by Peter Kerr
Indeed, whenever Pedrito saw how his mother struggled so bravely against the consequences of such cruelty, his heart was filled with loathing for the man responsible, albeit that he was his own natural father. Yet how ironic it was, Pedrito thought, that if it hadn’t been for the tiny, cross-like birthmark behind his ear, he would now be fighting at King Abû’s side against the Christian king who had so improbably become his friend. And, in all probability, Farah, instead of living rough in a remote cave, would still be luxuriating in the cushioned comfort of the Almudaina Palace.
Now, the closest things to luxury she could indulge herself in were the few fruits that Pedrito managed to glean from abandoned orange groves on his way from El Real. But he never once heard her complain about the miserable conditions in which she was now obliged to live. They were no worse, she would say, and better in some ways, than those she had endured for over twenty years in the grim kasbah alleyways of Medîna Mayûrqa. Nevertheless, Pedrito had noticed a gradual deterioration in his mother’s wellbeing as the weeks passed. Although she put a brave face on things, the flame that once flickered so vitally in her eyes had now dimmed, to be replaced by a jaded look that was becoming progressively more difficult for her to disguise. She was exhausted, her fighting spirit finally yielding to the hardships that had been the bane of her life for so long.
Events usually followed a similar pattern on these fleeting mercy missions of Pedrito’s. Nedi had stubbornly stayed on at the cave since the day he first turned up there in Pedrito’s wake. He had decided, apparently, that this was where his presence was needed most, and that was that. And, in truth, it gave Pedrito a welcome measure of comfort to know that Nedi was acting as a guard dog for the two women in that isolated place. Meanwhile, King Jaume was understandably too preoccupied with waging a war to be unduly concerned about where his dog was.
So, all was well as regards Nedi, and it was always his bounding, barking, tail-wagging presence that was first to greet Pedrito when he appeared over the rise. Although Nedi’s ultimate interest was directed towards what tasty morsels might be concealed in old Tranquilla’s saddle bags, he did acquit himself favourably by delaying this investigation until he had subjected Pedrito to the customary attack of face licking.
Then, after less boisterous but no less ardent welcomes had been bestowed on him by his mother and Saleema, Pedrito would present them with whatever he had managed to garner from the El Real kitchens and stores. Mundane though they inevitably were, each item, when revealed, was always the source of great excitement. Even Annam the goat would barge her way into the animated huddle, leaving only Lucky, Farah’s donkey, to remain sleepily aloof from such unbecoming antics over stuff that wasn’t even weeds, never mind grass.
The donkey’s attitude apart, however, these little outbursts of concerted exhiliration never failed to warm Pedrito’s heart, while also reminding him how dismal and dreary life must have been for the two women during the long, lonely periods between his visits. But of more concern was his mother’s state of health, and his anxieties were exacerbated by things Saleema told him on the few occasions they managed to be alone together…
‘She coughs a lot during the night now. The atmosphere in the cave – even with the fire kept going all the time – the dampness seeps into everything, especially now that it’s so cold at night. And I hear her groaning when she moves in her sleep, as if she’s in pain – maybe her joints – the cold and dampness again, I think.’
Saleema was sitting beside Pedrito on a little bank at the edge of the tree-studded field outside the cave. They were gazing down over a panorama that extended from the seemingly endless expanse of the sea on their right, along the curve of bay to the capital city and beyond to the wide central plain of Mallorca, stretching all the way eastwards to the hazy summits of the Serra de Llevant.
‘She always smiles and acts chirpily in the morning,’ Saleema went on, ‘but I know she’s just making an effort for my sake. Doesn’t want me to worry about her, you see.’ She fell silent for a few moments, resting her head on Pedrito’s shoulder. ‘But I do – I worry about her more every day.’
There was nothing Pedrito could say to that. He was painfully aware of how urgent it was to find his mother and Saleema a more tolerable place of refuge, but he was no more able to think of where that might be than he’d been when he first helped instal them here over two months earlier. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t let on to Saleema what his mother had recently whispered to him about her…
‘She cries herself to sleep when she thinks I’ve already drifted off at night. Talks to herself a lot during the night too – whimpers like a baby. She’s missing her mother and father more and more.’
None of this did anything to make the quandry facing Pedrito any easier. In a perfect world, yielding to Saleema’s desire to be taken home to her parents would both satisfy her personal longing and would provide a source of care and comfort that Farah desperately needed. But this was far from a perfect world. The risks of travelling through the battle-ravaged countryside between here and Saleema’s home were perhaps even greater now than before. As Christian patrols cast their nets ever wider in hopes of finding pockets of Muslim resistance, those partisans who remained at large would have become more desperate than ever. On top of that, it was obvious that Farah was even less fit to undertake the journey now than she had been originally.
Then there was the matter to be considered of the time involved for Pedrito to complete the round trip from El Real to the hills inland from Santa Ponça where Saleema’s father’s farm was located. This would take the best part of two days, even if all went smoothly, and Pedrito feared he might be pushing King Jaume’s benevolence too far by asking his permission to leave camp for so long at such a crucial stage of the siege.
Pedrito knew deep down, however, that the one factor which held him back more than any other from making the vital journey was the dread of what might be found when they eventually arrived at Saleema’s home. He had seen for himself farmsteads that had been sacked in this area during the battles that followed the first Christian landings at Santa Ponça Bay, and it was highly likely that very few of the local inhabitants who hadn’t already fled would have survived the associated bloodletting. Consequently, he couldn’t bear the thought of Saleema’s heart being broken by what she might discover when she did eventually fulfil her dream of returning home.
Yet, despite all these potential difficulties, it was clear to Pedrito that the status quo couldn’t be allowed to continue for much longer. Somehow, he would have to find a means of getting his mother and Saleema away from the drudgery and discomfort of the cave. Saleema’s emotional wellbeing depended on it – as, with increasing probability, did his mother’s life.
To complicate matters even further, there was his personal relationship with Saleema to take into account. Sitting beside her overlooking such an entrancing view as he was now, it would have been easy to forget that the island was in the grip of a terrible and intransigent war, a bloody and murderous confrontation in which fate had placed them on opposite sides. Only the distant sight of flames, smoke and dust rising from the front line of combat to the north of the city served as a reminder that the feelings for each other that had grown so irresistibly were likely never to be allowed to develop further. The religious dogma of the eventual victors of the war would see to that. Besides, Pedrito was acutely aware that he might not even come out of the current hostilities with his life.
He was caught on the horns of a dilemma that seemed to become more inescapable with every passing moment – particularly at moments when Saleema did tantalising little things like tracing shapes on his knee with her forefinger, as she was at present. Although Pedrito tried to convince himself that this was nothing more than an idle extension of faraway thoughts that were occupying her mind, his own mind, courtesy of his knee, was far from being convinced.
She raised her head from his shoulder and looked up at him with those deep, dark pools of
eyes in which he would willingly have drowned. ‘When will you be able to take me home to see my mother and father?’ she purred. ‘You promised.’ She then moved her hand from his knee and lightly drew a finger along the outline of his lips. ‘And don’t look so worried, Little Pedro. Your mother will be well looked after at our house, and I’ll wait for you there until this war is over – I promise.’
Once more, Pedrito found himself at a loss for something appropriate to say. Consumed by a feeling of inadequacy and tortmented by questions of where his priorities should lie, he looked away and gestured towards the sun dipping low in the western sky.
It was time for him to go back to El Real.
26
‘HOPE IS GRIEF’S BEST MUSIC’
DECEMBER 24th – THE CHRISTAIN CAMP…
It was beginning to occur to some of the Christian troops that the longer the siege lasted, the more likely it might be that they would become the victims of the war of attrition that they themselves had initiated. There was a suspicion in the ranks that, as the winter wore on, the pendulum of time would finally start to swing in the Moors’ favour.
Although the Mallorcan weather at this time of the year is defined, as a rule, by pleasantly-warm, sunny days, the temperature does drop dramatically at night. Similarly, while rain isn’t usually all that frequent, when it does rain, it habitually comes down in torrents, resulting in the ground being churned into a gooey quagmire, and in such a congested environment as a siege army’s encampment in which humans live side-by-side with horses, a fetid, dung-polluted quagmire at that. These things, combined with creeping exhaustion, all added to the mens’ aversion to being huddled together night after night in cold, squalid tents, and also contributed to a growing disenchantment with the entire campaign. There were even murmurings of coteries of foot soldiers planning to desert and make their way back to the mainland.
King Jaume was quick to recognise that not even the motivational urgings of Friar Miguel Fabra might be fiery enough to rekindle the essential flames of religious fervour if allowed to die in this way. He and his senior nobles concluded, therefore, that the time had finally come for an all-out physical attack on the city. To their more pragmatic military eyes, there were signs that three months of incessant pounding by the Christian artillery had finally begun to tell on the resolve of the Moorish defenders. Over the past few days, there had been a significant decline in the volume of missiles being launched from the few engines of war now remaining operational on the stumps of the city’s battered ramparts. Also, disease emanating from semi-decomposed human carcases catapulted over the walls during the siege would steadily have been taking its toll on soldiers and civilians alike.
Just as crucially, however, there had to be borne in mind the threatened uprising in the northern territories of Inca and Pollença, the main sources of foodstuffs being so vitally provided for the Christian army by the area’s turncoat Moorish overlord. If this steady supply of provisions were interrupted, it would be just a matter of time until, not only cliques of mutinous infantrymen, but what was left of the entire expeditionary force found itself heading back to the mainland. So, all things considered, it had to be now or never for making final preparations for the storming of the city, which, it was decided, would be undertaken on the last day of the year – exactly one week from now.
Tomorrow being Christmas Day, all military activity would be curtailed, except for whatever retaliation might be considered necessary to deal with any Moorish war engines still posing a threat. This interruption of hostilities was called primarily to honour the birth of Christ, but there also existed a more calculating motive; not only would the men be given a much-needed break from the punishing grind of siege warfare, they would also be afforded every means possible to celebrate Christmas Day in a festive way. Ahead of them lay an extremely testing few days, during which everything would have to be made ready for the death-or-glory attempt to take the city. Accordingly, anything that could be done to revive flagging morale would be done. King Jaume himself would make sure of it.
Today, though, would be just another day, with every man doing his allotted task to maintain the utmost pressure on the enemy – and with renewed vigour at that. For Pedrito and old Tranquilla, this meant continuing to help haul newly-felled timber, no longer for use in the mines, but for completing the construction of the battering rams, siege towers and scaling ladders which would be essential for the ultimate assault on the Mallorcan capital.
It was early morning when Pedrito, passing by the royal compound on his way to the woods, saw a familiar shaggy black shape hurtling towards him through the lines of tents. It was Nedi, making his first appearance in the camp for weeks, and showing signs of having run all the way from the mountainside above Génova. He started to bark loudly as soon as he saw Pedrito. But these weren’t the ‘woofs’ of excitement he gave vent to when welcoming Pedrito to the field outside the cave. These were yelps of distress.
‘What ails our long-absent friend?’ asked the king, drawn from his tent by the commotion.
Before Pedrito could even acknowledge the king’s presence, Nedi, instead of his usual licking attack on Pedrito’s face, took the fingers of his right hand in his teeth and tried to pull him in the direction from which he had just arrived.
The king gave Pedrito a knowing look. ‘He doesn’t have to speak, this one, does he?’
‘Something’s wrong at the cave,’ Pedrito muttered, his thoughts suddenly thrown into confusion. He tried to placate Nedi by patting his head and murmuring a few soothing words.
But Nedi was determined that Pedrito was going with him, and no amount of mollifying would change his mind. In frustration, he let go of Pedrito’s fingers for a moment and barked frantically at the king.
‘It’s all right, boy,’ the king assured him with a smile. ‘I’ll make sure he does what you say.’ He then raised an eyebrow at Pedrito. ‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘what are you waiting for?’
Pedrito was in a quandary. ‘But – but you said all of us would have to do the work of three or four men today. Getting ready for the attack on the city. Making the –’
King Jaume rested a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘Go and see to your mother and the girl, amic. Tomorrow is Christmas, a day of respite for most of us anyway, so you and your old horse won’t even be missed.’
Nedi, apparently of the opinon that too much time had already been wasted in idle chatter, grabbed Pedrito’s fingers again and tugged him forcibly away.
‘And, Master Blànes,’ the king called after him, ‘never let it be said that I’m a heartless man!’ He let a few seconds pass, then added at the top of his voice, ‘But all the same, make sure you’re back here by dawn the day after tomorrow!’
*
Instead of following along unhurried and unseen as on the previous two occasions when he and Pedrito had made simultaneous excursions from camp, Nedi was now very much the pacemaker. And, tired though he must have been, the pace he set was too much at times for old Tranquilla, who also took advantage of the sporadic breathers allowed her to look nervously over her shoulder. It reminded Pedrito of how she had behaved on the night they made the fateful journey from Bendinat to his family home near Andratx. But Nedi couldn’t be blamed for Tranquilla’s actions this time. And in any event, Pedrito had more on his mind at present than whether or not the old hack’s jitters about being followed were justified or not. What lay ahead of them was his only concern.
Every time Nedi paused to allow them to catch up, he stood barking at Pedrito, his ears drawn back in anguish, his every muscle straining to be on the move again. Whatever had happened at the cave was clearly a source of great anxiety to him, and even without words, he was succeeding in transmitting that anxiety in an emphatically lucid way.
Pedrito’s heart had been in his mouth since the moment Nedi first tugged at his fingers back at El Real, and it had been beating faster and faster the nearer they got to where he was leading. To add to Pedrito’s growing pani
c, Tranquilla made it patently obvious as soon as they reached the lower slopes of the mountain that she could no longer carry him on her back. As a result, he found himself obliged to clamber on foot up the rocky gradient in pursuit of a bounding Nedi, while also having to haul a reluctant Tranquilla behind him by the reins.
By the time he had made it all the way up to the sliver of level land by the cave, he felt as though his heart was about to burst from his chest, and the fact that there was neither sight nor sound of his mother and Saleema did nothing to assuage his condition. He could see the tethered donkey and goat grazing contentedly on weeds between trees at the far end of the field, so at least it could be assumed that a visit by robbers hadn’t been the reason for Nedi’s distress. Then again, perhaps there had been intruders interested only in the human occupants of the place. Pedrito had worried for some time about the smoke from their fire eventually leading someone to the cave, albeit that the smoke emerged through a hole much farther up the mountain. And as his mother and Saleema possessed nothing of material value, there could only be one reason for their being of interest to the type of lawless men currently roaming the countryside. His blood ran cold as terrible visions came racing back into his mind of what his adoptive parents and little sister must have endured when fallen upon by marauding pirates those five long years ago.
