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

by Peter Kerr

  Time after time, the king urged his men on, the loud ‘Boom!’ of the ram’s collision with the gate becoming more mingled with the sound of splintering wood with each charge, until eventually the heavy doors gave way and the city was open at last for the Christians’ taking – though not without sacrificing an obscene amount of life to the glory of the two opposing dieties in the process.

  *

  The fierce resistance that had been shown by the Moors defending the breach quickly waned in the face of the huge surge of troops now pouring in through the nearby gate. The Moorish king was among the last to retreat, but once the rout had started, it rapidly became unstoppable. The advancing Christians hacked down everyone in their way, so that the main thoroughfare leading south through the city was soon strewn with the dead and dying. In desperation, women and children on the flat roofs of their homes threw anything that came to hand at the Spaniards slaughtering their menfolk. But it was like trying to stem the tide with a sieve.

  So swift and all-conquering was the advance that King Jaume, who had been in the van of his personal company of cavalry, had time to pause at the first mosque he came to and summon the Bishop of Barcelona from the rearguard to commence ‘cleansing the building of all filthiness of the Mohammedan superstition.’

  ‘I will name this church after Sant Miquel,’ he declared from the entrance, ‘and as soon as the Bishop has rendered it fit for Christian worship, I will have my galley’s figurehead – a carving of the Holy Mother and Child – installed in a place of prominence as a symbol of our Christian ascendancy over the Saracen infidels who have profaned the sanctity of this island with their presence for so long.’

  Then on he rode through a palm-shaded avenue lined with magnificent houses that rose from lush gardens filled with exotic flowers and shrubs, and irrigated by water spouting from fountains of intricately sculpted marble. Only at the northern perimeter of the city had significant damage been done by the Christians’ war engines, but now that the victorious troops were on the rampage, nothing could escape their destructive frenzy as they fanned out through the network of inner-city streets.

  Riding behind the king’s troop, Pedrito could only marvel at the unashamed opulence of the Moorish architecture and the manicured courtyards that graced every step of the way. No wonder, he thought, that Medîna Mayûrqa, the capital of this island outpost, had been compared with the finest cities in the vast Arab empire that stretched from the mountains of India in the east to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean in the west. But it seemed that such a glorious endorsement meant nothing to the unruly bands of Christian foot soldiers who had already given themselves up to an orgy of pillage and plunder – with the associated activities of rape and murder – while the more disciplined of their comrades carried on with the business of finishing off any surviving members of the Moorish garrison who still had an inclination to fight.

  By late afternoon, it was estimated that some thirty thousand people had fled the city, their departure ignored by a Christian army now more intent on taking booty from their homes than caring about any future threat they might pose to themselves. Meanwhile, it was assumed that many other Moors had taken refuge wherever it could be found within the walls, though still at least twenty thousand of their fellow citizens – men, women and children – were summarily slaughtered and lay in heaps round every corner. So much, Pedrito thought again, for being given a choice between conversion to Christianity or death.

  However, none of this appeared to unduly bother King Jaume as he followed his army’s trail of mayhem and carnage through the streets. It was a side-issue, Pedrito guessed, that came as a matter of course with the successful taking of any citadel. Presumably the king had seen it all before, even if not on such a grand scale. In any case, his only concern now was to track down the routed King Abû Yaha Háquem and bring him to heel. And where better to find the Saracen dog who had thwarted his territorial ambitions for so long than in his own lair, the sumptuous Almudaina?

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ King Jaume gasped on entering the wide, palm-fringed forecourt of the royal palace. He reined in his horse. ‘Have a man’s eyes ever been regaled by the sight of a more glorious building?’

  One of his accompanying knights then gestured towards the gilded minarets piercing the sky a short way behind the Almudaina’s balustraded parapets. ‘Perhaps that one, my lord?’ he suggested.

  ‘A-a-a-h,’ the king sighed, ‘the spires of the great mosque of Medîna Mayûrqa! How I marvelled at the jewelled beauty of its grand, golden dome as I gazed down on it from the heights of Na Burguesa. And how I swore that I would build to God’s glory the finest curch in Christendom on that very site, if the Almighty would only grant me victory here.’ He nodded his head, a look of piety on his face. ‘And now that He has, I vow that I will reduce that heathen temple to rubble and raise in its place a monument to Christ’s domination of those who follow the infidel Mohammed’s creed, to be seen and marvelled at for all time to come by everyone who sails to the city of Mallorca. Sí, and I will call this great cathedral Sa Seu – His House.’

  What was to be seen when the king’s party approached the Almudaina’s walls was more to be abhorred than marvelled at, however. Piled against the gates were fully three hundred bodies of defenceless Moorish townsfolk, locked out by their own people, from whom they’d presumably begged sanctuary before being mercilessly butchered by marauding Christian soldiers.

  ‘The collateral effects of war,’ muttered the king, repeating the words he had spoken when told by Pedrito of the possible death of Saleema’s parents, though perhaps with even less conviction this time. Coolly, he addressed one of his knights. ‘Have these bodies cleared, then prepare to demolish the gates.’

  Just then, young Robert St Clair de Roslin rode up. He dipped his head before the king then said, ‘I have news for you, Majestat – news of the Sheikh, the Saracen king.’ He nodded towards the palace gates. ‘Aye, and I can tell you he isn’t in there.’

  ‘And are you saying you know where he actually is?’ the king barked.

  ‘No, not exactly, senyor, but –’

  ‘But me no buts, man! You either know or you don’t!’

  ‘Well, I – I don’t know myself,’ Robert stammered, ‘but – but I know who does.’

  The king tutted in exasperation and motioned him to get on with it.

  ‘Two of your soldiers from the town of Tortosa south of Tarragona, my lord – they say they can take you to the house where he’s hiding. They say a Moor told them in exchange for his life.’

  ‘A Moor told them?’ The king frowned. ‘But how could they understand what he was saying?’

  Robert hunched his shoulders. ‘They say they understand a bit of Arabic.’

  ‘And they speak the truth?’

  ‘I believe so, senyor, for they say their information is worth two thousand libres to you, and they’re prepared to stake their lives on it.’

  ‘Two thousand!’ the king erupted. ‘Do they take me for a fool? We know the Moorish king is in the city somewhere, so it’s only a matter of time before we flush him out anyway.’

  ‘No doubt, my lord, but – but –’

  ‘I told you, but me no buts!’

  ‘Aye, but I was about to say, Majestat, that those Tortosa laddies could save you valuable time, so maybe it could be worth paying the two thou–’

  ‘I’ll pay one thousand and not a bean more!’ the king snapped. ‘And if it turns out they’re wasting my valuable time, I’ll have their miserable heads. Sí, and you can stake your life on that!’

  With this, King Jaume promptly detailed one of his train to go and fetch En Nunyo Sans, instructed two others to supervise the clearing of the corpses from the palace gates, then beckoned Pedrito.

  ‘You will come along with young St Clair and me, Master Blànes. If those two men really can take me to the Sheikh, I’ll need an interpreter.’

  Pedrito had a heart-in-mouth moment. ‘No, no, senyor,’ he objected. ‘I
mean, it’s kind of you to ask, but I really think you should get Senyor Babiel to translate on such an important –’

  ‘I’ve no time to wait until we find Babiel,’ the king snapped. ‘What’s more, you should think yourself lucky, for how often does a person of your humble origins get a chance to be involved in a parley between two kings?’

  For all that he felt the moment had finally come for him to make a clean breast of it, Pedrito still couldn’t bring himself to tell this king that the other king was his own father, and that he had been dreading meeting him face-to-face since the moment he’d found out how he had treated his mother. Pehaps, though, the best thing would be to keep King Jaume permanently in the dark about these personal details. All things considered, his knowing might do more harm than good.

  ‘And anyway,’ King Jaume growled while Pedrito was still in the throes of deliberation, ‘I’m not asking you to act as my interpreter, I’m telling you!’ He gestured towards the entrance to the square. ‘Here’s En Nuyo now, so let’s go! Ànims!’

  29

  ‘THE SINS OF THE FATHER’

  SEVERAL MINUTES LATER – INSIDE THE CITY…

  Darkness was falling as the two Tortosa soldiers led King Jaume and his company to a house only a short distance from the Almudaina Palace. Entry was through a small but graceful courtyard, dominated in the centre by a squat, spreading palm, and totally enclosed by arched walkways that supported the building’s balconied upper storey. From somewhere unseen, water tinkled sleepily into a small pond in which marble cherubs bathed among the lilly pads in dimple-faced bliss. Here was a haven of peaceful shade to cool the most fevered brow on the hottest of summer days. Yet it was a modest refuge for one more accustomed to the expansive extravagance of a royal palace. This puzzled King Jaume to the point of mistrust, and he said so.

  One of the two soldiers who had brought him here tried to put his mind at ease. ‘The Saracen quisling who betrayed his master said that this is the house of one of his court officials – a scribe, somebody like that. There is little of value here, unlike the palace, where the Sheikh keeps vast hoards of priceless booty paid as tribute over the years by his pirate vassals. His reason for hiding here, Majestat, is the same as the little skylark who feigns injury to lure a predator away from her nest.’

  Stroking his chin, King Jaume raised an avaricious eyebrow. ‘Vast hoards, you say?’

  ‘Sí, senyor,’ the soldier nodded. ‘That’s what the man said.’

  The king turned to one of his knights. ‘Go back to the palace gates and tell them to stop clearing away the dead bodies. Sí, and make sure no-one, and I mean no-one, enters or leaves until I return. I don’t want anyone getting his hands on those birds’ eggs before I do. Now, go like the wind!’

  Then up spoke En Nunyo Sans. ‘Beware that this house is more than a mere decoy, Majestat. For all we know, it could be a trap, set as a cowardly means of taking your life at the very hour of your greatest victory.’

  ‘Well reasoned, En Nunyo,’ the king replied, ‘and well counselled. It was for such qualities that I made you my chief general. Now,’ he continued, jerking his head towards the doorway of the house, ‘take two of my guards and go in there to make sure it’s safe for me to enter.’

  Although Pedrito’s nerves were on edge in anticipation of the personal ordeal that might be awaiting him, he couldn’t help but smile at the king’s sardonic sense of humour, as well as at En Nunyo’s obvious aversion to it.

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ the king’s cousin grunted, then selected two guards and directed them into the house – ahead of himself.

  ‘Delegation in the face of mortal danger is the privilege of the privileged,’ Pedrito silently concluded.

  As it transpired, neither of the delegators had anything to fear. After a few minutes, En Nunyo appeared in the doorway to announce that the house had been searched and the only occupants were King Abû Yaha and three bodyguards.

  ‘And you’re sure it’s the Sheikh himself?’ King Jaume checked. ‘I have no desire to waste time talking to an impostor while there’s every chance that the real Saracen king is back at his palace preparing to make off with his ill-gotten loot.’

  ‘As you will recall,’ En Nunyo testily replied, ‘I have already looked King Abû in the eye on those two occasions we parleyed at the start of the siege, and I can confirm, senyor, that the man inside the house here is indeed him. In fact,’ he added with a shrug, ‘I get the impression he has been expecting you.’

  ‘Expecting me? But how could that be?’

  En Nunyo looked directly at the two soldiers from Tortosa. ‘Well, who’s to say that the so-called quisling these men say betrayed their king might actually have been a messenger relaying his defeated master’s invitation to his conqueror?’

  King Jaume pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Well reasoned, amic, and well counselled again. You may well have saved me a thousand libres.’ He glared at the two cowering soldiers. ‘More than that, if I find out that what he suggests is true, I’ll personally take an axe to your miserable necks!’

  The king and En Nunyo, escorted by Robert St Clair de Roslin and three other knights, then entered the house, with Pedrito, his stomach churning, following a few paces behind. An archway in a filigree screen opened into a sparsely furnished room illuminated by the soft glow of delicately carved wall lamps. King Abû Yaha Háquem stood in the centre, flanked by his bodyguards, the tips of their lances pointing innocuously towards the ceiling.

  Pedrito was struck by the awesome presence of the man whose blood he shared. Tall and stately, he was clad in a flowing white burnous of finest silk, his dark, bearded face showing a serenity that belied the wretchedness of his situation. He acknowledged King Jaume with a slow bow and a flourish of his hand, before pulling his robe aside and drawing a jewel-encrusted dagger from his belt, then presenting it hilt-first to his subjugator. Next, and still without a word being spoken, he signalled his guards to surrender their lances to their opposite numbers.

  En Nunyo Sans, unable to hide his delight, nudged King Jaume with his elbow. ‘Now Mallorca is finally yours,’ he grinned. ‘Soon all the world will know of your great victory over the Saracen infidel. Now, Majestad, you can truly claim the title of El Conquistador, the Conqueror, the greatest warrior king in the history of Christian Spain.’ He beckoned Pedrito forward. ‘Tell the Sheikh what I just said, Master Blànes.’

  His voice quavering, Pedrito did as instructed, though purposely avoiding eye contact with King Abû, whose reply was short and spoken without emotion:

  ‘There is no conqueror but Allah.’

  ‘Well, Master Blànes,’ En Nunyo pressed, ‘what did he say?’

  ‘He, uh, he says that the Christian king is indeed a great warrior.’

  ‘It’s to his credit that he acknowledged the fact,’ En Nunyo beamed, ‘although he would have been courting trouble if he’d done otherwise.’

  Pedrito glanced at King Jaume, who, unlike his more effusive cousin, maintained an inscrutable expression while keeping his eyes fixed on the face of his arch adversary.

  After some moments of strained silence, King Abû spoke again – through Pedrito, but without looking at him.

  ‘Tell the Christian king that the terms of my surrender of the land of Mallorca are simple: I must be given ships to sail, with guaranteed safety, to Africa with all the members of my household and whatever goods and chattels I choose to take from my palace.’

  King Jaume remained silently impassive.

  ‘Goods and chattels?’ En Nunyo scoffed, nudging his royal cousin again. ‘He means to empty that lark’s nest of all its eggs and use them to fund a counter attack on us from Morocco. Beware the perfidy of this infidel, Majestat. He’s like any wounded dog – still dangerous when shown mercy.’

  Expressly ignoring those remarks, King Jaume spoke at last. ‘Convey my compliments to the Sheikh, Master Blànes, and inform him that the terms of his surrender will be dictated by me, and by no-one else.’
/>
  King Abû stood stony-faced as Pedrito translated this pointedly unequivocal message.

  ‘Tell him further,’ King Jaume went on, ‘that while I respect him as a fellow monarch, I have not forgotten that he insulted my emissary who, some time ago, came here to ask him to use his influence to stop his pirate cronies attacking the merchant ships of Spain. Instead of obliging, he slighted me by saying that he knew of no King Jaume of Aragon and Catalonia.’

  While Pedrito translated, King Jaume directed a burning stare into the eyes of his vanquished enemy, who chose not to respond.

  ‘Advise him,’ King Jaume continued, ‘that I vowed then that I would not rest until I had pulled the beard of the man who had treated me with such contempt.’ He paused. ‘The time has now come.’

  The Moorish king continued to stare unflinchingly back, while remaining resolutely silent.

  This was developing into a battle of wills, in which the odds were very much in King Jaume’s favour, and he knew it.

  ‘Tell him, Master Blànes, that I am a man sensitive to the feelings of others, so I will not make him suffer the ignominy of being humiliated in the presence of those in this room, including his own bodyguards.’

  King Abû responded with an almost imperceptible dipping of his head.

  ‘Inform him,’ King Jaume went on, ‘that a much more significant gesture will have to be made by him – one that will let the world see that he and his Muslim subjects are bowing to the supremacy of our Lord Jesus Christ, in whose name he has been so soundly defeated.’

  A twitch of apprehension tugged at the corner of King Abû’s mouth.

  King Jaume smiled a wry smile, savouring the moment, then said, ‘He will have to publicly renounce his Muslim faith and convert to Christianity.’

  On hearing this translated into Arabic, King Abû reacted as if he had been kicked in the chest. He clasped his heart. ‘I would rather die,’ he growled through clenched teeth. ‘The Christian king has my dagger. Let him turn it on me – now!’