The Legend of the Princess Fatima

Back in June, I promised the completed version of this story after I knew that there was some interest in the ending. First off, I would like to thank you for the interest that many of you have shown. My stats have not been this high for a long time. Secondly, I want to apologize for the delay in getting this story out to you. I took a little longer than expected to translate and then transcribe it into an understandable English while still maintaining the old Portuguese speech patterns. Also, I should let you know that I took a few writer's liberties, and added a few details that were not in the original story, which I put in italics. I am excited that this story is now finally in English. I have no idea if this story has ever been translated before, so without any further delay I would like to present to you the Legend of the Princess Fatima. 

The Legend of the Princess Fatima

It is told generation through generation that the princess Fatima, the young and beautiful Moorish princess, more beautiful than young, lived in her own palace, in a time not remembered to her own. She seemed to live happy. She was the only daughter of the emir, and such privilege gave her a special birthright and was thus treated like unto a precious treasure. Her father, a dreadful sight to those who saw him – and tainted with desire – with ambitious and ruthless eyes like the Christian Crusaders, commanded a little tower be built just for her, and Fatima spent days and nights having only the chatter of chamber maids and servants to keep her company.

Out of all the servants, the young and beautiful Fatima chose the oldest and the most experienced as well as most faithful as her confidant. Her name was Cadija.

One afternoon, when the summer heat made work unbearable, Fatima sought to be alone with Cadija.

“What do you wish of me, princess?”

“Tell me everything that you know of…”

After a slight pause, Cadija responded “Of what my lady? The celebration of lights? Your handsome cousin Abu?”

“No, no! Do not tell me of that. You’ve already told me everything, except of that which I was really asking…”

“My lady!”

“Do not worry Cadija! I am your friend, you can trust me!”

And then the princess gave a smile and a nod that assured the old maid as she lowered the voice to share her secret.

“Cadija…I know that my cousin Abu wants to marry me…but I…Cadija I…”

Her voice choked as she looked down, and having understood the mysteries of the heart for ages, she understood what vexed the Princess Fatima. Smiling discreetly, the good Cadija risked a question.

“My lady, have you seen…have you seen the Christian warrior again?”

Fatima nodded, and whether it was in doubt, worry, or love she closed her eyes and trembled.

For several moments, both were quiet as they looked through the open window. Birds were chirping and the air that breezed through the window was free and pure with the aroma of the fields and the heat of the sun.

And then, Fatima, the young and beautiful Moorish princess, more beautiful than young, took a deep breath.

“Listen Cadija! He came back on that road yesterday afternoon…See? He stopped for a few moments looking up, just like he’s done before…Do you remember?”

“And are you sure that he was the same person, Princess?”

“I am most certain, Cadija!”

Once again Princess Fatima sighed deeply, and again her voice tampered off to a murmur as if she were speaking with herself.

“The heart does not tell us lies, Cadija.”

The old maid was frightened by her ladies confession, but now it was her turn to frighten her lady of the consequences. Grabbing the princess’ hand and closing it in her own with a single perspective of life, she protected the pretty and sensitive hands with her old and callused hands.

“My dear princess…if your father discovers…he would…”

“Don’t even say it, Cadija!”

“This is the Christian your father despises the most. My Lady!” and with a loud resolute sigh, Cadija said. “This is the Christian that all of us should despise the most, my dear princess.”

Embraced in Portugal’s history is a legend told of one Goncalo Hermingues, known by his reputation among Christians and Moors as the “Moor-Bringer”. He was strong and courageous, accustomed to act on every impulse as he willed. The young warrior had been one of the best of his time. He was cruel and bloodthirsty in battle; unable to forgive those who did not forgive him, yet Goncalo Hermingues also had the heart and soul of a poet.

He liked to ride through the fields, making up verses to his own songs. And it was during one of these rides that he discovered a volt of enchantment in a unique tower in the land still in possession of the Moors, but out of his reach for conquest.

Goncalo Hermingues returned to this same view time and time again, sometimes by chance, and sometimes on purpose. And when he saw her, his thoughts were filled with extraordinary vision.

He soon knew everything there was to know about her that interested him. Her name was Fatima, she was young and beautiful, more beautiful than young, she was the only daughter of the Emir, she was engaged to marry her rich and powerful cousin Abu, and finally that she lived in the confines of her tower rarely ever leaving without the supervision of a most trusted maid-servant.

However, Goncalo Hermingues also knew that one of these departures would happen shortly. This departure from her tower would be on the night known as, The Celebration of Lights, which also fell on the same night of Saint John’s day in the middle of June.

So Goncalo Hermingues began to forge a plan. A plan that was outrageous to the ear, and yet it was imagination’s child.

He waited with his courageous company of soldiers with great anticipation for the night of Saint John and the Celebration of Lights.

In the silence they dispersed and took their pre-planned positions in the field before the tower. Only the great round moon, like a festive lantern, witnessed the trap be set. A trap like so many Goncalo had set before, but with one vital difference: this was a trap laid out in love.

As tradition among the Moors demanded, late daybreak began the commencement of the procession that eventually turned into a procession of lights down to the banks of the river. Every year, the procession began with this prelude to the celebration that went through the next day and oftentimes into the following evening…

Fatima, the young and beautiful Moorish Princess, as ever more beautiful than young, faithfully followed the procession and was faithfully accompanied by the good Cadija.

The light of the torches flickered in the wind as the procession progressed, with the most exquisite Arabian Stallions lightly mounted by knights and ladies. It was a rare and magnificent sight to behold.

And thus they proceeded through the wide doors of the city, bursting through in a lighted stampede, a prideful trotting, and awakening the sleeping earth, with echoes of their laughter.

Fatima was lead by her father to sit next to her cousin Abu, and to appear attentive to his desires. Nevertheless during this celebration, she thought not of the problems of her heart, but rather devoted herself entirely to enjoying the liberty she so rarely enjoyed outside of her tower. She wanted to breathe in all of the free and pure air that she could, to look at all that her eyes could see, and to sing all of the songs that she knew.

In a sudden moment, the night of day flooded the darkness of night revealing with perfect clarity the approaching darkness. The feeble stain of the daybreak bled out an evil and brutal reality, as if the earth had opened and released from its entrails Hell’s demons. And there arose the most terrible and despised of all cries.

“POR SANTIAGO, AOS MOUROS!”    (“FOR ST. JAMES, TO THE MOORS!)

From the shadows of the quiet trees, from the dark foliage, from the mysterious fields there immediately came the faces upon faces of Christian Crusader warriors yelling and running towards the procession. Unmercifully they fell upon the spectacular procession with terror and destruction.

In an instant, their songs of pleasure turned into howls of combat; from joy to panic; and from order to confusion.

Fatima’s eyes were filled with fear. Running to take command of the city’s defense, Fatima’s father abandoned her as if having disappeared from an enchantment. The good and faithful Cadija was now also gone. Reason had been abandoned in the search for self-preservation. The princess sat in the dirt and trembled as if she were freezing and burning with fever simultaneously.

It was in that moment that Goncalo Hermingues discovered the princess. He spurred his horse and reached her in one bound. They were together. Without any resistance, he lifted her onto his horse, and smiled in triumph. This was his prize of victory.

Nothing else was necessary. Goncalo Hermingues raised his arm and gave the order for his company to retreat. This time the war cry was stronger and louder as a flag arose among the soldiers and their spoils.

“POR SANTIAGO E REI AFONSO!”   (“FOR ST. JAMES AND KING AFONSO!”)

Several voices repeated the war cry, over the wailing of the wounded and the silence of the dead, over the agonizing of the dying and the despair of the defeated, over the torches dropped upon the earth, extinguished forever…

Then something happened that Goncalo Hermingues did not expect.

Having just retreated and bringing with him his young and beautiful prisoner, among other important hostages that he desired to offer up to King Afonso Henriques – to live up to his title, “The Moor Bringer – the young Portuguese warrior and his companions were caught by surprise by a well reinforced counter-attack of Saracen soldiers sent to take vengeance upon the ambitious Christians.

Leading the Moorish force was Fatima’s rich and powerful cousin, Abu. In the collision of the two forces, Abu began by pushing his advantage of numbers in his attempt to snatch away the princess, and by provoking Goncalo Hermingues into Fury with his success during the confusion of battle.

The fight took on aspects of the epics. Even outnumbered, the Portuguese knights did not abandon the field. Every knight that fell was replaced by another, and their bravery, courage, and ostentation only grew as the attack progressed.

Nevertheless for Goncalo Hermingues there was truly only one enemy on the field that existed for him. This was the one that would rob him of his young and beautiful Moorish princess.

He did not hesitate as he fell upon Abu with the violence of his fury, and the rage of his envy. The fight was short. Short and terrible. Terrible and fatal for the rich and powerful Abu.

When Goncalo Hermingues reached Fatima again, he lifted Fatima’s small and fainted body in his arms and held her desperately. Again he had raised the field as the victor with his princess in his arms.

Looking up at his company, he saw how they had prudently forced a Saracen retreat, and he thus understood the magnitude of their bravery and courage.

It was said that Don Afonso Henriques, the Portuguese king, vivaciously rejoiced for this magnificent assortment of well born prisoners, and display of courage. The king only asked Goncalo Hermingues what reward and compensation he desired for his magnificent deed.

Goncalo Hermingues responded, “The honor of serving thee, my lord and king, and to commemorate this journey.” Goncalo asked, “I ask for thy consent to marry the Princess Fatima!”

It was also said that the king of Portugal smiled as he heard this with benevolence and grace, solemnly pronouncing. “Let it be so, with the condition that she converts to the holy faith of Christ, and does consent to be your wife…”

With a smile and adoring look, the young and beautiful Fatima, more beautiful than young, said to the good Christian king, “I do consent my lord and king.”

From there followed the preparation for their betrothal. The land where Princess Fatima lived for a long time began to forget their entanglements for this new love, which was so quickly conquered in this new birth. From then on the old land rose again in unity from this legend, and was called, the land of Fatima, which name would many years later be conserved and transfigured by a divine work said to have happened in the land of Fatima. The name remains one of the most beautiful names in the world.

Afterwards, the land celebrated the marriage of Goncalo Hermingues to the newly converted Fatima, now given the Christian name of Oureana, in the sacred act of her baptism.

As a wedding present, King Afonso Henriques gave them the Abdegas Vila where they went to live and from that time on in homage to the young and beautiful princess, more beautiful than young, named their new home the Vila de Oureana.

The Vila de Oureana eventually became known as the Vila de Ourem as the Portuguese language changed.

We end our story and remember the beautiful verses that Goncalo Hermingues dedicated to the memory of his love, and the extreme misunderstanding of their love during the time, despite the barrier of language and culture.

Either you have it or you do not,

But others have taken it,

It was mine but now it is not,

That in fights, all have fought,

And in a thousand ways have pillaged,

Oh, I see you there,

Supported by friends,

I for myself have what is mine,

Oureana there you have for certain,

What a life to live,

I forget everything for your well-being,

And there is no one else in my life to see.

-Modern interpretation by: Afranio Peixote

-English Translation by: Eric Pratt