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

by Peter Kerr

  Albeit that he had been welcomed wholeheartedly into the body of this rather select company of young men-at-arms, Pedrito had slipped away quietly when their post-prandial skylarking started. And famished though he had been, the sight of so much food when it appeared had actually ruined his appetite. The prospect of his mother and young Saleema sitting in that dank cave eating snails had filled him with a feeling of guilt. How could he possibly enjoy all that had been laid before him here when they were having to survive on so little? Why, even Nedi the dog was eating better on scraps dropped from the table.

  And so he spent the latter part of the evening sitting alone with his thoughts near the perimeter of the compound, the sound of the young knights’ jollity on one side, the clamour of war engines being cocked, loaded and discharged on the other. It struck Pedrito as a curious blend of the merry and the malicious, a notion put into words by King Jaume when he sidled up behind him after the banquet in his tent was over.

  ‘That’s war for you, Little Pedro – a bitter broth of blood, sweat and tears, with the occasional dash of nervous laughter added to sweeten the mixture – if you’re lucky.’

  Startled, Pedrito stood up. ‘It seems you’ve been reading my thoughts, senyor.’

  The king shook his head. ‘They’re everyone’s thoughts, and they never change, no matter how often men find themselves in situations like this.’ He shivered, pulling his cloak around him. ‘But why are you sitting so far from the fire? Wasn’t the company of my young heroes good enough for you?’

  ‘No, no, it wasn’t that,’ Pedrito protested apologetically. ‘It’s just that I –’

  The king started to chuckle. ‘It’s all right, amic, I was only teasing again. But anyway, the lads have all gone off to their quarters now, so why don’t you come and sit with me for a while back there – you know, have a chat while there’s still a glow in the ashes?’ He rubbed his midriff. ‘I’ve eaten so much I’ll have nightmares if I go to sleep before I’ve had a chance to digest some of this.’

  Although the king was by no means tipsy, Pedrito could tell by his demeanour that he had been enjoying his share of Ben Abbéd’s wine. And he told one of his servants to bring another two cups of it just as soon as he and Pedrito had settled down by the fire. Perhaps, Pedrito thought, the right moment to tell the king about his mother and Saleema had come at last. But not just yet. First, he would allow the king time to talk about whatever he wanted to. It seemed that he was in the mood to indulge in a bit of small talk, to unwind after taking part in what may well have been some highly-charged military conversations with his dinner guests, so best to give him his head.

  ‘An angel, Little Pedro, an absolute angel,’ he said after his first slurp of wine.

  ‘Who, me?’

  The king chuckled again. ‘No, no – I mean no offence, but not you, although I’m sure you will be – some day, but not for a while yet, we hope. No, no, I’m talking about the Moor, Benahabet.’

  ‘You mean Ben Abbéd.’

  ‘Call him what you will,’ the king said with a dismissive flourish of his hand, ‘to me he’s still an angel.’

  Pedrito stifled a snigger, while also suppressing the urge to remind the king that he had referred to the same man as a sly, scheming Saracen that very morning. ‘Ben Abbéd, an angel?’ he queried.

  The king took another gulp of wine. ‘Absolutely. I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s the only way to describe him.’

  Pedrito shot him an incredulous look. ‘A Muslim angel? But I thought we Christians were taught to believe that only followers of Christ went to heaven.’

  ‘Very true, very true. But this Muslim was obviously sent to us by our God – the only God, the Father of our Saviour, Jesus Christ.’

  Pedrito scratched his head. ‘So God, our God, communicates with Muslims, is that what you’re saying?’

  The king pulled a facial shrug. ‘Quite clearly, yes. How else would this Benahabet –’

  ‘Ben Abbéd.’

  ‘Whatever. How else would he have had the wisdom to provide us, God’s army, with the wherewithal to defeat the disbelievers?’

  ‘But he’s a Muslim. He believes in Allah, not God.’

  The king leaned over and prodded Pedrito in the chest. ‘God moves in mysterious ways, Little Pedro, and it isn’t for us to question them. Never forget that.’

  Pedrito decided to remain silent for a while, fighting the impulse to say something that he feared he might regret. But, as usual, his tongue eventually won the contest with his better judgement.

  ‘You told me on the first day at sea that your mission was to convert the Mallorcan Muslims to Christianity, and destroy those who refused.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, will the same go for Ben Abbéd?’

  King Jaume gave a derisory little laugh. ‘You clearly aren’t familiar with the politics of religion, amic.’ He paused to take another sip of wine. ‘But for your enlightenment – and I say this in the strictest confidence – I discussed that very matter over dinner tonight with Berenguer de Palou, the Bishop of Barcelona himself, and it was agreed that the matter of Benahabet’s religious persuasion would be held in abeyance – until after the war, at least.’

  ‘In other words, he can buy the right to be a Muslim by providing the Christian army with food. Is that how it works?’

  The king tapped the side of his nose. ‘Politics, religion, war – you have to know how to come out on top in all of them, and it’s for God to decide whether the action I take in His name is correct or not. If He grants me victory – and I believe He will – it will prove that I’ve made the right decisions. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Simple?’ Pedrito snorted. ‘Well, I’m afraid I’m too simple to understand, senyor.’

  The king swallowed a yawn. ‘Little Pedro, as I told you before – and no offence intended – that’s why God made me a king and made you a peasant.’

  ‘No doubt, senyor. No doubt.’

  The king drained his cup, then nodded towards Pedrito’s. ‘You aren’t drinking your wine. Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I haven’t tasted it, but I’m sure it’s excellent.’

  ‘It is indeed, so no point in letting it go to waste.’ The king tilted his head. ‘Uhm-ah, may I?’

  Pedrito indicated that he could.

  ‘I don’t know why you persist in only drinking water, amic. As that drunken old monk of a tutor always drummed into me, fish shit in it.’ He raised Pedrito’s cup. ‘Salut! Your very good health!’

  Pedrito nodded his reciprocation, deliberating during the few moments of silence that followed whether this might be an opportune moment to broach the subject – and complicated side issues – of having chanced to discover his natural mother in the city.

  But it was the king, slouched back against the table and gazing sleepily into the embers of the fire, who spoke first. ‘You know how I’ve been using you to act as a translator for me?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m only too pleased to help. Glad of the opportunity, in fact.’

  ‘And you’ll recall that I mentioned a man called Abel Babiel?’

  ‘The man from Zaragoza, who speaks a bit of Arabic?’

  ‘The same. Anyway, if it should happen that there’s a parley between myself and the Moorish King – and such things do happen in the course of any siege – Senyor Babiel may well insist on acting as my interpreter.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Pedrito acknowledged, in some inexplicable way relieved that he might not have to confront his true father. ‘I know my place. No problem.’

  The king sat up and looked directly at him. ‘Ah, but there is a problem.’

  Pedrito shook his head. ‘Not as far as I’m concerned. Honestly.’

  The king leaned in close again. ‘Politics. Politics and religion, that’s the problem.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And, eh, money … naturally.’

  ‘All too complicated for me,’ Pedrito chortled. ‘And too steeped in intrigue as well. Yes indeed, being a
simple peasant does have its advantages.’

  ‘Except you’re not just a simple peasant – you’re my trusted interpreter – “trusted” being the operative word. Sí, and I’m afraid that merely adds to the problem.’

  Pedrito watched the king stroke his beard meditatively for a bit, then said, ‘So, you don’t trust Senyor Babiel, is that it?’

  King Jaume replied in a manner that suggested he was thinking aloud as much answering Pedrito’s question. He muttered that it wasn’t that he didn’t trust this man Babiel. After all, he had raised enough money in Zaragoza to contribute considerably to the undertaking of this crusade, so that was surely worthy of trust. But at what price? That was the problem – or part of it. Abel Babiel was a Jew, and the agreed bargain was that his people would be granted a commensurate allocation of Mallorca’s asset’s on the successful completion of the Christian reconquest of the island.

  ‘Seems reasonable enough,’ Pedrito suggested. ‘It’s the same deal all your other supporters have been promised, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hmm,’ the king droned, still in contemplative mood. ‘But if I do have a final face-to-face with the Moorish King, how will I be able to judge if what Babiel tells me is a true translation? He may twist the Amir’s words to suit his own ends.’

  ‘So, you don’t trust him,’ Pedrito laughed. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  This seemed to shake the king out of his reverie. ‘There you go with your naïve thinking again.’ He gathered his brows into a frown. ‘Nothing’s ever as simple as that – not when it comes to dealing with a Jew at any rate.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Pedrito, with more than a hint of dissent in his voice. ‘I mean, my father used to sell fish on the quayside to merchants who were Jews, and although they always drove a hard bargain, they were never less than straight. You knew where you stood with them. And the Moors thought so as well. Treated them the same as us Christian – let them worship as they pleased, as long as they did it discreetly.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘All right, just like us Christians, they were charged higher taxes than Muslims, but that wasn’t a huge price to pay for peaceful co-existence. In any case, I never heard a Jew complaining about life under Moorish rule, and I never heard a Moorish merchant saying the Jews were untrustworthy.’

  A wry smile crossed the king’s lips. ‘Ah, but that’s where your peasant background lets you down. You haven’t had the benefit of a proper education, you see.’

  Pedrito gave him a quasi-vacant look. ‘Well, never too old to learn, senyor. I’m all ears, so tell me what I need to know.’

  King Jaume proceeded to explain to Pedrito that one of the first things he had been told by the Knights Templar who brought him up was that there were Jewish soldiers in the first Moorish armies to overrun Spain. ‘Arabs, Jews, Saracens,’ he went on. ‘Whatever they call themselves, they’re all Semites, the sons of Noah, all members of the same tribe.’

  ‘But your man Babiel has committed himself to a Christian cause. He’s here taking part in a crusade, so does it matter what his forebears were?’

  The king uttered a mocking little laugh. ‘Senyor Babiel has come here in the company of Christian soldiers, there’s no denying that. But he comes with an abacus in his hand, not a sword, and that’s the difference.’

  Pedrito had seen the king in this frame of mind before – absently revealing his innermost thoughts, not with any intention of stimulating a discussion, but rather in an attempt to lighten the load of his responsibilities while temporarily distanced from the critical presence of his senior barons and clergymen. Pedrito happily took it upon himself to feed him questions that might help the cathartic process along. Would it therefore be the king’s objective, he asked, to make all Mallorcan Jews convert to Christianity, or suffer the same fate as dissenting Muslims?

  The king was quick to reply that he had no such intention. ‘Indeed, I have nothing against them practicing their own religion, as long as it’s done in private – you know, in a way that doesn’t offend the Christian establishment.’

  ‘But if they’re of the same tribe as the Arabs, why treat them differently?’

  ‘Because our Lord Jesus Christ was a Jew, and Mohammed wasn’t. Simple.’

  Pedrito nodded pensively. ‘But Jesus is the son of God, so does that mean that God is Jewish?’

  King Jaume chose to ignore that question. Silence reigned for a while, then, gazing thoughtfully into the dying embers of the fire, he murmured, ‘He’s a clever man, your Jew. Good with money. Some of them even manage the financial affairs of Moorish rulers in parts of Spain. Sí, and make no mistake, they’ll eventually do the same for some of the new Christian rulers as well.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Pedrito came back. ‘Surely it’s a wise ruler who makes use of a subject’s skills, be he a soldier or a bean-counter.’

  The king glanced sidelong at him. ‘Without a doubt. But it’s when the abacus becomes mightier than the sword that the troubles will start.’ He looked back into the fire. ‘As I’ve said many times, it’s the Church – they can make or break kings. And the day will come when they’ll break the Jews, if they get hold of too many purse strings.’ It was as if he was speaking to himself now. ‘Even the Knights Templar won’t be immune from the power of the Church. Just look at them – a century ago they amounted to nothing but a few impoverished French monks dedicated to ensuring the safety of Christian pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem’s Temple Mount. Now, because of their crusading exploits, their prodigious order has amassed so much wealth through the granting of lands and privileges by the rich and righteous that they’ve become the bankers and financiers to much of Christian Europe.’ He nodded his head dolefully. ‘Money means power, and one day, if the Templars’ power is seen as a threat to the Church, they’ll be broken too.’

  Pedrito remained tactfully silent while King Jaume stared into his wine. ‘Sí, God moves in mysterious ways,’ he mumbled, ‘and all a mortal can do is try to follow them…’ He hesitated before adding, ‘According, naturally, to the guidance of His representatives here on earth.’

  ‘You mean the leaders of the Christian Church?’ Pedrito asked rhetorically, but cautiously.

  Again, the king appeared not to have heard. He shivered, pulling his cloak about himself once more. Then, as though shaken from a daydream, he looked Pedrito in the eye and said, ‘I am not a heartless man, Little Pedro. I do what I do for the glory of God, but I’m not a heartless man … even if you do disapprove of my ordering the severed heads of the enemy to be hurled back where they belong.’

  Clearly, the king’s mood had now graduated from mellow to conciliatory, so Pedrito decided to seize the moment.

  He faked a cough. ‘The, ehm, the two women I told you about – the ones I met in the city…’

  The king arched an eyebrow, an impish smile lighting his face. ‘Aha, the confession of your sins. Do you want me to summon a priest so that you can receive forgiveness like everyone else who joined this crusade? Better late than never.’

  Lowering his eyes, Pedrito laughed nervously. ‘No, senyor, no. I, well, what I have to confess is far from being a sin. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ He allowed his eyes meet the king’s for a second. ‘Although…’ He coughed again.

  ‘Go on, amic!’ the king urged. ‘Although what?’

  Pedrito shuffled his feet uneasily, then blurted out ‘Although, senyor, I fear there may be aspects of what I have to say that won’t meet with your approval.’

  Intrigued, the king pursed his lips. ‘Not a sin, yet I’ll disapprove of it, eh?’ He tutted loudly. ‘But there you go again – talking in riddles. Come on, man, you know I’ve no time for any of that. Say what you have to say!’

  Pedrito took a deep breath. ‘Well, one of the women turned out to be my mother.’

  King Jaume scowled at him for several tense moments. ‘If this is some sort of jest,’ he eventually growled, ‘I’ll take it ill out. You told me with tears in your eyes the other day th
at your parents had been killed by Moorish pirates, and I offered you my condolences.’ His frown deepened as his voice rose. ‘Now you tell me you met your mother in the city. Do you take me for an idiot – or have you taken leave of your senses?’

  Pedrito could understand why the king’s patience, and temper, was short, attempting as he had been to escape for a little while the worries of warfare by having a relaxed and unburdening chat. What’s more, he was tired and perhaps beginning to feel the effects of his intake of Ben Abbéd’s wine. All the same, Pedrito wasn’t finding it easy to come out with what he had to say, and he felt stung by the king’s sudden aggressiveness. After all, his allegiance to the king had been a major factor in his deciding to come back here when he could just as easily have stayed in the cave above Génova to help protect and support his mother and Saleema.

  ‘I mean no disrespect, senyor,’ he snapped, ‘but I certainly haven’t taken leave of my senses!’

  The king took a sharp breath and held it, as if in the process of deciding whether he had just been on the receiving end of a veiled insult.

  ‘Nor,’ Pedrito quickly appended, as the king, his hackles rising, attempted to speak, ‘do I take you for an idiot.’

  King Jaume exhaled loudly. Then, with a wry smile and a rolling movement of his hand, he bade Pedrito continue.

  Calmly and without emotion, Pedrito first reminded the king that it had been his adoptive parents, the people who had taken him into their home as a foundling, who had been the victims of marauding pirates. The woman he had met in the city, however, was his natural mother – someone whose whereabouts or even existence he hadn’t known anything about until a chance encounter with her in the lowly kasbah quarter.

  King Jaume’s immediate, and absolutely valid, reaction was to ask how Pedrito could be certain that someone he’d never even heard about before was truly his mother.