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

by Peter Kerr

  *

  Saleema had told Pedrito often enough where her family’s farm was situated – three miles, more or less, north of the coast at Santa Ponça. And Pedrito didn’t have to be reminded that this was the area, more or less, where the second massacre of Moors had taken place on the very first day of the campaign. How could he forget? This was where he had saved King Jaume’s life by using his skill with the sling against a lance-wielding Moorish cavalryman. This was also where King Jaume had shown great delight when estimating the large number of Moors slain during his men’s short, sharp rout of what had proved to be hopelessly inept opposition. On the day, some waggish young cavallers in the king’s company had even dubbed the scene of this conspicuously one-sided encounter Es Puig del Rei, the King’s Mountain. It was an epithet that had stuck and would probably be recorded in the annals of Mallorcan history – if the Christians emerged victorious from present hostilities.

  When within sight of this place, but far enough away to be unable to see what evidence of the bloodbath still remained on the ground, Saleema pointed skyward.

  ‘See, Pedrito – two vultures, circling above that hillside up ahead. A sheep must have died, or maybe a goat.’ She shuddered. ‘Growing up in these parts, I’ve seen this often enough, but it still makes my flesh creep.’

  Pedrito couldn’t bring himself to tell her that the flesh the vultures were eyeing was more likely to be what little remained rotting on the bones of men slaughtered in the Puig del Rei massacre than that of a recently-expired sheep or goat.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Saleema, ‘at least they’re unlikely to be my father’s. Our farm is on the hill away to the north of that, so we have to take the track leading right at the next fork.’

  Pedrito breathed a sigh of relief. Even if Saleema’s estimation of its distance from the coast had been a bit out, at least the chances now were that her parents farm wouldn’t have been at the heart of the Christians’ rampage.

  Presently, they entered a little sheltered valley, where orchards of orange, lemon and apricot still bore the scars of either having been raided by the inavders or deliberately harried by those retreating from them. However, just as Pedrito had seen around the Génova area when passing through with Saleema and his mother on their way to the cave three months earlier, there were signs that the local folk here had stoically set about restoring their farms to their former orderliness and productivity as soon as it had been safe to do so. Indeed, as at Génova, some families could be seen working on their properties, and one or two even stopped to wipe their brows and wave as Pedrito and Saleema rode slowly past in the late afternoon sunshine.

  The smile of eager anticipation that had been lighting Saleema’s face had faded as she caught her first glimpse of the damage that had been done to the cherished landscape of her childhood.

  ‘Why?’ she murmured incredulously. ‘Why would anyone want to do such horrible things to such a beautiful place?’

  Pedrito made no attempt to answer her, and he doubted that she had expected him to anyway. He was only grateful that what she was seeing here was notably less horrific than the scenes of desolation he had been obliged to venture into when looking for Christian survivors after the first merciless clash of arms that had taken place only a mile or so south of here. There, in the place King Jaume had later named Es Coll de Sa Batalla, the Vale of the Battle, the fertile landscape had been trampled into a wasteland strewn with human death on a sickening scale, the neat farmsteads ravaged in a frenzy of wanton destruction.

  Now, with Saleema leading the way, they branched right again and began to climb a gentle slope where the fruit orchards of the valley floor gave way to terraced bancales on which the spidery branches of almond trees cast their shadows over the honey-coloured soil. Looking upwards, Pedrito could see that these cultivated slivers of land grew narrower as the gradient became steeper, ultimately yielding to the evergreen oak woods that typified the natural cover of Mallorcan mountainsides.

  ‘My home is just over that little ridge up ahead,’ Saleema said as she glanced over her shoulder at Pedrito, her eyes glinting with a blend of joy and apprehension. ‘You wouldn’t guess it from here, but there’s another valley there – a hidden one – perfect for grazing sheep.’

  Looking back, Pedrito could now catch a glimpse of the sea beyond the tree-fringed tops of the hills that rolled down towards the Bay of Santa Ponça. He felt a sense of relief that the arrival of the Christian fleet could have been seen from here, giving people in the vicinty time to take refuge before the invading forces penetrated this far inland. His concerns for the wellbeing of Saleema’s mother and father began to diminish accordingly. Perhaps, he thought, the second of his worries about setting out on this journey was about to be proved as unwarranted as the first.

  Meanwhile, Saleema was urging Lucky the donkey on with little clicks of her tongue, her impatience to see her parents again becoming more difficult to contain the nearer she got to home. Sensing this, Nedi ran ahead, barking excitedly. When Pedrito and the panting, wheezing Tranquilla caught up with them, Saleema was standing just over the brow of the ridge, staring down into a ribbon of land enclosed by the curved flanks of the hill rising up steeply on the far side. It was indeed a fine, sheltered place for grazing sheep, and fertile too, judging by the lush green sward growing between random stands of almond, olive and carob. In the centre of the valley, a whitewashed house nestled cosily amid a huddle of small barns and livestock enclosures. As was the custom in rural Mallorca, two tall palms stood guard at the entrance to this simple framstead. It reminded Pedrito of his own home, and he could understand now why Saleema had waxed lyrical so often about this entrancing place.

  Why, then, was she standing here looking so perplexed? Surely, Pedrito said, this was the moment she had been dreaming of for so long, so why wasn’t she rushing down there to give her parents the most pleasant surprise of their lives?

  ‘It’s the smoke from the chimney,’ Saleema replied uneasily.

  Pedro looked towards the house. ‘But there isn’t any smoke.’

  ‘Exactly. No sheep either.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a warm day, so maybe they haven’t bothered lighting the fire.’ Pedrito was trying to put as positive slant as he could on the situation. ‘And as for the sheep – well, maybe your father’s grazing them further up the hill somewhere.’

  But Saleema was far from persuaded. She shook her head. ‘No, it gets really cold at night up here at this time of year. Mother would have lit the fire hours ago.’

  ‘Fine, but it’s always possible she’s with your father tending the sheep.’

  Again Saleema pooh-poohed Pedrito’s attempt at reassurance, well-meant though she knew it was. ‘No, in winter, Father would always have them down here in their pens by this time of day.’ She motioned towards the setting sun. ‘It’s almost dusk, after all.’

  ‘Yes, but it could just be that they’ve had to round up some stragglers,’ Pedrito ventured, with what he hoped would pass for genuine nonchalance. He put an arm round her shoulder and contrived a little chuckle. ‘I mean, you know what sheep are like.’

  Saleema looked up at him and smiled back, though not very convincingly. She shook her head again, then gestured towards the field below them. ‘The ground between the trees down there – it’s too green. The sheep would normally have had it nibbled bare by now.’

  Pedrito took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘There’s bound to be a perfectly good reason for that as well. So, come on, habib – let’s go and see what’s what. Everything will be just fine, you’ll see.’

  And when they reached the farm, everything was just fine – or appeared to be at first. The storage sheds and animal enclosures were intact, with no sign of having been interfered with. Pedrito drew up a bucketful of water from the well. It tasted sweet, so no-one had contaminated it, as was sometimes the case when a farm was abandoned on the approach of the enemy. Even the trees in the little orange grove at the side of the house were still h
eavy with fruit, so they hadn’t been plundered either. This was taken as an encouraging sign by Pedrito, but it had the opposite effect on Saleema.

  ‘It’s well into the orange harvesting season,’ she said, the look of concern on her face growing more intense by the second. ‘Mother would have picked lots of them by now. And look, the ground is littered with fallen ones – all going to waste. She would never let that happen.’

  She ran towards the house and through an opening in a wall at the back. ‘This is the kitchen yard,’ she told Pedrito, tears welling in her eyes. She nodded towards the corner. ‘See there – weeds. Mother would never let them grow like that. This little yard is her pride and joy.’ She turned on her heel and ran her eyes over the outside of the house. ‘And look – the windows are all shuttered.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pedrito, ‘but as I mentioned before, it’s been a warm day, so keeping the shutters closed would be the normal thing to do, surely.’

  Saleema shook her head. ‘Mother always keeps these shutters open, even on the hottest summer days.’ She drew Pedrito’s attention to the wooded slopes rising up behind. ‘This side of the house faces north, so there’s nearly always some cool air coming down from the mountains.’ Without waiting for Pedrito to comment, she scurried over to the kitchen door and grabbed the handle. ‘Locked! This door’s never locked – ever! I don’t think I’ve even seen the key taken down from its nail behind the door – ever!’

  Pedrito knew what she was getting at. Country folk on the island just didn’t lock their doors, such was the degree of honesty and trust that existed in their communities. However, this was a time of war, so precautions beyond the usual could be regarded as sensible, if not absolutely essential. He started to tell Saleema this, but before he’d finished the first sentence, she’d set off running round to the front of the house. There, Pedrito found her trying to push open the heavy wooden door.

  ‘Locked as well,’ she panted, her voice trembling. ‘Something’s not right.’ With a frantic look in her eyes, she ran off again, this time back towards the farmstead, where she stopped and stood staring into one of the little enclosures. ‘This is where we keep the hens. And look – it’s empty! And – and, there are even weeds growing in here too, which means there hasn’t been anything pecking and scratching about in here for a long time!’ Saleema turned and looked pleadingly at Pedrito. ‘What could have happened?’ she sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Pedrito folded his arms round her and stroked her hair while she snuggled her head against his chest. Saleema was a sensitive girl and it was obvious that she instinctively felt that harm had come to her parents. She was also an intelligent girl, so Pedrito knew there would be no point in trying to ease her anxiety with glib words of comfort. He could, however, emphasise the positive aspects of the situation, so that’s what he decided to do…

  There were no signs of violence, he told her. Nothing had been destroyed or even damaged. And as for the absence of livestock and the locked and shuttered house, well, that would surely suggest that her parents had made a planned and orderly departure, perhaps in anticipation of a possible Christian raid back on the very first day of the invasion. ‘So,’ he said, lifting her chin and wiping a tear from her cheek, ‘there’s every reason to believe your mother and father are safe and sound with all the other people who were sensible enough to take refuge in the mountains back then.’

  ‘Oh, I really do want to believe that,’ Saleema whimpered. ‘But even if the Christian soldiers didn’t come here, perhaps bandits came later, just looking for food. That would explain why there are no sheep or hens. And if my mother and father had resisted, as they would, the robbers might have –’

  Pedrito placed a finger on her lips. ‘Don’t even think of it. Just believe that they’re safe, and once this war’s over, we’ll find them, never fear.’

  ‘And you’ll help me?’ Saleema sniffled, making a brave attempt at a smile.

  ‘I promise,’ Pedrito replied. He stroked her hair again. ‘We’ll do it together – just as soon as this war’s over.’

  As sincere as his words were, they were being challenged in his mind’s eye by visions of the wholesale killing of Moorish fugitives that would take place in the mountains once the taking of the capital city had been achieved by King Jaume’s troops. Going by past events, precious little opportunity would be afforded the vanquished to choose between conversion to Christianity or death. Then again, a Christian victory still couldn’t be taken for granted, so the fate of Mallorca’s displaced Moors might not ultimately be so bleak as it appeared at present.

  The sun was now dipping behind the western mountains, casting chilly shadows of night over the valley, which seemed strangely at peace, despite being shrouded in a cloud of concern over the wellbeing of Saleema’s parents, and in spite of the fact that a savage war was still being waged such a short distance away to the east.

  ‘So, Little Pedro,’ Saleema murmured, ‘what will be do now?’ She clung closer to Pedrito’s chest as a cold shiver rippled through her body.

  ‘You’re tired,’ Pedrito said softly. ‘So am I – and so are Nedi, the old horse, the donkey and the goat. It’s been a long, hard day for all of us.’

  Saleema raised her eyes to his again. ‘So,’ she whispered, ‘what are we gpoing to do about that?’

  ‘The only thing we can do,’ Pedrito shrugged.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Which is find a cosy stable here and nestle down with the animals for the night.’

  Saleema stifled a yawn. ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow, habib, we travel on. I’m taking you home – to Andratx.’

  28

  ‘THE END OF THE SIEGE’

  CHRISTMAS DAY, 1229 – THE CHRISTIAN CAMP OF ‘EL REAL’…

  It had taken the best part of the morning to complete the trek to Pedrito’s family home. He had been faced the previous evening with the same lack of choice that he’d had to accept after burying his mother earlier in the day, in that he couldn’t leave Saleema alone at her parents’ deserted farm, and her returning with him to El Real was totally out of the question. By the same token, it would have been unthinkable to abandon her to fend for herself at the uninhabited finca of his adoptive parents, but at least down there near the port of Andratx he had the option of leaving her in the care of his trusted neighbours on the other side of the Torrent de Saluet.

  Old Baltazar Ensenyat and his wife couldn’t have made Saleema more welcome, and the fact that she was Muslim and they Christian mattered not a whit to them. She was a destitute young girl in need of sanctuary, and their home would be hers for as long as she needed it to be. It appeared from his immediate settling down by the fire in the kitchen inglenook that Nedi took it for granted that the same applied to him. As for the donkey, well, Baltazar reckoned he could find enough field work to make it earn its keep for a while, and when it came to the goat, his attitude was that one more added to his little herd would be neither here nor there. Baltazar’s wife had then reassured Pedrito that Saleema and her little menagerie would be treated as part of the family, so he could go off to his war taking comfort in the knowledge that they would be well cared for. ‘Until you come back,’ she appended. ‘This time for good!’

  ‘This time for good… This time for good…’ The phrase, so kindly spoken, yet not without a reproving edge, had repeated itself over and over again in Pedrito’s head during the long ride back to the Christain encampment. And the image of Saleema, standing alone on the other side of the bridge after he’d he crossed the Torrent, was one that would haunt him for as long as he lived. Though fighting back the tears, there had been a smile on her lips as she gazed into his eyes after their final embrace. Neither had been able to speak. There had been no need to. The looks they exchanged had said it all.

  ‘Until you come back – this time for good…’ If only it were as straightforward as Senyora Ensenyat’s gentle admonition. Pedrito knew only too well
, as did Saleema, that there was a very real danger he might not live to come back at all. Even if the king didn’t ask him to bear arms on the final push into the city, Pedrito took it for granted that he would be expected to be close enough to the king to at least provide him with a fresh mount, should his own chance to founder during the fray. That had been the way of things for the encounters at Es Puig del Rei and Na Burguesa, so there was no reason to expect it to be any different at the storming of the capital.

  Pedrito had reported directly to the royal compound when arriving back at El Real shortly after sunset. Whatever Chrismas Day celebrations had been taking place were well and truly over by then, with the men obviously under strict orders to turn in early, in anticipation of a dawn start to five days of hard work making ready for the decisive assault on Medîna Mayûrqa.

  ‘Robert St Clair de Roslin has told me about the sad loss of your mother,’ King Jaume said on greeting Pedrito outside his tent. ‘You’re having more than your fair share of grief to bear, and all I can do for the moment is offer you my most sincere sympanthies yet again.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Incidentally, I told young St Clair that, on pain of death, he must keep to himself the, as it were, religious complications of this matter.’

  Solemnly, Pedrito shook his head. ‘I’m sure he would never say anything to compromise you, senyor.’

  ‘Nor, I hope, would he expose you to the punishment my more zealous churchmen would insist upon if they got wind of your, let’s say, alien attachments.’

  Pedrito nodded reverentially. ‘I’ll be forever grateful to you for your understanding and confidentiality, Majestat.’

  ‘So, uhm, talking of confidentiality,’ the king said, a slightly salacious tone to his voice, ‘what, in strictest confidence, eventually transpired between you and your little Saracen concubine, eh? Young St Clair tells me she’s a real beauty. I mean, did her parents turn a blind when you – you know – when you…?’