by Peter Kerr
He and his two companions were tugging at the reins of the shying horse, while the young king struggled fiercely to retain control of it. This wasn’t presenting a particularly inspiring image to the droves of fighting men who were milling about awaiting orders from their commanders. En Nunyo told the king so in no uncertain manner.
‘All right, all right!’ King Jaume barked. ‘I’m not a lion or a leopard or some kind of wild animal, so there’s no need to manhandle me like one! If you think it’s all that imprtant, I’ll hold back.’ He glared at his three nobles. ‘But you’d better pray that no ill comes of it, or you’ll live to rue this moment. Sí, and you have my solemn oath on that!’
Then, out of the surrounding mass of troops rode a nobleman, and although Pedrito was positioned at what was becoming his customary ‘respectful’ distance from the king, he was close enough to see that this man boasted a presence which commanded the immediate attention, not only of En Nunyo Sans and his two fellow barons, but of the king himself.
‘Who’s he?’ Pedrito asked an archer who was standing in the shade of an adjacent carob tree tensioning his bowstring.
‘Him? Oh, that’s En Jaspert de Barberá. Sí, sí, I’ve served in many a campaign under him. A real gentleman, a brave knight and a fine reader of a battle. No better tactician, in my experience, and the best engineer, too, when it comes to a siege.’
‘He certainly seems to be held in some regard by the top men over there – even by the king himself.’
The archer’s reply was accompanied by a rather cynical smile. ‘Yes, well, En Jaspert probably knows more about warfare and how to conduct it than the king and all his cousins put together. But he isn’t a member of that noble clique – all cock-connected, even the bishops, you know – so he hasn’t been given the position he deserves on this crusade.’
In some respects, this made sense enough to Pedrito, but he was intrigued by one of the archer’s expressions. ‘Cock-connected?’ he queried.
The archer was more interested in his bowstring, to which he gave an appraising ‘ping’.
‘Cock-connected?’ Pedrito repeated.
‘Absolutely,’ muttered the archer, looking at Pedrito in a wearily-tolerant way. ‘The ancestry of that lot is more intertwined than a grapevine. I mean, that’s why they’re all so-called cousins, no matter how many times removed. Sí, sí, plenty of branches on their family trees, but grown from very few nuts – if you see what I mean.’
Pedrito did, and he left it at that.
As soon as he’d paid his formal respects to the king, En Jaspert addressed Nunyo Sans directly, and with a demeanour that exuded as much censure as respect.
‘Although I defer to your military rank, senyor, I’m bound by my allegiance to the king to tell you that you delay at your peril.’ He gestured towards the Moors on the hilltop. ‘Now’s the time, when they’re battle-bruised and disorganised, to attack with your fresh wave of troops.’ En Jaspert then motioned towards the sea. ‘Behind us, we have the harbour of Porto Pi, where the last of our ships are about to offload the remaining detatchments of our horse and infantry – all of them well-rested and ready for battle. The enemy will be watching and, no matter how superior their numbers, the arrival of our backup troops will be sowing the seeds of indecision in their minds. And lest you’ve forgotten,’ he added, ‘there’s also the very real possibility of Moorish reinforcements arriving by sea from Africa at any time. Therefore, I implore you, senyor – launch a new offensive without delay.’
En Nunyo had been caught on the horns of a dilemma. What En Jaspert said made perfect sense, but it also echoed the king’s instinctive reaction to the present situation – a reaction that En Nunyo had only just rebuffed. In the meantime, he had a huge body of men standing by, primed for the fight.
‘My thought was for our horses,’ he said, and there was no hint that he was telling anything but the truth. ‘They’ve had a long trek from Santa Ponça this morning, and they need to be rested before –’
‘Our horses are bred for long treks,’ King Jaume interrupted, ‘and if En Jaspert says we should attack now, then that’s what we’ll do, and I’ll lead!’
‘And why you? En Nunyo retorted, clearly nettled at having his authority superseded. ‘Have you suddenly become a lion or leopard after all?’
King Jaume was too taken aback to come up with a swift riposte.
But En Nunyo was unrelenting. ‘Don’t delude yourself into thinking there won’t be a Moorish knight up yonder who’s as good as yourself, and probably better!’
The bickering that followed between the two men was drowned out by the sound of En Jaspert de Barberá leading his company of some seventy knights and their followers into a headlong rush up the hill. He had clearly decided to ignore earlier orders by taking matters into his own hands. Insubordination of this sort, he probably thought, would only be punished if he failed in his mission. And if he failed in his mission, the likelihood was that he wouldn’t be alive to face the consequences anyway.
It seemed to Pedrito that here was a man after King Jaume’s own heart.
Even so, En Nunyo Sans’ drowned-out words must have had a tempering effect on the young monarch’s impetuosity once again, because, while En Nunyo now marshalled his men and followed those of En Jaspert into the attack, King Jaume remained behind and busied himself gathering his own train of knights to his banner.
To Pedrito’s non-military eyes, the scenario that had developed here suggested a total lack of any overall organisation. Men were still arriving back from the first encounter, while others were either embarking on or preparing to embark on the next. It seemed that orders were being shouted by all and sundry to all and sundry, also that the Christian troops’ frantic coming and going risked doing as much injury to themselves as did any potential counter offensive by the enemy. It reminded Pedrito of the chaos that had prevailed during the first mass disembarkation onto the beach at Santa Ponça. Yet, just as had happened then, order somehow began to emerge from apparent confusion now.
While he left appointed squires to group the main body of his men into battle formation, the king and a few chosen knights rode a short way up the hill, to a point where they could see what progress, if any, was being made by the forces of the new vanguard. Pedrito rode with them, though at a distance that showed both respect for his lowly status and the vulnerability of his sailor’s shirt.
The Moors, and there could have been as many as two thousand of them, began to shout as their attackers ascended towards them. In the apparent absence of any archers, the Moorish front line then started to hurl stones and to venture a little way forward. En Jaspert de Barberá’s men held their ground, while those following the standard of Nunyo Sans immediately turned and headed back down the hill.
‘Vergonya! Vergonya!’ King Jaume roared at them. ‘Shame! Shame on you!’
At that very moment, one of his companions noticed the troops of the royal banner, led by a hundred knights, advancing up the slope towards them. King Jaume immediately rode down to join his company, then, eagerly grasping the opportunity that had been denied him for so long, spearheaded an all-out charge against the army of his loathed adversary, Abú Yahya Háquem, the Saracen King of Mallorca.
13
‘WAR IS DEATH’S FEAST’
ONE HOUR LATER – THE FOOTHILLS OF NA BURGUESA MOUNTAIN…
Although the Christians were heavily outnumbered, their second offensive was to prove successful, but not without paying the price in a substantial loss of life. True to his promise, Pedrito had followed behind the fighting forces mounted on his old hack, while leading the other horse that King Jaume had ridden on his impulsive dash from base camp at dawn. Whatever the reason for the Moors’ dearth of archers at this stage of the battle, it had clearly handed the advantage to the Christians, as had the equally-curious absence of Moorish cavalry in any significant numbers.
So great was the mass of troops between Pedrito’s position and the front line of the conflic
t that at no stage could he make out the figure of King Jaume. Nevertheless, he could see that, within the melee, the royal banner was always well to the fore, so he presumed that the young monarch was making his presence felt where it counted. Not so, however, the hapless En Guillen de Mediona, who had been so curtly commanded by the king to take his bruised lip forthwith from the medical post and back into combat. On his way uphill through the fallen and walking wounded, Pedrito noticed the handsome young jouster lying on his back in a pool of blood. His throat was cut. Evidently, he had fought what his king would have considered to be the fight of a true knight after all, though this would be small consolation to the pampered damsels of Catalonia, who would have to find themselves another hero to swoon over at tourneys in future.
*
The battle was well and truly over by the time Pedrito had finally made his way through the debris of butchery to the crest of the hill. There, En Nunyo Sans was congratulating the king, whose apparel and weapons were adorned with the gory proof of his hands-on involvement in what had finally resulted in yet another rout of Moorish forces.
‘A good day for you, my lord, and for us all,’ Sans gushed. ‘All is ours, for your courageous action today has won us a momentous battle!’
To Pedrito, it seemed incongruous that such a dramatic change in attitude should have taken place in so short a time. Suddenly, the young king’s impetuosity had graduated from being scorned as a potentially-disastrous liability to being hailed as a triumphal asset. It was a manifestation, Pedrito supposed, of the gulf that exists in a man’s psyche between the fears and uncertainties of an approaching fight and the elation of ultimate victory – and, doubtless, of personal survival as well.
However, King Jaume appeared to be less carried away by the result of this latest encounter than was his senior general. He pointed to the north, to the brow of a hill where the remnants of the Moorish forces had retreated.
‘The Saracen king is still in their midst. See, there in the white robes.’ He looked around at the state of his own surviving troops, then shook his head despairingly. ‘Now would have been the time to put an end to the Amir and his pack of heathen dogs, but our men and horses are worn out. Too much has been asked of our people already today, and they have done me proud. Nevertheless, there’s still much for us to achieve before the war is won.’
At that point he noticed Pedrito standing a short way off, holding the reins of the hack he had dutifully delivered for the king’s evacuation in the event of things going against him. ‘You have done well to come unscathed this far wearing no more protection than a sailor’s shirt, Master Blànes,’ he smiled. ‘If only you’d brought a hundred more mounts, perhaps we could have found a hundred men still up for the fight. But anyway, we can only thank God for what He has already given us this day.’
He then spoke again to Nunyo Sans. ‘While the Amir is skulking in the hills yonder, we must sieze the opportunity to isolate him. Let’s muster the fittest of our men and make our way to the low ground between him and the city. Even if there’s only a handful of us, a message can be sent to our people landing at Porto Pi to come and add strength to our number.’
En Nunyo Sans looked far from persuaded that this was a wise course of action, but his newly-declared admiration for the king’s impulsiveness stood in the way of his making any objection. However, one of his suite who had been listening to the king’s proposal wasn’t obliged to be similarly restrained.
‘Majestat, what you suggest is folly. I beg your forgiveness for being so outspoken, but no general who has won a battle ever risks more without first passing the night on the field to assess what has been won and lost.’
‘I appreciate your frankness, En Remon Alaman, and I know you speak with our best interests at heart. Even so, you must accept that what I intend doing is right, and that’s the end of it.’
And so a precariously small company of cavalry and infantry set out behind their king in the direction of the Mallorcan capital, with Pedrito bringing up the rear, as had become his wont. They had only gone about a mile, however, when the Bishop of Barcelona, looking drawn and covered in grime from the battlefield, galloped up from the rear.
‘Majestat!’ he called out. ‘For God’s sake, don’t make such haste!’
With patent reluctance, King Jaume halted the column. ‘Why not?’ he asked as the bishop pulled up his horse beside him. ‘It seems to me the right thing to do.’
Clearly in a state of some distress, the bishop took him aside. ‘Oh, my lord, my lord,’ he gasped, ‘you’ve lost much more this day than you imagine.’
The king knotted his brows. ‘And perhaps I’ve gained much more than you imagine.’
Looking the king squarely in the eye, the bishop shook his head. ‘I heard of the great victory you won when attacking the enemy’s centre, but I’ve just come from where our advance troops engaged them on the left some time earlier.’
The king’s frown deepened. ‘And?’ he asked, hesitantly.
His chest heaving, the bishop swallowed hard.
‘Please,’ the king urged, ‘– I need to know the truth.’
The bishop gathered himself. ‘Well, as you know,’ he began, his voice quavering, ‘our people were always going to be hopelessly outnumbered, yet our knights inflicted massive hurt to the enemy cavalry.’ He lowered his head. ‘They fought valiantly for you, senyor, but without reinforcements to back them up, they were bound to suffer huge losses.’ He looked into the king’s eyes again. ‘If only our rearguard hadn’t waited for so long …’
There were endless moments of silence before the king quietly asked: ‘And the Muntcadas? How fare En Guillen and En Remon?’
Once more the bishop cast his eyes downward. ‘Dead, my lord. Both killed while fighting alongside their men in the fiercest mounted combat some of our most seasoned soldiers have ever seen.’
Tears welled in King Jaume’s eyes, and it was clear that the emotion which the bishop’s news evoked was genuine, despite the history of animosity that had existed between the king and his two illustrious nobles. Equally, his attitude towards En Nunyo Sans, whose delaying tactics the bishop had so pointedly lamented, reflected not a hint of incrimination.
‘Let no man weep for our lost brothers, En Nunyo. Their death is like a stab in the heart to us all, but we mustn’t be seen to grieve, for that would only kill the spirit of our people and weaken their resolve to overcome the struggles that lie ahead. Therefore, let us seem emboldened by the Muntcadas’ example, rather than openly mourn their loss.’
Any feelings of remorse that En Nunyo Sans might have been experiencing were kept hidden behind a convincing façade of military poise. ‘So, Majestat, we march on towards the city, sí?’
With a despondent look, the king shook his head. ‘No, I think not. In the light of the bishop’s news, I believe it’s best to follow the advice of En Remon de Alaman after all. We must take time to assess our losses before committing what’s left of our troops to any more fighting. For we musn’t forget, if what the Moor Ali told us is true, there’s still a sizeable part of the enemy garrison waiting within the city walls.’ He then told En Nunyo to make camp for the night by a nearby stream. ‘Post lookouts all around – and be sure it’s done this time! And send dispatches to the rest of our units telling them we’ll regroup here in the morning.’ Pensively, he stroked his chin in his customary way. ‘Meanwhile, I think I’ll use what’s left of the daylight to see how the land lies between here and the city. Whoever controls the island must first control the capital. Sí, and it’s there for the taking.’
After assembling a small bodyguard of knights, King Jaume summoned Pedrito to accompany them to the top of an adjacent rise. ‘If I guess correctly, Master Blànes, we should be able to see all the way to the City of Mallorca from there, and as you’re familiar with the landscape hereabouts, your counsel will be much appreciated.’
What a difference becoming the victor of a crucial battle makes, Pedrito mused. No longer wa
s the king the posturing figurehead who showed all the outward signs of self-assurance to his troops, while harbouring an almost juvenile subservience to a certain coterie of nobles, who were, in the final analysis, perhaps only superior to him in years. King Jaume was now taking control of matters, and instead of consulting his hitherto mentor, En Nunyo Sans, he had just put him firmly in his place. ‘Post lookouts all around – and be sure it’s done this time!’ How many long-suppressed retaliations were being released in the appendix to that one command?
*
It was dusk when they reached the top of the hill. Above them towered the rolling crests of Na Burguesa ridge, the gulleys in its wooded slopes already filling with the milky mists of night. In the other direction, the sea was a mirror reflecting the glow of the setting sun, its rays draped over the waters of the bay like a vast, sequined veil.
‘Breathtaking,’ the king murmured. ‘Truly breathtaking…’
His eyes were then drawn eastward by something glinting down by the shore. ‘The city of Medîna Mayûrqa,’ he whispered. ‘My God, just look at those buildings catching the light of the sun. Gold! It’s like discovering a city of pure gold!’ A look of awe spread over his face. ‘Never have I seen such a wonderous place. The finest city I have ever cast my eyes upon.’
His sentiments were echoed by his accompanying knights, who stood transfixed by the sheer opulence of what was spread out below them.
‘And,’ the king marvelled, ‘just look at the tall date palms lining the curve of the waterfront there. Palms – a city of palms. And the fine houses – each one a palace. And their gardens – one lush oasis after another – orange trees everywhere, and apricots, and pomegranates too. And look at the fountains in those palm-shaded courtyards – see how their waters dance like a thousand spangles in the sunset.’ He stared dumbstruck for a few moments, then whispered, ‘My God, what a prize! What a veritable Garden of Eden!’ His look of awe was now replaced by one of steely determination. ‘And it’s all mine – mine for the taking!’