It had been two days since the Breton fleet reached the large island of Mallorca. The genius commander, Abdul-Qadir Abdullah, wearily studied his foe from walls of Palma. He was terribly unsure of just how many Christians had just shown up on the door of the Mallorcan Emirate but already, those encamped on the shore outnumbered the Moorish defense.
As Abdul paced the battlements, each pass more urgent and frustrated, the 12 year old Emir of Mallorca, Hvlamir al-Amiri walked up to his side. In the shade of the towering Abdul-Qadir, the young boy was unsure just how serious the problem was.
“When you defeat them, will you still return in time for my studies?” the Emir naively asked.
“Of course, Emir al-Amiri. I have never been late – have I?” Abdul responded with cheer.
Secure and at ease in ignorance, the boy quickly ran off. Abdul’s smile soon evaporated.
After taking a moment to answer the call to prayer, Abdul returned to the walls. Seemingly at peace with himself, he immediately summoned the army to the gates. When a subordinate commander asked just how he was to defeat the enemy amassing at the shore, Abdul solemnly replied, “All my life, I have yet to be defeated, either by that of Christians or Muslims – but on this October morning, I lack the confidence that should give me. We shall see what Allah, in his mercy, has in store for us.”
***
Alan studied the spectacle of battle before him. The Moors had lined up parallel to his own troops, laxly firing various shot into the Breton ranks. While the chain-mail and spectacular heraldry of his nobles sparkled and radiated color, their counterparts across the field bore simple, yet practical wear for the Mediterranean heat. Whilst the Bretons cheered and shouted, the Moors were largely silent – save for horns used in directing movement. As a particularly impetuous Breton ran into the middle of the field, bellowing the Song of Rolland, the men across the way looked on without amusement. Before long, it was clear that the battle was imminent – the waning twang of bows being its prophet. Alan turned to Brient Penteur, who had been directing much of the movement for Alan.
“Are we set to advance?” Alan asked.
Though typically lethargic, Brient spoke with tremendous energy and power, he was clearly looking forward to the battle-
“I’d say so, my boy. We outnumber them by a good bit, though this is your first pitched battle, I think you can take it from here. I’ve told Count Louis to flank them soon after we clash – it’s why they have the remaining horses, you see.”
As Alan began to nod in recognition, Brient quickly added-
“The Moors are a tricky lot, just be wary.”
Unsure of whether he should be reassured or frightened, Alan slowly raised his hand – periodically glancing towards Brient with uncertainty.
When the signal was given, banners were raised, horns sounded, and invigorated battle-cries echoed.
***
Those few moments before the clash of the two armies, Alan felt lost in eternity. As any of his heros would have, Alan walked at the head of the army, fabricating the most confident look he could conjure. Despite Alan’s efforts, with each moment he took to look at Brient, the old man would nod with assurance – completely aware of the terror brewing in Alan’s mind.
As soon as the Moors were but a few paces away from Alan, sporadic fighting could be heard up and down the line. Before long, a cascade of shrieks and clashing metal thundered across the field. Mesmerized by the hellish sounds, it took the striking back hand of Brient to snap him out of it.
“Hah! Don’t get caught day-dreaming boy! Follow my lead.”
With a vigorous cry the old man charged into the fray. To Alan’s horror, Brient was knocked down almost immediately but as quickly as he had fallen, the aged Marshal jumped to his feet – hacking off the arm the warrior that accosted him. Alan rushed to his side, soon finding himself in combat of his own.
To the steady music of agonized screams and booming horns, Alan stood faced off with a Moorish warrior. The mans exotic scale-male armor and shrouded face intimidated the inexperienced Duke. With out a second moment to ponder, the Moor lunged towards Alan, bringing towards him a wide sweep of his single-edge sword. Cowed by the strength of his attacker, Alan barely blocked the strike. The force seemed to immediately drain him of any energy and when the Moor followed up with another wide arc, Alan was unable to withstand the blow. Tumbling backwards, Alan felt helpless as the Moor swung for his neck– coming up short by a heads width. As he fumbled about, struggling to regain his balance, his vision narrowed, collapsing into a thin tunnel.
“My Duke!” a Knight yelled, the blue and white eagle upon his tunic seemed angelic to the confused and dazed Alan. When quickly helped to his feet by the mail bound hand of the Knight, Alan found his bearings once more. Though he peered back into the battlefield with renewed ferocity, the Moor had gone. In his place, Brient hacked away at a remaining foe in the wake of the Moorish retreat.
***
The Battle of Palma was a short one. With his flanks soon enveloped by the Breton Knights, Abdul-Qadir withdrew back to the city. He had little choice but to flee, the safety of the young Emir being paramount. Not wanting to risk his fleet of Cogs against the superior Moorish ships, Alan allowed their safe retreat. After little more than a month, Palma was in Breton hands. The other three major islands were also quickly subdued, Menorca putting up the last bits of dying resistance. Alan and his comrades would enjoy the Balearics for two years, solidifying the Breton nobility as the new social elite of the islands. The Duke had various local songs commissioned about his conquest.
As Alan eagerly set sail for his homeland in late 1101, questions began to seep into his mind. Who would govern the isles in his place? Who would be tasked with keeping them free of pirate safe havens and Muslim uprisings? Alan’s limited choices would plague him for years to come.