The Catalan Knight

By Jeremy Ottewell

In a time before the Kingdom of Spain.

 

Barcelona 1282

 

King Peter II of the House of Barcelona rules over the ancient but impoverished Crown of Catalunya-Aragón.

 

Seizing his opportunity to create a Mediterranean power, he takes on mighty France, triggering an epic power struggle that threatens to consume everyone in its path and starts Josep - rootless and fatherless - on a journey of self-discovery.

 

Can the starving, bloodthirsty Catalan Almogavar warriors defeat the unholy alliance between France and the Vatican, and bring down the French knights in all their glory annd hubris?

 

Unbeknown to Josep, he is a marked man already, and he must survive ruthless intrigue and spine-chilling cruelty to find his roots, serve his king and win the heart of the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Ottewell
• Release date: Jul 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223795582

Jeremy Ottewell

Jeremy Ottewell, author and teacher, has lived and worked in Barcelona for thirty years. A Catalan and Spanish speaker, he has always been fascinated by the history and language of Catalonia and its relationship with Spain.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Prologue

June 2 1282

All eyes are on the Catalan coast at this moment as, after several years of preparation, intrigue and secrecy, King Pere of Catalunya-Aragón has amassed a huge fleet for his impoverished kingdom. Mighty France, backed by the Papacy, is suspected

of foul play, undertaking secret missions to destabilise the neighbouring kingdom straddling the Pyrenees and to obstruct the fleet’s construction, convinced King Pere’s intentions will go against their interests. Meanwhile, on board the fleet are the most savage and feared foot soldiers of the age, the almogàvers, whose name means destroyers. Josep, Catalan by birth but whose mother is English, is also on board and though young, has a bright future. He is the squire of the ageing Lord Pero de Ayerbe and has won the trust of the King, having saved the fleet the King has worked for years to build from destruction by fire. His adoptive uncle, Bru, is an almogàver serving in the army, too, and on board with the almogàver infantry. After an agonising delay of several weeks, the fleet is finally launched and the whole Mediterranean holds its breath as this small kingdom pushes out into the Middle Sea to turn its fortunes around, claim its rightful inheritance and teach the arrogant French a lesson.

Fifty knots off the Royal Shipyard, or Drassanes, at Port Fangós, southern Tarragona coast.

Josep had not moved more than a few feet in the two hours it had taken the fleet to get this far out to sea. He was amazed by the speed at which they were sailing, outpaced only by leaping dolphins. Quite unaware of anything else around him, he stood alone grasping rigging on the port side of the maindeck, motionless to all who observed him as though mesmerised by the endless rising and falling of the churning waves, staring back at land, a flurry of activity around him as the sailors went about their tasks. The land, so long a smudge on the horizon, had now disappeared and his mind was spinning with thoughts of his last conversations with the people he had left on shore, the events of the previous days and the fight he had had the night before with the enemy spy he had discovered trying to set fire to the ships and prevent the fleet from sailing. He had saved the fleet and been the hero of the  moment.

A sudden lurch of the ship made him stagger momentarily, lost as he was in his musings. He steadied his footing and felt a slight unease in his stomach as he wiped the sea spray off his face and felt the fresh wind tugging at his hair and the first chill of his now sodden clothing.

King Pere's galley, the Stella Maris, in the vanguard of the fleet, had suddenly veered to starboard and now skilfully came port side of Josep's galley, the last ship on the starboard flank of the first line of the cruising war fleet. Josep snapped out of his

daydream and saw Vice-Admiral de Llúria, the captain of the King's galley, pass a scroll to Vice-Admiral Ramón Marquet, the captain of Josep's galley.

The King's galley then deftly repeated this tricky, dangerous manoeuvre many times for several hours so that the entire fleet received its instructions, each captain personally being handed a scroll by Vice-Admiral Roger de Llúria. Meanwhile, the fleet ploughed steadily on, heading due east, not allowing the complex navigation required to deliver this communication to slow it down in any way. Josep looked behind him and could see the King's galley now alongside the galley of the second Rear Admiral Ramón de Cortada, who was commanding the transports, twenty enormous wide barge-like huissiers specially designed for horses. Here was the King's cavalry. It was now late morning, the manoeuvres had been going on for several hours and the King's galley had moved between five lines of twenty galleys each sailing in parallel and was dropping back to the last line of twenty at the rear.

The King's galley finally came alongside the last galley on the extreme port side flank of the sixth line of ships. At a distance of some two hundred metres behind them, Josep had to strain to see. Yet at this point, he saw the King's galley steer a wide arc round the rear port side flank of the fleet, marking a southern bearing. A moment later, a huge, trailing red flag was run up the foremast, where it flapped majestically, imperatively punctuating the bright blue sky.

By order of Vice-Admiral Roger de Llúria, set a new course south for Minorca! boomed Vice-Admiral Ramón Marquet in Josep's galley.

The switch in direction of the fleet was so sudden that Josep nearly lost his footing again as Marquet's second officer bawled out a rapid list of instructions and the sailors scrambled to follow his instructions. The boatswain was straining to hold steady the enormous rudder on the aft starboard side of the galley. The sails flapped wildly, thunderously, and every timber creaked. The galley gave a mighty sustained groan, came to, the sails filled again on both masts and the galley lurched to starboard. The sun, now reaching perpendicular, was no longer full in their faces but port side, confirming their southerly change in direction.

On course for Minorca! the second officer roared now above the din of the labouring ship and the crash of the surf against her bows. Josep swung round to see behind him the wake left by the galloping fleet as the scores of vessels of different types sped on. He saw they were now going not south but south west, already led by the King's galley, which in no time, had already made it to the vanguard of the fleet by sailing faster than all the ships due south along the hypotenuse of the triangle the fleet now made as it changed direction. They came so perilously close to Josep's galley on the starboard flank that he could see the expression of concern on the King's face. It was a skilful, daring and dramatic manoeuvre.

Josep had no idea of course of the contents of the letter and Lord Pedro de Ayerbe,

to whom Josep was still a squire, looked vexed when asked why they were going to Minorca.

"There are eyes and ears everywhere, my boy. The movements of King Pere are the most scrutinised in the western Mediterranean. The French and particularly the Angevins will be reassured if the King's fleet sails to Minorca. It is after all a vassal kingdom of the Kingdom of Catalunya-Aragón.

Do you mean it might be a decoy, my Lord? Josep asked, trying to fathom the meaning of this pithy comment. Lord Pedro glared at him.

Keep your voice down, for the love of God! The seaman's job is to take orders, not to understand the King's strategy!

My apologies, my Lord! Josep stammered, bowing his head. I am new to sailing. This seemed to appease Lord Pedro, who sniffed, gave a quick shake of his head, turned from him and walked away, leaving Josep feeling foolish and out of place.

That day the entire fleet went to bed with the sun, having rowed under sail the rest of the day after changing course. The oarsmen simply dropped their oars, relieved they did not have to battle any longer against exhaustion. The rest of the crew quickly took down and furled the two lateen sails. They all ate a simple meal of cheese and biscuit washed down with a glass of wine and lay down under the  diamond-studded sable of the night sky to sleep. Josep heard his captain, Marquet, checking bearings, then fell fast asleep.

As soon as he awoke, he saw land in the distance to starboard. Is it Minorca? he asked a passing sailor.

No, master, that is Majorca. Do they look the same?

No, master, I would say not. Majorca's much bigger. Look, from here we can see the mountains of the north west coast. Minorca's much smaller, much flatter.

Which one do you prefer? Josep asked, making the most of his early-morning conversation.

I can't say I've 'ad the leisure to contemplate that question, jove, the sailor replied, touching his cap. Majorca's big enough to be a kingdom. James is their king but he's a vassal to his brother, our King Pere, as you probably know. Minorca is much more..., let's say, mysterious. His eyes twinkled as he said the word.

Why mysterious? Josep asked fascinated.

Just stories people tell, young man, he said holding Josep’s gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly, but it's still in the hands of the Moors, you know, though the Almojarife is a vassal of our king, too. Their ways are different from ours, he said, raising an eyebrow and nodding. It's like you was to return to Catalunya before the Reconquest. Their traditions go back centuries. You'll find it strange and old- fashioned, like, I wager. They 'ave strange ways and it ain't easy to communicate with them. Truth be told, I wouldn't trust King James or the Almojarife to be truly loyal to our king, just between you and me, you know? he said with a wink.

Josep nodded but his mind was racing and he fell silent. Suddenly, the sailor's attention was taken and he took his leave, touching his cap again, and occupied himself anew with his tasks.

They sailed all day skirting north of Majorca and the lofty Serra de la Tramuntana to Cap de Formentor with its towering, craggy cliffs. To the south east, Josep could now see lowlands and just at that point, Minorca came into view. Peering into the distance through the sea haze, Josep could see it was much lower than Majorca, almost flat in fact except for a slight elevation in the middle.

It was late afternoon as they again set a new course south between the islands and Josep could see Minorca port side as they drew closer and the afternoon sun began to sink below the horizon behind them.

Josep witnessed now a marvellous event happening all along the Minorcan coast. He had seen that the island was dotted with tiny, isolated beaches, small coves between cliffs swathed in Mediterranean pine. In the late afternoon sun, the water around these beaches had an aquamarine translucence that he found beautiful. The sandstone cliffs above glowed a light pink, the sand gleamed soft and yellow, the pines were a deep green against the fathomless blue sky. It was exquisite. Then, as light failed and night fell, magical fires appeared one by one along the cliff tops, in strange structures visible even from the sea, either in welcome or warning, Josep was not sure which. He had the impression people were coming and going around these fires as if waiting for someone to return.

Those bonfires there are called talaiots, they are! said the same sailor Josep had spoken to earlier. They're ancient stone beacons that they light, every night, out of tradition.

They look as if they're waiting for someone.

They may well be, young man, but on an island, especially one so small, no big news comes except from the sea. It's a form of entertainment to light the fires, watch the sunset, see if the coast is clear. What's certain is our arrival won't be no secret!

In fact their eventual arrival in Ciutadella was a great event in Josep's mind. The harbour was a narrow channel between the cliffs that led all the way to the city of Ciudatella and there was no way that a hundred or more galleys could drop anchor inside it. Instead, wooden jetties were quickly rowed out and the entire fleet was able to harbour within a kind of man-made lagoon just outside the narrow channel.

It was such a relief for Josep, not a great sailor and strangely nervous on the open sea, to get onto dry land after two days on board. The King was greeted with great ceremony by the Almojarife, Abu Umar Ibn Said, Rai of Manurca, and a great feast was laid out for the King and his fleet.

The Almojarife and the King exchanged formal greetings.

Sire, what does my Lord King wish of me? began the Almojarife. His bidding shall be my command! Josep was struck by the old-fashioned, heavily accented Catalan.

Almojarife Abu Umar Ibn Said, Rai of Manurca, fear not, the King replied in his most majestic manner. We have not come to cause you or the island any grief or annoyance, of that you may be certain.

The two rulers embraced and took their place at the top of the table. As they began the banquet, Josep noticed the Almojarife call over one of his councillors. He muttered something in his ear, the counsellor nodded and left in great haste. Roger de Llúria and Ramón Marquet were sitting near Josep and noticed what had happened. They immediately consulted, then called over one of the galley captains.

Captain! said de Llúria, Make yourself as inconspicuous as possible, leave now but track him carefully, don't let him see you but don't let him out of your sight, either!

Report back later, Marquet added. The captain simply nodded and departed rapidly.

After the magnificent banquet, once King Pere's men had returned to their respective galleys, Josep overheard the captain reporting back to the

Vice-Admiral and his Vice-Admiral.

The counsellor sent men out to each ship asking the same question, he said.

They were delivering the supplies that the Almojarife has offered the King so they didn't need to explain who they were but the question they all asked was always the same. Where are you heading?"

And what did the sailors reply? asked Roger de Llúria.

We don't know, that is all that they said. They all said the same but then the Almojarife's men started asking if we were going to different places. They were very insistent, they wouldn't take we don't know for an answer."

But nobody does know where we are going, said Marquet, so how can anyone say anything else?

Well, Sir, they asked them if we were going to Sicily and Tunisia. The sailors denied this more vehemently than the other places. When they asked the captains if they were simply returning home they said, Yes, we think so, but we don't know, but when asked about Sicily, they said, No, no, why would we want to go there? or We're not going there as far as we know," the captain said.

So effectively they sounded out the sailors about rumours among the crew? Roger de Llúria asked. Yes, I suppose they let them know more or less what the whole fleet is thinking.

Thank you, Captain, you may go, Marquet said briskly. He and de Llúria jumped up the moment the captain left.

To the King! said de Llúria.

There were roars of rage from the Stella Maris within a quarter of an hour as the Vice-Admiral told the King the bad news.

Unfortunately there is nothing the King can do, Josep overheard Lord Pedro say to another commander later.

The Almojarife is a wily character and intelligence based on rumour is better than no intelligence at all but the King knows it is impossible to disguise so large a fleet. If we are here, it is for a reason and our destination can only be one of three places: Sicily, Africa or home and as everyone firmly denied it was Sicily or Africa, and the Almojarife knows the men would rather lie than tell the truth, he can deduce it is one of these two.

And that is what everyone suspects, is it not? said the commander.

Yes, Lord Pedro said, frowning. But now they'll know we're coming! The Almojarife will have sent word already both to Sicily and Africa that we are on our way. We'll be in one of those two places in three days.

And could we not just be going back home? asked the commander.

Why would the King have accepted the provisions if he weren't planning something? Lord Pedro said.

He may want the Almojarife simply to think he is heading there.

I do not know, it is impossible to know. Careful, there are others coming.

Josep retreated further into the shadows to make sure he was not seen and mulled this conversation over. Lord Pedro was later joined by Vice-Admiral Ramón Marquet on his return from the King's galley. He was talking to all the commanders of the army and fleet. They were all to be especially vigilant and look out for any signs of boats leaving or entering the harbour either warning those to whom they might be heading of their imminent arrival or bearing news and perhaps valuable intelligence from the fleet's destination. However, the harbour remained quiet the whole night.

There was an altercation among the almogàvers, which Lord Pedro and Josep were sent to resolve, but by the time they got there the job was done and the trouble was over.

More a domestic situation, sir, the Almogaten, an almogàver captain reported. One of our men insulted someone else's wife and a fight broke out. A couple of bloodied noses but the wife's now quiet and that's the end of that, he said.

Have the men been drinking? asked Lord Pedro.

Their spirits are high enough anyway but considering the amount of food and drink they were offered, anyone would have thought they were trying to put us out of action for a day or two.

Josep laughed. Lord Pedro glared at him.

Come, it is late. Let us go to our rest if this is resolved, he said and looked away. Josep felt young and foolish again.

CHAPTER 2

The following morning at high tide, the fleet sailed off from the wooden punts outside Ciutadella harbour. Earlier, each captain had been given a scroll and strict instructions only to read the contents once ten miles out to sea. The exotic, ancient appearance Minorca's talaiots gave it struck Josep once again as his galley drew away from land, adding to the atmosphere of secrecy and mystery surrounding the fleet's mission. Yet as the orb of the sun rose and land receded, the island looked enchanting in a different way, like an emerald in a golden brooch attached to the deep blue cloak of the calm summer sea. Minorca had a permanent mesmerising quality.

After an hour's sailing the red flag was raised on the foremast of the King's galley as before and shouts went up as the captains prepared to read their instructions. It was a tense moment on Josep's galley as Vice-Admiral Marquet, flanked by the second officer and the boatswain, retrieved the stiff parchment from within his doublet. There was a moment's absolute silence as he read the instructions.

Set your course south-east for Africa, boatswain. We are heading for Alcoll in the Maghreb.

Josep blinked with amazement as he heard this, not knowing where on earth it was but at almost the same moment, shouts went up from the more than one hundred galleys and other vessels and, from behind his galley, Josep could hear the angry clash of steel on steel as the almogàvers received their instructions and beat their shields and swords together in approval.

Where are we going? Josep asked the friendly sailor he had spoken to the day before.

We are heading to Alcoll, the port of the city of Constantina, in Maghreb! the sailor shouted back, hurrying to his next task.

Josep had to run to keep up with him.

Where is that? he heard himself ask, struck by how stupid the question made him feel.

North Africa, young master, if you please. Next to the Kingdom of Tunis. Now I must get on! Hold on tight!

Josep came to a halt and nearly fell over as he stopped and the galley continued to pick up speed. He grabbed on to the nearest thing he could, the end of a lanyard. It

was attached to the sprit of the mainsail and he was hoisted up off his feet momentarily when the sprit shot up as the lateen sail tipped forward and filled with wind. He had the sense to let go just in time and fell three or four feet, lost his footing again and sat there unhurt but a little unnerved as he was uncomfortably close to the edge. There was a laugh from aft and when Josep looked to the stern, he saw the sailor he had befriended slapping his sides and howling with laughter at his antics with another small group of sailors. He had nearly gone overboard.

Best get yerslf tied down, young master, or you'll be fish bait if you're not careful! the sailor said to raucous guffaws from the other members of the crew. Josep suddenly imagined himself dangling off the side of the galley with sharks thrashing at his ankles and gingerly made his way off the maindeck and down into the mess quarters.

Here the noise was deafening as the kettledrum thumped out the rhythm for the scores of oarsmen below, who communicated with pants and bellows as they kept up the relentless pace. The smell was also appalling as they strained and sweated, urinated and defecated, where they sat. There was also a heavy swell this far out to sea and Josep was starting to feel distinctly nauseous. Luckily, he made it to the cabin he was sharing with his knight and gladly swung up into his hammock . He thanked his lucky stars his knight had not just witnessed the last fiften minutes but fortunately he was nowhere to be seen and the gentlte swing of the hammock calmed his mounting seasickness.

The crew rowed under sail all day and well into the night, ate lightly, slept a few hours, then were up at dawn to start again. Josep was aware of Lord Pedro getting into his hammock opposite his own around midnight but he was gone when Josep awoke. The Stella Maris, the King's galley, set the pace sounding kettledrums first thing in the morning to wake the fleet. The night watchman heard the call and roused the crew of each ship. Breakfast was immediate, biscuits, ham, cheese and wine mixed with water at their benches, where they had slept on their oars. Then they began to row, early in the morning and before the sails could be raised. Water was hauled in over the side and the whole rower level was sluiced down, the waste swept back and off through a gap at the back of the level, leaving a slurry-like smear down down the back of the sleek, shining galley and staining the sea behind for twenty or thirty feet in the galley's wake. As the sun rose, the wind picked up, the oarsmen shipped the oars and the sails were hoisted. Josep made a point of staying away while this operation took place. The fleet donned its white wings and they flew in relative silence over the sea, seeing nothing but low waves and the occasional dolphin all that day, nor the next, or the day after, nothing but sea.

Where are the oarsmen? Josep asked his sailor friend when they met passing the rower level to find no one there. The contrast was remarkable.

Gone below to their 'ammocks to sleep it off an' bind their 'ands, young sir, he

said nodding respectfully. You all right, now? Yes, I'm absolutely fine, loving it, Josep lied.

Found yer feet, hav'ee? Josep didn't really understand but nodded vigorously to dispel any doubt, whatever he meant.

Glad t'hear it! the sailor said and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

Thank God it's calmer today! Josep thought. Where would we head in a storm? he said out loud.

Nowhere to go, young sir, we'd just cope! laughed another sailor appearing out of nowhere. These boats are unsinkable unless we crash into rocks or someone punches a hole in them, they'll rock and roll and might take on some water from the side and you might feel as sick as a dog and want to die, but it always passes and all being well we always make it through the storm. And off he went.

Josep was not very reassured. Though it was difficult to imagine this placid sea rising up, he knew well enough from observing in winter how this smooth velvet could be transformed into whipped flecks of raging foam like mad dogs snapping and snarling.

You've always had a fertile imagination! said Lord Pedro when Josep tried to explain his misgivings later.

On the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Minorca, land was sighted. The oarsmen rowed to shore, their hands raw and bleeding. The fleet had covered about three hundred miles in three days under sail and oar, an incredible feat , Josep thought. Battle order was drawn up. As the exhausted oarsmen slumped forward on their benches and slept, the almogàvers in their transport barges landed first of all raising a mighty din. Knee-deep in the clear waters, they charged ashore with a mighty roar, coltells unsheathed, fierce and ragged, ready to brook no obstruction. They were followed quietly by the huissiers, the boats containing the confused horses, mute with terror after their four-day standing ordeal.

However, they found no one. The beach was deserted, offering only crystalline aquamarine waters and beautiful dunes devoid of human presence. Detachments were dispatched beyond the dunes into the low sandstone hillocks further inland but they returned to the army and safely-harboured navy; there had been no resistance. Camp was pitched on the hillock closest to the fleet and palisades were driven in to fence it off.

The Count of Pallars set up camp with a hundred knights and three hundred almogàvers halfway between the camp and the town of Constantina, about twenty

leagues inland. He chose the highest hill to make his camp, an escarpment with a sheer drop of fifty metres on the side facing the city, which could be seen from the camp in the distance. There was a strange feeling of unease, almost anti-climax, among the army. The King had not expected to be able to land with such total ease.

When they raided the port of Alcoll, they met with no resistance either. They found only old men, women and small children under the age of twelve. The rest of the town, they said, had retreated to Constantina. They had gone the day before. They claimed they knew nothing else. The town was secured and sentries were placed around it. However, that night, a shout went up two hours after nightfall.

Your Majesty, a spy has been captured between the town of Alcoll and Constantina, Lord Pedro de Ayerbe informed the King. The spy was ushered with the translator into the tent of the King.

He says he is not a spy but has been sent by the Commander of Constantina to tell you that King Bugron is dead. The messenger requests safe conduct and immunity before he continues the message, said the translator.

After confirming with various knights of his court, the King agreed. He was passed a bag that looked like a wineskin bulging at the bottom. He opened the bag and shook it to remove its contents. A severed head rolled out onto the rush mat at the King's feet. It was the head of Bugron.

What trickery is this? shouted the King recoiling in disgust at the bloodied head, its tongue lolling out, its eyes still looking upward. Through the translator, the King learned that a boat had arrived, the messenger could not say from where, but the message the boat carried was clear. A fleet of more than a hundred Frankish ships and a large army were on their way to Africa though nobody knew exactly where they would land. All the coastal towns and villages had been warned and the majority had decided to evacuate to the main cities, Bugia, Bona and Constantina.

Who sent the message? demanded the King suddenly. I do not know, replied the messenger simply.

Seize him and wring the information out of him! shouted the King. The terrified messenger was pinned to the floor and bound. He kept shouting the same words.

What is he saying? Is he telling us the name of the person who revealed this intelligence to them? the King had recovered from the shock and was now becoming irate as he realised his carefully laid plans had come undone despite all his efforts to keep them absolutely secret.

"He says he comes from Constantina with the head of Bugron as a warning that

Your Majesty has no support here," said the translator.

He says that he should not be harmed as Your Majesty has given his word!

Tell him I'll tear out his eyes if he does not reveal to me who informed them! shouted the King, grasping the messenger's tunic at the throat and twisting with such fury that the messenger started choking.

Sire, he begs his Majesty to stop. He has lost everything, he has been sent from Constantina as no one else there dared to approach His Majesty. His family is dead and in Constantina they only spared him to bring this message. He was a servant of Bugron!

The King froze. The messenger was probably the last person well-disposed towards him between here and Tunis.

Your Majesty, he says that, when the news that the fleet was coming arrived in Constantina, the Governor Bugron openly rejoiced and confided in his closest advisers his plans to become the King's vassal and convert to his faith. He says that he knows the Francs to be cruel people but begs for his life. If he returns to Constantina, he will be killed. He only survives in order to bring this message. He was told that as soon as courtiers loyal to Mirabusecri, King of Bugia and Bugron's elder brother, heard of Bugron's plans, they slit his throat and killed his entire family in the royal palace in Constantina, wives, children and servants. The messenger was spared as he was travelling back from Tlemcen, a city outside Tunis two days ago. He was clapped in chains as soon as he arrived in Constantina and told he would be executed when Mirabusecri returned from Bugia to take control of Constantina. Bugron's courtiers decided to use the messenger for this purpose instead thinking that His Majesty would kill him anyway. He begs for his life, Majesty!

The King was breathing heavily. What diabolical confusion is this? How shall I find out who revealed our plan? I must have proof. It must have been the Almojarife of Minorca. De Llúria, Marquet and Ayerbe, you informed me no boats left Ciutadella the night we were there.

That is true, Sire! they replied. But a small, fast boat could have been dispatched after we left, from Sant Tomas, for example, on the south coast, without our being able to know.

The Almojarife will pay for it with his life if it is so! thundered the King. We should have anticipated that and left boats patrolling the south of the island to stop intelligence getting through. There was silence. Bernat de Cruïlles finally spoke.

"Your Majesty, we did plan for that. No boat could have escaped our notice if it left

at the same time as us and even if it had left some hours earlier, it would not have escaped detection during the rapid crossing we made to Alcoll. The Almojarife of Minorca was thought to be a loyal servant and you are right, Sire, in future we will have to be more circumspect wherever we are."

What does he mean by Frankish ships in any case? asked the King, his perplexed expression deepening. Does he think we are French? Or does he not know who the Catalans are? he hissed indignantly. The translator put this to the wretched messenger, cowering in fear at the new tone of the King. His reply was short.

All Christians are Francs to these people, Your Majesty, they do not distinguish between us. The King turned and left the tent angrily.

Josep tried hard to take stock of what he had heard. If he knew the almogàvers at all, they would need to be deployed soon, otherwise fights would break out in the camp as they had in Port Fangós.

How ironic, he later heard Lord Pedro comment to Bernat Mallol. We have traded one desolate beach for another. We are cut off here from every support we thought we would have. Bugron is seen as a traitor to his people and his brother Mirabusecri stands between us and the King of Tunis, our only ally. How are we going to get out of this mess?

Less than an hour later, there was a sudden tramping of heavy feet. It was the King surrounded by his closest advisors.

All troops are to be ready for deployment at dawn tomorrow! commanded the King. "Bernat de Cruïlles, organise the finances. From now on, provisions are to be brought from Catalunya, including boats with water. We need provisions from home to survive. Spread the word. No fees for traders, we need a market here. The prices will be guaranteed for all produce. Lord Pedro, deploy brigades for food and especially, water requisition. Pere de Queralt, the almogàvers will deploy in defensive formation to protect the requisition parties. Arnau Roger,