, King Jaume inclined his head to one side, then the other. ‘Well, all right, if you like – yes.’

  This attempted show of indifference was far from convincing; a reaction that Pedrito found quite disarming. Here was the figurehead of arguably the biggest and most daring seaborne invasion ever carried out by Christian Spain, yet he still had an almost child-like vulnerability about him. He was a walking enigma, capable of kicking the severed head of an enemy aristocrat into the sling of a siege engine, while also feeling uncomfortable about offending someone he thought of as a peasant, even if a friendly one.

  Pedrito siezed the opportunity to play to this side of the king’s nature. ‘I simply had to get her out of the city before the Christian soldiers reached that part of it.’ He looked appealingly into the king’s eyes. ‘She’s my mother. She could have been killed.’

  The king returned his look with one of mild suspicion. ‘And that’s why you left without taking time to find out about possible sources of provisions for our army, as I’d charged you to do? Couldn’t you have delayed for a while? After all, it could be weeks, even months, before we’re able to occupy that area of the city.’

  ‘But surely none of that’s important any more. After all, unkown to any of us, Ben Abbéd was already preparing to supply you with enough food for the army’s requirements.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that everyone needs a guardian angel. Ben Abbéd has turned out to be yours, while fate saw to it that I was in the right place at the right time to be my mother’s.’

  King Jaume smiled another wry smile. ‘You have an alert mind, Little Pedro, and I admire that.’ He raised a finger and rocked it back and forth. ‘But I must take you up on two points. First, if you were in the right place at the right time, it was because of God, not fate.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Pedrito conceded without demur.

  ‘Second, my instinct tells me that there was more to your swift exit from the city than you’ve admitted.’ He cocked his head inquisitively. ‘No?’

  ‘I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of in that respect,’ Pedrito countered. ‘The fact is that my mother is a cripple. So, waiting in the city any longer than was necessary wasn’t an option. My instinct told me that I had to get her out of there right away, and I did just that.’

  The king pursed his lips again. ‘A cripple, you say. I’m sorry to hear that. But, and I hope you’ll excuse my curiosity, how so exactly?’

  Pedrito could see the way the king’s mind was working. And, although the truth was bound to come out eventually, perhaps it might be easier to let him think he was working it out for himself here and now.

  ‘As a young woman, she had a foot and a hand cut off,’ Pedrito said flatly.

  The king arched his eyebrows. ‘Hmm, a Muslim punishment, I believe?’

  Pedrito confirmed that this was indeed the case. ‘Left hand, right foot. A punishment demanded by her husband.’

  The king winced. ‘How inhuman! But what on earth had she done to deserve such barbaric treatment?’

  ‘She’d given birth to a child. That was her only crime.’

  ‘Ah, now I get it!’ the king nodded. ‘Adultery, eh? She’d given birth to a child not sired by her husband. Sí, sí, sí, now I can see why she incurred the full wrath of –’

  ‘The child was her husband’s,’ Pedrito cut in. ‘The problem was that it had the mark of the devil on it.’

  ‘Of the … devil?’

  Pedrito pulled his hair aside to expose the small birthmark behind his ear.

  ‘A cross!’ the king gasped. ‘But – but that’s the emblem of Christianity, not the sign of the devil.’

  ‘In a Christian’s eyes, yes.’

  The king raised a hand. ‘Hold on! Hold on! Let me get to grips with this. You’re saying that you are that child – the child abandoned by your mother and the cause of her having a hand and foot cut off. Is that what you’re saying?’

  Pedrito pointed to his birthmark. ‘Yes, because I was deemed to be a Christian child.’

  King Jaume was already stroking his beard in that pensive way of his. ‘But I take it that your father and mother were, are, both Muslims, sí?’

  Pedrito indicated that this was so.

  The king looked at him through half closed eyes. ‘So, it follows that you, too, are a Muslim.’

  Chuckling to himself, Pedrito shook his head. ‘No baby is born anything – Muslim, Christian, Jew or whatever. Infants can’t decide what religion they’re going to follow, if any. That’s fed to them by their parents, or whoever brings them up.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s where your lack of education lets you down again, Little Pedro. The bible tells us that we’re born in God’s image – that’s God’s image, not Allah’s or any other false deity’s, so it follows that…’ The king’s words trailed off as he began to consider the matter more carefully.

  Pedrito picked up the thread. ‘You were born in the image of your parents, who were presumably fair-skinned. I was born in the image of my parents, who weren’t quite so fair-skinned. But unless we know what God looks like, how can we say what those who worship him are supposed to look like?’

  The king stared at him blankly, then took a slurp of wine and muttered, ‘Careful what you’re saying, amic.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that, if you had been brought up as a Muslim, you’d be a Muslim, no matter what you look like. And the same goes for Christians.’

  King Jaume’s eyes were now beginning to show the effects of his intake of wine. He focused them on Pedrito’s face, smiled woozily and said, ‘So, what is it you’re trying to say, Little Pedro?’

  ‘Simply, senyor, that I have Moorish blood in my veins – the blood of my parents – and if they had brought me up, I would have been brought up as a Muslim, even with the mark of a Christian on me. But the people who raised me were Christians and they taught me to be a Christian like them. So,’ he smiled, ‘that’s what I am – even if I do look like a Moor.’

  The king’s chin dropped onto his chest as he began to laugh quietly to himself. ‘All too complicated for a simple king like me, my peasant friend. All to complicated for me.’ Then, after a few moments of contemplating his empty wine cup, he gave himself a shake, focused blearily on Pedrito’s face again and grinned. ‘But enough of theology!’ He reached out and punched Pedrito playfully on the shoulder. ‘Tell me about the other woman. You said there were two. And,’ he winked, ‘I’ll eat my best saddle if she wasn’t a frisky little filly, eh! So, own up, you dog. What dissolute deed was the real reason for your hasty exit from the city?

  23

  ‘A WOMAN IN MISCHIEF IS WISER THAN A MAN’

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING – THE MOUNTAINSIDE ABOVE GÉNOVA SETTLEMENT…

  Pedri
to’s conversation with the king the previous evening had ended without any further mention being made of Pedrito’s mother or, more significantly for Pedrito, his father. King Jaume, in his ‘relaxed’ mood, had been more interested in hearing anything Saleema might have mentioned about the delights of the harem from which she had escaped. Although there had been precious little to tell, even touching briefly on the subject had evidently conjured up favourable images in the young monarch’s mind of a palace awash with delectable (and constantly available) young concubines, judging by the smile on his face when he eventually fell asleep at the table, that is.

  However, no matter how much under the influence of Ben Abbéd’s wine he may have been last night, the king had been up with the larks and looking as bright as a button in the morning. He had summoned Pedrito to his tent immediately after discussing orders for the day with his military commanders, and he soon made it obvious that he had remembered at least the more important elements of what he had been told about the plight of Farah and Saleema.

  The sensitive subject of the two women being Moors would be ignored for the present, he informed Pedrito. This was a matter that would be for no-one’s ears but their own, of course – the hard fact being that ‘unpleasant complications’ would arise for Pedrito if even a whisper of his fraternising with the enemy leaked out. Then, repeating his assertion that he was not a heartless man, King Jaume told Pedrito to fill panniers with a selection of foodstuffs from the stores and make his way on his old hack to where the women were sheltering. What their fate might be in the long term was a bridge that would be crossed in the fullness of time, he said, but for the present, it was Pedrito’s paramount duty to see to the welfare of his mother – and, he added with a twinkle in his eye, to the ‘comfort’ of the young concubine Saleema as well.

  All the king had asked of Pedrito in return was his word that he would be back at camp by nightfall. His skill as a translator – not to speak of the strength of his muscles – could be called upon at any time. For it shouldn’t be forgotten, he was at pains to emphasise, that Pedrito was, when all was said and done, a Christian!

  Now, as Pedrito, mounted on Tranquilla, ascended the track leading to the sliver of land where the cave was situated, his mind was filled with conflicting emotions.

  Relief was what he felt with regard to King Jaume not having shown any interest in the identity of Farah’s husband. In fact, if he had asked, Pedrito would have been obliged to lie. The last thing he needed to further complicate his current familial situation was for the Christian king to know that the Moorish king was his trusted translator’s father. At the same time, Pedrito himself was in a quandry about the rights and wrongs of siding with the enemy of his own flesh and blood. But his natural father – a man whose very existence he hadn’t known about until a couple of days ago – had been responsible for an act of horrendous cruelty upon his mother, and that aroused in him a feeling of justification, albeit a confused one, for helping to bring about his downfall.

  But what were his feelings for his mother? His admiration for her courage and a sense of afinity with her spirit of determination were certainly strong, and there was no doubting that he was deeply concerned about her wellbeing. Beyond that, however, the bond that had existed between Pedrito and his adoptive mother was one that hadn’t yet been replicated. Although well aware that it might not be easy, he had resolved, nonetheless, to do all he could to help give this new and unforeseen relationship a chance to develop. His hope was that time and nature would do the rest. Meanwhile, Pedrito realised that the situation would be equally hard for his mother to deal with. Faced with the predicament that she must try to replace her own son’s lifelong maternal ties to someone else, her feelings would be just as much in turmoil as his own.

  She was sitting beside Saleema on a rock outside the cave when Pedrio came over the rise. It was Saleema who noticed him first. He could see that she hadn’t recognised him initially, dressed as he was in his shirt and pantalons instead of the Arab robe and head scarf he had been wearing before. Alarmed, she nudged Farah and started to help her to her feet.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Pedrito shouted, ‘it’s only me!’

  ‘Pedrito?’ Saleema called back, holding the tips of her fingers to her lips. ‘Is – is that you?’

  ‘Who else would climb all the way up here to visit a pair of scruffy cavewomen like you?’ Pedrito grinned as he jumped down from Tranquilla’s back and led the old horse through the sparse stand of trees. ‘What’s that you’re busy with anyway?’

  Saleema laid down the bowl she had been holding and ran towards him.

  Farah had now struggled to her feet and was hobbling along in Saleema’s wake. ‘We were just shelling some almonds,’ she beamed. ‘We’re preparing something exotic for lunch, and you’re welcome to join us. It’s almond soup. You know, almonds, milk, stale bread and wild garlic!’

  ‘What, no snails?’ Pedrito joked.

  Saleema threw her arms round him, then, with tears tricking down her cheeks, she looked up at him and smiled. ‘Oh, Pedrito, you’ve no idea how good it is to see you again!’

  Farah now joined them in a three-way hugging session. ‘Yes, we’ve missed you really badly. Mind you, you needn’t have worried about us.’ She gave Saleema a surreptitious dig in the ribs with her elbow. ‘We’ve been doing fine, haven’t we, habib?’

  Saleema hesitated for a moment. ‘Oh, yes, yes, fine – absolutely fine,’ she said, though not all that persuasively. ‘Yes, as your mother says – no need to worry about us.’

  Pedrito smiled at this show of stoicism, which was well-practiced and genuine on Farah’s part, but with a bit yet to go on Saleema’s. Nevertheless, she was trying, and who better to model herself on than Farah. Pedrito was proud of them both, and although still filled with misgivings about their situation, he was glad to be here in their company once again.

  What’s more, as muddled as his feelings towards his mother may still have been, the way his pulse had started to race at the mere sight of Saleema confirmed that what he felt for her was indeed different from the brother-and-sister association he’d thought had been his motivation for attempting to rescue her from the clutches of the two drunken pirates outside the inn. Also, the way she had looked into his eyes a moment ago had spoken volumes about the way she felt for him. Under other circumstances, he would have been absolutely delighted, but as things stood, his head told him that a romantic involvement with a Muslim girl was one more complication in his life that he certainly didn’t need. What his heart might eventually have to say about this was an entirely different matter, of course, and he was acutely aware of that as well.

  ‘So, I take it you haven’t got any snails?’ he teased after disentangling himself from their arms.

  Farah dropped the corners of her mouth. ‘Sorry – no rain, no snails. It’s almond soup or nothing. And, uh – no goat, no milk, so it’ll be the almonds-and-water variety, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Tempting, very tempting,’ Pedrito fibbed, while unhitching one of Tranquilla’s saddlebags, ‘but I think we may have something even more tantalising here.’

  *

  The food that Pedrito had brought up from the camp may have been simple siege-army fodder, but it was at least more varied and wholesome than the slim pickings his mother and Saleema had been obliged to exist on since the last time he was with them. As he had anticipated, Farah’s hope of regaining the slingshot skills of her childhood had proved over optimistic, even with Saleema’s physical support, so no more pigeons or rabbits had graced their makeshift pantry in the cave. His mother told him that she had, however, made good use of the flour he’d left them by baking a simple but surprisingly tasty flat bread, which had seemed like becoming the staple of their diet until Pedrito’s timely return today.

  He had also managed to appropriate a few horse blankets and a couple of quilted saddle rugs to help improve their rough-and-ready sleeping conditions. The nights were sure to get progressively colder as winter
approached, so anything that would contribute to making their hermit-like existence a little more bearable would always be welcome.

  The day was bright and calm, with a warm autumn sun shining against the cliff face along from the cave entrance, where Saleema had set an improvised dining table on a slab of fallen rock. Farah, meanwhile, had decided to prepare the meal inside the cave. The smoke from a fire in the open, she had pointed out, would only have given away their whereabouts to potential intruders.

  While the two women were attending to these domestic chores, Pedrito had taken his leave of them on the pretext of doing a bit of foraging for what he had called ‘an essential addition to their daily sustenance’. This time, though, no trusty sling had been in his hand, but instead, a length of rope, which, like the blankets and rugs, he’d purloined from the royal stabling compound back at El Real. Despite twinges of conscience, he’d persuaded himself that he hadn’t really been stealing from the king, but rather ‘borrowing’ a few items that His Majesty would never miss – presuming he was even interested in such minor details of his tack store inventory anyway.

  ‘Your almond soup problems are over!’ Pedrito called out to Saleema when he came back into the little field. He was leading a goat on the end of his rope. ‘This young lady will supply you with more than enough milk for all your needs, I reckon. Yes, and she’ll find enough food for herself if you tether her in the woods here.’

  Saleema’s face was wreathed in smiles. ‘First a donkey, now a goat. All we need is a plough and a few hens and we’ll have the makings of a farm here!’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about the plough, but maybe I’ll be able to find a few hens for you next time I come back.’

  Farah emerged from behind the curtain of vines covering the cave entrance. ‘Did I hear something about a goat?’ She squinted through the sunlight at Pedrito. ‘Where on earth did you get that? I hope you didn’t steal it! You know what I think about stealing!’