Cathedral of the Sea

Thirty galleys and ten men-o’-war. Pedro the Cruel’s fleet. Forty ships filled with battle-hardened men, up against ordinary citizens suddenly forced to become soldiers. If the ships landed, there would be fighting on the beach and the streets of the city. Arnau shuddered as he thought of all the women and children ... of Mar. Barcelona would be defeated. Then the city would be pillaged, the women raped. Mar! As he thought of what might happen to her, he leaned on Guillem for support. She was young and beautiful. He imagined her being overpowered by Castillian soldiers, screaming, crying for help ... Where would he be?

More and more people crowded onto the beach. The king himself appeared and began to give his men orders.

“The king!” the shout went up.

What could he do? Arnau thought desperately.

The king had been in Barcelona for three months, organizing a fleet to sail and defend Mallorca, which Pedro the Cruel had threatened to attack. But there were only ten of the king’s galleys in port—the rest of the fleet had yet to arrive. And it was in the port that they would do battle!

Arnau shook his head as he surveyed the sails coming closer and closer to the coast. The king of Castille had fooled them. Ever since the war had started three years earlier, there had been a succession of battles and truces. First, Pedro the Cruel had attacked the kingdom of Valencia, and then that of Aragon, where he took the city of Tarazona and directly threatened Zaragoza. At that point, the Church had become involved, and Tarazona was handed over to Cardinal Pedro de la Jugie. It was for him to decide to which of the two kings the city was to belong. A yearlong truce was also signed, although this did not include the frontier regions of the kingdoms of Murcia and Valencia.

During this truce, Pedro the Ceremonious succeeded in persuading his half brother Ferrán, who had been allied with Castille, to change sides and attack Murcia. He did so, and reached as far as Cartagena in the south.

Now King Pedro was on the beach, taking command. He ordered the ten galleys to be made ready, and that the citizens of Barcelona and surrounding towns, who were beginning to arrive at the shore, should embark together with the small number of soldiers he had with him. Every vessel, big or small, was to head out to repel the Castillian fleet.

“This is madness,” complained Guillem when he saw everyone scrambling on board the boats. “Any one of those galleys can ram our vessels and split them in two. Lots of people will be killed.”

It would still take some time before the Castillian fleet reached the harbor.

“They will show no mercy,” Arnau heard someone say. “They’ll massacre us.”

Pedro the Cruel was not someone to show mercy. Everyone was aware of his fearsome reputation: he had executed his bastard brothers, Federico in Seville and Juan in Bilbao. A year later, after holding her prisoner all that time, he had beheaded his aunt Eleonor. What mercy could they expect from someone who did not shrink from killing his own family? The Catalan king had not put Jaime of Mallorca to death despite his constant betrayal and all the wars they had fought.

“It would make more sense to try to defend ourselves on land,” Guillem shouted in Arnau’s ear. “We’ll never do it at sea. As soon as the Castillians get beyond the tasques, they will overrun us.”

Arnau agreed. Why was the king so determined to defend the city at sea? Guillem was surely right; once the enemy had got beyond the tasques ...

“The tasques!” Arnau shouted. “What boat do we have in the harbor?”

“What do you mean?”

“The tasques, Guillem! Don’t you understand? What ship do we have?”

“That carrack over there,” said Guillem, pointing to a huge, potbellied cargo boat.

“Come on. We’ve no time to lose.”

Arnau started running toward the sea, in among the crowd of other people doing the same. He looked behind to encourage Guillem to follow him.

The shoreline was buzzing with soldiers and citizens of Barcelona, wading into the sea up to their waists. Some of them were trying to clamber on board the small fishing boats that were already heading out to sea; others were waiting for boatmen to come and pick them up and take them to one or other of the bigger men-o’-war or merchant vessels anchored farther out.

Arnau saw a boat approaching the shore.

“Come on!” he shouted to Guillem and plunged into the water, trying to make sure he reached the boat before all the others around them. By the time they got there, it was already full, but the boatman recognized Arnau and made room for him and Guillem.

“Take me out to the carrack over there,” Arnau shouted when the man was about to set sail.

“First to the galleys. That’s the king’s order ...”

“Take me to my ship!” Arnau insisted. The boatman looked at him doubtfully, and the others in the boat started to protest. “Silence!” shouted Arnau. “You all know me. I have to reach my ship. Barcelona ... your family depends on it. All your families might depend on it.”

The boatman gazed out at the big, lumbering ship. It was only a little out of his way. Why would Arnau Estanyol not be telling the truth?

“Head for the carrack!” he ordered his two oarsmen.

As soon as Arnau and Guillem had grasped the rope ladders thrown to them by the ship’s captain, the boatman headed off for the nearest galley.

“Get all your men rowing!” Arnau ordered the captain before his feet had even touched deck.

The captain gave the order to the oarsmen, who immediately took their places on the rowing benches.

“Where are we headed?” he asked.

“To the tasques,” Arnau told him.

Guillem nodded. “May Allah, whose name be praised, grant you success.”

But if Guillem understood what Arnau was trying to do, the same could not be said of the king’s army and the citizens of Barcelona. When they saw his ship begin to move off with no soldiers or weapons on board, one of them shouted: “He wants to save his ship!”

“Jew!” another man cried.

“Traitor!”

Many others joined in the insults. Soon, the entire beach was filled with angry cries against Arnau. What was Arnau Estanyol up to? Bastaixos and boatmen wondered, as they watched the heavy ship slowly gather speed when a hundred pairs of oars dipped rhythmically into the water.

Arnau and Guillem stood at the ship’s prow, staring at the Castillian fleet that was drawing dangerously close. As they passed the rest of the Catalan fleet, they had to protect themselves from a hail of arrows, but as soon as they were out of range they went to the prow once more.

“This has to work,” Arnau told Guillem. “Barcelona must not fall into the hands of that traitor.”

The tasques were a chain of sandbanks parallel to the coast. They were Barcelona’s only natural defense, although they also represented a danger for any boat wishing to enter the city harbor. There was only one channel that was deep enough to allow large ships in; anywhere else could mean they ran aground on the sands.

Arnau and Guillem drew ever nearer to the tasques, no longer having to hear the obscene insults of thousands of voices on the beach. Their shouting had even managed to drown out the noise of the bells.

“It will work,” Arnau repeated, this time under his breath. Then he told the captain to have the oarsmen stop rowing. As the hundred oars were raised out of the water and the ship started to glide toward the tasques, the shouts from the beach gradually died away until there was complete silence. The Castillian fleet was drawing closer. Above the sound of the distant bells, Arnau could hear the ship’s keel scraping over sand.

“It has to work!” he muttered.

Guillem seized him by the arm and squeezed it tightly. It was the first time he had ever reacted like this.

The ship glided slowly on and on. Arnau glanced at the captain. “Are we in the channel?” he asked merely by raising his eyebrows. The captain nodded: ever since Arnau had told him to stop rowing, the captain had realized what he was trying to do.

The whole of Barcelona realized.

“Now!” shouted Arnau. “Turn the ship!”

The captain gave the order. The oarsmen on the larboard side plunged their oars into the water, and the carrack began to swing round until prow and stern were stuck firmly in the two sides of the deep channel.

The ship listed to one side.

Guillem squeezed Arnau’s arm even harder. The two men looked at each other and Arnau drew the Moor close to embrace him, while the beach and the king’s galleys exploded with cries of congratulation.

The entrance to the port of Barcelona had been sealed.

In full battle armor on the beach, the king watched as Arnau deliberately ran his ship aground. The nobles and knights grouped around the king said nothing as he stared out to sea.

“To the galleys!” he ordered.

WITH ARNAU’S CARRACK blocking the harbor, Pedro the Cruel deployed his fleet in the open sea. King Pedro the Third did the same on the port side of the sandbanks, and so before nightfall the two fleets—one a proper armada, made up of forty armed and prepared warships, the other a picturesque motley of craft, with ten galleys and dozens of small merchant ships and fishing boats crammed with ordinary citizens—were drawn up facing one another in a line that ran from Santa Clara to Framenors. No one could either enter or leave the port of Barcelona.

There was no battle that day. Five of Pedro the Third’s galleys took up position close to Arnau’s ship, and that night, by the light of a glorious moon, a company of royal soldiers came aboard.

“It seems as though we’re at the center of the battle,” Guillem commented to Arnau as the two men sat on deck, close to the side in order to shelter themselves from any Castillian crossbowmen.

“We’ve become the city wall, and all battles start with the walls.”

At that moment, one of the king’s captains came up.

“Arnau Estanyol?” he asked. Arnau raised a hand. “The king authorizes you to leave the ship.”

“What about my crew?”

“The galley slaves?” Even in the darkness, Arnau and Guillem could see the look of surprise on the officer’s face. What did the king care about a hundred convicts? “We might need them here,” he said, to avoid the question.

“In that case,” said Arnau, “I’m staying. This is my ship, and they are my crew.”

At that the officer shrugged and went on deploying his men.

“Do you want to leave?” Arnau asked Guillem.

“Aren’t I part of your crew?”

“No, as you know very well.” The two men fell silent, watching shadows passing by them as the soldiers ran to take up their positions in response to their officers’ half-whispered commands. “You know you haven’t been a slave for many years now,” added Arnau. “All you have to do is ask for your letter of emancipation and it’s yours.”

Some of the soldiers came to take up position next to them.

“You should go down to the hold with the others,” one of the soldiers muttered as he pushed in beside them.

“In this ship we go where we please,” Arnau replied.

The soldier bent over the two men. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We are all grateful for what you’ve done.”

Then he went off to search for another place by the gunwale.

“When will you want to be free?” Arnau asked Guillem again.

“I don’t think I would know how to be free.”

At this, the two men fell silent. Once all the king’s soldiers had boarded the ship and taken up their positions, the night went slowly by. Arnau and Guillem slept fitfully while the others coughed or snored around them.

At dawn, Pedro the Cruel ordered the attack. His fleet approached the sandbanks, and his men began to fire their crossbows and to shoot stones from catapults and bricolas. From the other side of the banks, the Catalan fleet did the same. There was fighting all the way down the coast, but especially around Arnau’s carrack. Pedro the Third could not allow the Castillians to board it, and stationed several galleys close by.

Many men died from the crossbow bolts fired from both armies. Arnau remembered the whistle of the arrows as he had fired them from his crossbow, crouching behind the boulders outside Bellaguarda castle.

The sound of raucous laughter brought him back to reality. Who on earth could be laughing in the midst of battle? Barcelona was in danger, and men were dying. What was there to laugh about? Arnau and Guillem stared at each other. Yes, it was laughter. Laughter that was growing louder and louder. The two men sought a sheltered spot where they could survey what was going on. They soon realized that it was the men aboard ships in the second or third line of the Catalan fleet, who were out of range of the Castillians and were making fun of their enemy, laughing and shouting insults at them.

The Castillians continued firing their catapults at the Catalans, but their aim was so poor that time and again the stones fell harmlessly into the water. Some of them raised plumes of spray in the sea around Arnau’s ship. He and Guillem looked at each other again and smiled. The men on the other ships were still mocking the Castillians, and from the beach more hoots of derision could be heard.

Throughout the day, the Catalans made fun of the Castillian artillery-men, who constantly failed in their attempts to strike home.

“I wouldn’t like to be in Pedro the Cruel’s galley,” Guillem said to Arnau.

“No,” Arnau replied, laughing those bunglers.”

That night was very different from the previous one. Arnau and Guillem helped tend the many wounded men on the ship. They stanched their wounds and then helped lower them into the smaller boats to be taken back to land. A fresh detachment of soldiers boarded the ship, and it was only toward the end of the night that the two men could rest awhile and prepare themselves for the next day.

At first light, the mocking shouts of the Catalans started again. The insults and laughter were taken up by the crowds still lining the shore.

Arnau had run out of crossbow bolts, so he took cover beside Guillem and the two of them surveyed the battle.

“Look,” his friend said, “they are coming much closer than they did yesterday.”

It was true. The Castillian king had decided to put a stop to all the mockery as soon as possible, and was heading straight for Arnau’s ship.

“Tell them to stop laughing,” said Guillem, staring at the oncoming armada.

King Pedro the Third saw the danger. Determined to defend Arnau’s carrack, he brought his galleys as close to the sandbanks as he dared. This time, the battle was so near that Arnau and Guillem could almost touch the royal galley, and could clearly see the king and his knights on board.

The two opposing galleys drew up side by side with the sandbanks in between them. The Castillians fired catapults they had mounted on the prow. Arnau and Guillem turned to look at the Catalan king’s vessel. It had not been touched. The king and his men were still on deck, and the ship did not seem to have suffered any damage.

“Is that a bombard?” asked Arnau as he saw Pedro the Third striding toward a cannon on his own galley.

“Yes,” said Guillem. He had seen them loading it on board when the king had been preparing his fleet for the defense of Mallorca against a Castillian attack.

“A bombard on a ship?”

“Yes,” Guillem said again.

“This must be the first time that’s happened,” commented Arnau, still watching closely as the king gave orders to his gunners. “I’ve never seen...”

“Nor have I ...”

Their conversation was interrupted by the roar from the cannon as it shot a huge stone. They quickly turned to survey the Castillian ship.

“Bravo!” they shouted when they saw the cannonball smash the galley’s mast.

A great cheer went up from all the Catalan fleet.

The king ordered his men to reload the bombard. Taken by surprise and hampered by the fallen mast, the Castillians were unable to return fire. The next Catalan stone was a direct hit on the forecastle.

The Castillians began to maneuver away from the sandbanks.

Thanks to the constant mockery and to the ingenious bombard on the royal galley, the Castillian sovereign was forced to rethink. A few hours later, he ordered his fleet to lift the siege of Barcelona and head for Ibiza.

STANDING ON DECK with several of the king’s officers, Arnau and Guillem watched the Castillian ships recede into the distance. The bells of Barcelona began to ring out once more.

“Now we’ll have to get the ship off the sandbanks,” said Arnau.

“We’ll take care of that,” he heard someone say behind him. He turned and came face-to-face with an officer who had just climbed aboard. “His Majesty is waiting for you on the royal galley.”

King Pedro the Third had heard all about Arnau Estanyol during the two nights of battle. “He’s rich,” the city councillors had told him, “immensely rich, Your Majesty.” The king nodded unenthusiastically at everything they told him about Arnau: his years as a bastaix, his service as a soldier under Eiximèn d’Esparca, his devotion to Santa Maria. It was only when he heard that Arnau was a widower that his eyes opened wide. “Rich and a widower,” thought the king. “Perhaps we can get rid of that ...”

“Arnau Estanyol,” one of his camerlingos announced. “Citizen of Barcelona.”

The king sat on a throne on deck, flanked by a large group of nobles, knights, and leading figures of the city who had flocked on board the galley following the Castillian retreat. Guillem stood at the ship’s side, some way away from the group surrounding Arnau and the monarch.

Arnau made to kneel before Pedro, but the king told him to rise.

“We are very pleased with your action,” said the king. “Your intelligence and daring were vital in helping us win this victory.”

The king fell silent. Arnau did not know quite what to do. Was he meant to speak? Everybody was looking at him.

“In recognition of your valiant action,” the monarch continued, “we wish to grant you a favor.”

Was he meant to speak now? What favor could the king possibly grant him? He already had all he could wish for ...

“We offer you the hand of our ward Eleonor in marriage. As her dowry, she will be baroness of Granollers, San Vicenc dels Horts, and Caldes de Montbui.”

Everyone on board the galley murmured their approval; some applauded. Marriage! Had he said marriage? Arnau turned to find Guillem, but could not see him. All the nobles and knights were smiling at him. Had the king said marriage?

“Are you not pleased, Lord Baron?” the king asked, seeing Arnau turn his head aside.

Arnau looked back at him. Lord baron? Marriage? What did he want all that for? When he said nothing, the nobles and knights fell silent too. The king’s eyes pierced him. Had he said Eleonor? His ward? He could not... he must not offend the king!

“No ... I mean yes, Your Majesty,” he stammered. “I thank you for your generosity.”

“So be it then.”

At that, Pedro the Third stood up, and his courtiers closed around him. As they passed by Arnau, some of them slapped him on the back, congratulating him with phrases he could not catch. He was soon left standing all on his own. He turned toward Guillem, who was still over by the ship’s side.

Arnau spread his palms in bewilderment, but the Moor gestured toward the king and his retinue, and so he quickly dropped his arms to his side.

ARNAU WAS GREETED back onshore with as much enthusiasm as was the king himself. It seemed as though the entire city wanted to congratulate him: hands stretched out to him; others patted him on the back. Everybody wanted to get near the city’s savior, but Arnau could not hear or recognize any of them. Just when everything was going well and he was happy, the king had decided to arrange a marriage for him. The crowd swarmed round and followed him all the way from the beach to his countinghouse. Even after he had disappeared inside, they stood in the street calling out his name and shouting their joy.

As soon as Arnau stepped into the house, Mar flung herself into his arms. Guillem was already there; he sat in a chair without saying a word. Joan, who had also arrived, was looking on with his usual taciturn expression.

Mar was taken aback when Arnau, perhaps more vigorously than necessary, freed himself from her embrace. Joan came up to congratulate him, but Arnau brushed him off too. He sank into a chair next to Guillem. The others all stared at him, not daring to say anything.

“What’s wrong?” Joan asked at length.

“I’m to be married!” said Arnau, raising his hands above his head. “The king has decided to make me a baron and to marry me to his ward. That’s the favor he is granting me for having saved his capital! He’s marrying me off!”

Joan thought about what he had heard, then smiled and responded: “Why are you complaining?”

Arnau glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Next to Arnau, Mar’s whole body had begun to shake. Donaha, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, was the only one to notice. She came bustling over and helped her stay on her feet.

“What is so bad about the idea?” Joan insisted. Arnau did not even bother to look at him. As she heard the friar speak, Mar began to retch. “What is wrong with you marrying? And with the king’s ward, no less. You will become a Catalan baron.”

Afraid she was going to be sick, Mar went with Donaha to the kitchen.

“What’s the matter with Mar?” asked Arnau.

The friar took a few moments to answer.

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” he said finally. “She should be getting married too! Both of you should be married. It’s a good thing that King Pedro has more sense than you.”

“Leave me, will you, Joan?” said Arnau wearily.

The friar lifted his arms in the air and left the room.

“Go and see what’s wrong with Mar,” Arnau told Guillem.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he told Arnau a few minutes later, “but Donaha told me not to worry. It’s a woman’s thing.”

Arnau turned to him. “Don’t talk to me about women,” he moaned.

“We can’t go against the king’s wishes, Arnau. Perhaps ... given a bit of time, we can find a solution.”

But they were not given any time. King Pedro the Third fixed June 23 as the date when he would set off in pursuit of the king of Castille. He ordered his fleet to assemble in the port of Barcelona that day, and let it be known that before leaving he wanted the matter of the marriage of his ward Eleonor to the rich merchant Arnau settled. A court official came one morning to Arnau’s countinghouse to tell him as much.

“That means I have only nine days left!” Arnau complained to Guillem as soon as the official had left. “Less perhaps!”

What could this Eleonor be like? Just thinking about her kept him awake. Old? Beautiful? Friendly, pleasant, or arrogant and cynical like all the other nobles he had known in his life? How could he marry a woman he had never even met? He confided the task of finding out about her to Joan.

“You have to do it for me. Find out what she is like. I can’t stop worrying about what is in store for me.”

“It’s said,” Joan told him the same day that the official had appeared in the countinghouse, “that she is the bastard daughter of one of the Catalan infantes, one of the king’s uncles, although nobody dares say for certain exactly who he is. Her mother died giving birth to her; that’s why she was taken into court—”

“But what is she like, Joan?” Arnau interrupted him.

“She is twenty-three years old and attractive.”

“What about her character?”

“She’s a noblewoman,” was all Joan would say.

Why tell Arnau what he had heard about Eleonor? “She’s definitely attractive,” they had told him, “but she always looks as though she is angry with the whole world. She is spoiled, fickle, haughty, and ambitious.” The king married her to a nobleman, but he died soon afterward, and as she had no children she returned to court. Was the king granting Arnau a favor? A royal reward? The people Joan spoke to had laughed at the idea. The king could not tolerate Eleonor anymore, so who better to marry her off to than one of the richest men in Barcelona, a money changer who could well be a source of loans? Whatever happened, King Pedro came out winning: he was getting rid of Eleonor and at the same time gaining access to Arnau and his wealth. No, there was no reason to tell him all this.

“What do you mean when you say she is a noblewoman?”

“Exactly that,” said Joan, trying to avoid Arnau’s eyes. “She’s noble, she’s a woman, and therefore she has a well-defined character, as all of them do.”

Eleonor had also been making inquiries on her own side. The more she heard, the angrier she became: her husband-to-be had been a bastaix, a member of a guild that derived from the slaves employed in the port, the freed slaves. What was the king doing, marrying her to a bastaix? Everyone told her he was rich, very rich: but what did she care about his money? She lived at court and wanted for nothing. Then when she discovered Arnau was the son of a runaway serf who had himself been born a serf, she decided she must see the king. How could he expect her, the daughter of an infante, to marry someone of that ilk?

Pedro the Third would not even see her. He ordered that the wedding take place on June 21, two days before he left for Mallorca.

HE WAS TO be married the next day. In the royal chapel at Santa Agata.

“It’s a small chapel,” Joan explained. “It was built at the start of the century by Jaime the Second at the behest of his wife, Blanca de Anjou. It’s dedicated to the relics of Christ’s passion in the same way as the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, where the queen was born.”

It was to be an intimate affair: Joan was the only person accompanying Arnau. Mar had refused to attend. Ever since Arnau had announced his marriage, she had shied away from him. Whenever they were in a room together, she said nothing, and all her previous smiles had stopped.

That was why this final evening Arnau approached her and asked her to go for a walk with him.

“Where?” asked Mar.

Where?

“I don’t know ... what about Santa Maria? Your father adored the church. Did you know it was there that I met him?”

Mar agreed, so they left the countinghouse and walked down to the still unfinished façade of Santa Maria. The masons had begun work on the two octagonal towers that were to flank it, and the sculptors had already set to with hammer and chisel on the tympanum, doorposts, mullions, and archivolts. Arnau went into the church with Mar. The ribbed vaults of the central nave’s third arch were already stretching up toward the keystone, like a spider’s web protected by the wooden scaffolding as they grew.

Arnau was only too aware of Mar standing beside him. She was almost as tall as he was, and her hair flowed down to her shoulders. She smelled of freshness, of herbs. Most of the workmen stared admiringly at her; he could see it in their eyes, even if they turned away as soon as they realized Arnau was looking at them. Her fragrance wafted across to him in waves as she walked down the nave.

“Why don’t you want to come to my wedding?” he asked her point-blank.

Mar said nothing. She looked desperately around the church.

“They haven’t even allowed me to be married in my Santa Maria,” muttered Arnau.

The girl still made no response.

“Mar ...” Arnau waited for her to turn toward him. “I would have liked you to be with me on my wedding day. You know I don’t want to do it, that it’s against my will, but the king ... I won’t insist anymore, all right?” Mar nodded. “If I don’t insist, can things be the same between us as they were before?”

Mar looked at the ground. There was so much she would have loved to tell him ... But she could not refuse him what he asked; she could not refuse him anything.

“Thank you,” said Arnau. “If you had failed me ... I don’t know what would happen to me if those I most care about failed me!”

Mar shivered. That was not the sort of feeling she was looking for. She wanted love. Why had she agreed to come with him like this? She gazed up at the apse of the church.

“You know, Joan and I saw them raising that keystone,” Arnau told her when he saw the direction she was looking in. “We were only boys then.”

At that moment, the master glassmakers were hard at work on the clerestory, the set of windows under the apse roof. They had already finished the upper tier, where the Gothic arch was rounded off with a small rose window. After the clerestory, they would work on the set of big arched windows underneath. They placed small pieces of colored glass, held by strips of lead, into the window space. The sunlight streamed in through the glass.

“At that time,” Arnau went on, “I was lucky enough to talk to the great Berenguer de Montagut. I remember him saying that we Catalans need no more decoration than space and light. He pointed to the apse where you’re looking now, then drew his hand down toward the high altar as though the light were pouring down. I told him I understood what he was talking about, but in fact I could not imagine what he meant.” Mar looked at him. “I was only young,” he said to justify himself, “and he was the master builder, the great Berenguer de Montagut. Now I do understand.” He went closer to Mar and raised a hand up toward the rose window high in the apse. Mar tried to hide the shiver that ran through her when he touched her. “Do you see how the light comes into the church?” Then he drew his hand down toward the altar, just as Berenguer had done all those years ago, although now he could point to shafts of colored light flooding in. Fascinated, Mar followed Arnau’s hand. “Take a good look. The stained glass facing the sun is in bright colors: reds, yellows, and greens, to take advantage of the strong Mediterranean light. The others are white or blue. All through the day as the sun moves round, the color in the church interior changes, and the stones reflect all the different hues. How right Berenguer was! It’s like having a new church every day, every hour, as if a new one were constantly being born, because although the stone is dead, the sun is alive and different each day; the reflections change with it.”

The two of them stood enthralled by the warm, colored light.

After a while, Arnau took Mar by the shoulders and turned her toward him.

“Don’t leave me, Mar, I beg you.”

Next day at dawn, in the dark, overornate chapel of Santa Agata, Mar tired to hide her tears as she witnessed the ceremony.

Arnau and Eleonor stood stiff and unmoving in front of the bishop. Eleonor looked straight ahead of her all the time. At the beginning of the ceremony, Arnau turned to her once or twice, but she did not deign to turn her head in his direction. From then on, he merely glanced at her occasionally out of the corner of his eye.

39

As SOON AS the wedding ceremony was over, the new barons of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui left for Montbui castle. Joan told Arnau of the questions that Eleonor’s steward had asked. Where did Arnau think she was going to sleep? In rooms above a vulgar countinghouse? What about her servants? And her slaves? Arnau made him be quiet, but agreed to leave Barcelona that same day, provided Joan went with them.

“For what reason?” the friar asked.

“Because I think I am going to need your good offices.”

Eleonor and her steward left on horseback. She rode sidesaddle, while a groom walked alongside holding the reins. Her scribe and two maidens rode mules, and a dozen or so slaves pulled as many mules loaded down with all her possessions.

Arnau rented a cart.

When the baroness saw the ramshackle vehicle arrive, drawn by two mules and carrying the scant possessions that Arnau, Joan, and Mar were bringing with them—Guillem and Donaha had stayed in Barcelona—her eyes blazed fiercely enough to light a torch. This was the first time she had really looked at Arnau and her new family; they had been married, they had gone through the ceremony before the bishop and with the king and his wife in attendance, but she had never even deigned to consider them.

They left Barcelona with an escort provided by the king. Arnau and Mar sat up on the cart, while Joan walked alongside. The baroness urged her horse on so that they would arrive at the castle as quickly as possible. It came into sight before sunset.

Perched on the top of a hill, it was a small fortress where until their arrival the local thane had lived. Many peasants and serfs were curious to see their new lords, so that by the time they were close to the castle, more than a hundred people had thronged around them, wondering who this man could be, so richly dressed but traveling in a broken-down cart.

“Why are we stopping now?” asked Mar when the baroness gave the order for everyone to come to a halt.

Arnau shrugged.

“Because they have to hand over the castle to us,” Joan explained.

“Don’t we have to go in for them to do that?” asked Arnau.

“No. The Customs and Practices of Catalonia prescribe something different : the thane, his family, and their retinue have to leave the castle before they hand it over.” As he was saying this, the heavy gates of the fortress swung slowly open, and the thane appeared, followed by the members of his family and all his servants. When he reached the baroness, he gave her something. “You’re the one who should receive those keys,” Joan told Arnau.

“What do I want with a castle?”

As the thane and his party passed by the cart, he could not hide a sly smile. Mar flushed. Even the servants stared openly at them.

“You shouldn’t allow it,” Joan said again. “You are their lord now. They owe you respect and loyalty—”

“Listen, Joan,” said Arnau, interrupting him, “let’s get one thing clear: I don’t want any castle, I am not and have no wish to be anyone’s lord and master, and I have not the slightest intention of staying here any longer than is strictly necessary to sort out whatever needs sorting out. As soon as that’s done, I am going back to Barcelona. If the lady baroness wishes to live here in her castle, so be it. It’s all hers.”

This outburst brought the first smile of the day to Mar’s face.

“You can’t leave,” Joan insisted.

Mar’s face fell. Arnau turned to confront the friar.

“What do you mean, I can’t? I can do as I choose. Am I not the baron? Don’t the barons leave home for months on end to follow the king?”

“Yes, but they are going to war.”

“Thanks to my money, Joan, thanks to my money. It seems to me more important that somebody like me accompanies the king than any of those nobles who are always asking for easy loans. Well,” he added, looking toward the castle, “what are we waiting for now? It’s empty, and I’m tired.”

“By law, there still has to be—” Joan began.

“You and your laws,” Arnau snapped at him. “Why are you Dominicans so concerned about legal matters? What is there still—”

“Arnau and Eleonor, barons of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui!” The cry echoed out over the valley that lay beneath the castle hill. Everyone looked up to the tallest tower in the fortress. Eleonor’s steward, his hands cupped to amplify the sound, was shouting at the top of his voice: “Arnau and Eleonor, barons of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui! Arnau and Eleonor ... !”

“That was still to come: the official announcement that the castle has changed hands,” Joan concluded.

The baroness moved forward.

“At least he mentioned my name,” Arnau said.

The steward was still shouting with all his might.

“Without that, your possession of the castle would not be legal,” the friar concluded.

Arnau was about to say something, but thought better of it and merely shook his head wearily.

INSIDE THE CASTLE yard, behind the walls and around the keep, the usual conglomeration of buildings had been put up haphazardly over the years. There was a long hall with a vast dining room, kitchens, and pantries, with other rooms on the upper floor. Scattered around outside the hall were a handful of wooden buildings that housed the servants and the small garrison of soldiers.

The captain of the guard, a small, broad-beamed man who looked unkempt and filthy, came out to officially greet Eleonor and her party. They all went into the large dining chamber.

“Show me where the thane lived,” Eleonor screamed.

The captain pointed to a stone staircase whose only adornment was a stone balustrade. The baroness started up the steps, followed by her steward, the scribe, and her maidens. She completely ignored Arnau.

The three Estanyols stood in the middle of the hall, watching as the slaves carried in all Eleonor’s possessions.

“Perhaps you should—” Joan started to say.

“Don’t interfere, Joan,” Arnau said curtly.

For some moments, they surveyed the great hall: the high ceiling, huge hearth, armchairs, the candelabra, and the table with room for a dozen guests. Then Eleonor’s steward appeared on the stairs. He came down toward them but stopped three steps before the bottom.

“The lady baroness,” he said in fluted tones, without speaking to anyone in particular, “says she is very tired tonight and does not want to be disturbed.”

The steward was about to turn on his heel when Arnau halted him.

“Hey, you!” he shouted. The steward turned back toward him. “Tell your lady mistress not to worry. No one is going to disturb her ... ever,” he hissed. Mar’s eyes opened wide, and she raised her hands to her mouth. The steward turned to make his way up the stairs once more, but Arnau again called out to him: “Hey! Which are our rooms?” The steward shrugged. “Where’s the captain of the guard?”

“He’s attending my lady.”

“Well, go upstairs and find her, and get the captain to come down. And be quick about it, because if you aren’t I’ll see to it you are castrated, and the next time you announce the handover of a castle you’ll be singing it.”

The steward gripped the balustrade tightly, confused at this violent threat. Could this be the same man who had sat quietly the whole day as his cart bumped and jolted along? Arnau’s eyes narrowed. He strode over to the staircase, pulling out the bastaix dagger he had insisted on wearing to his wedding. The steward did not have time to see that in fact it was completely blunt: before Arnau had taken three steps, he fled upstairs.

Arnau turned back to the others: Mar was laughing, but Joan scowled disapprovingly. Behind them, several of Eleonor’s slaves had seen what had happened and were smiling to themselves as well.

“You over there!” Arnau shouted when he saw them. “Stop laughing and unload the cart. Then take the things up to our rooms.”

BY NOW THEY had been living in the castle for more than a month. Arnau had tried to sort out the affairs of his new possessions, but whenever he began to pore over the account books, he ended by closing them with a sigh. Torn pages, figures scratched out and written over, contradictory or even false dates—they were incomprehensible, completely indecipherable.

It took only a week in Montbui castle for Arnau to long to get back to Barcelona and leave his lands in the hands of a capable administrator. But while he made up his mind, he decided he should get to know them a little better. To do this, he did not turn to the noblemen who were his vassals and who, whenever they came to the castle, completely ignored him but bowed their knee to Eleonor. Instead, he sought out the ordinary people, the peasants, the serfs chained to his vassals.

Taking Mar with him, he toured his lands. He was curious to know if what he had heard in Barcelona was true. The traders there often based their decisions on the news they received from the countryside. Arnau knew, for example, that the 1348 epidemic had depopulated the countryside, and that as recently as the previous year, 1358, a plague of locusts had made the situation even worse by devouring all the crops. The lack of resources was beginning to show even in the city, forcing the traders there to change their way of doing business.

“My God!” muttered Arnau behind the back of the first peasant who had run into his farmhouse to present his family to the new baron.

Mar too found it impossible to take her eyes off the ruin of a house and its outbuildings, all of them as filthy and uncared-for as the man who had come out to greet them, and who now reappeared with a woman and two small children.

The four of them lined up in front of the newcomers and tried awkwardly to bow to them. Their eyes were filled with fear. Their clothes were rags, and the children ... The children could hardly stand up straight. Their legs were spindle-thin.

“Is this all your family?” asked Arnau.

The peasant was about to nod when the sound of a feeble wail came from inside the house. Arnau frowned, and the man shook his head slowly. The look of fear in his eyes changed to one of sadness.

“My wife has no milk, Your Honor.”

Arnau looked at her. How could anyone with a body like that have milk! First she would need to have breasts ...

“Is there no one near here who could... ?”

The peasant anticipated the question. “Everyone is in the same situation, Your Honor. The children are dying.”

Arnau saw Mar raise a hand to her mouth.

“Show me your farm: your granary, the stables, your house and fields.”

“We can’t pay any more, Your Honor!”

The woman had fallen to her knees and was crawling over to where Arnau and Mar stood.

Arnau went over to her and took her by her skinny arms. She shrank beneath his touch.

“What ...”

The children began to cry.

“Don’t hit her, please, Your Honor, I beg you,” pleaded the peasant, coming up to Arnau. “It’s true. We can’t pay any more. Punish me if you must.”

Arnau let go of the woman and withdrew to where Mar was standing, watching in horror what was happening.

“I’m not going to hit her,” Arnau told the man, “or you, or anyone else in your family. Nor am I going to ask you for more money. I just want to see your farm. Tell your wife to stand up, please.”

First their eyes had shown fear, then sadness; now the man’s and woman’s sunken eyes stared at him in bewilderment. “Are we meant to play at being gods?” thought Arnau. What had been done to this family for them to act this way? They were allowing one of the children to die, and yet thought that someone had come to ask them to pay even more.

The granary was empty. So was the stable. The fields were untended, and the plowing gear had fallen into disrepair. As for the house ... if the child did not die of hunger it would die of any disease. Arnau did not dare touch it; it seemed... it seemed as though the infant might snap in two just by moving it.

He took his purse from his belt and pulled out a few coins. He was about to give them to the man, but thought again and got out several more.

“I want this child to live,” he said, leaving the coins on the remains of what must once have been a table. “I want you, your wife, and your two other children to eat. This money is for you, and you alone. Nobody has the right to take it from you. If there are any problems, come to the castle to see me.”

None of the family moved: they were all staring at the coins. They did not even look up when Arnau said farewell and left the house.

Arnau returned to his castle in silence, deep in thought. Mar shared his silence with him.

“THEY’RE ALL THE same, Joan,” Arnau told him one evening when the two men were walking in the cool air outside the castle. “Some of them have been lucky enough to take over uninhabited farmhouses whose owners have died or simply fled the land: who could blame them? They use the land for woods and pasture: that gives them some chance to survive even though they can’t produce crops. But the rest... the rest are in a terrible state. The fields are barren, and so they are dying of hunger.”

“That’s not all,” Joan added. “I have heard that the nobles, your vassals, are forcing the remaining peasants to sign capbreus.”

“Capbreus?”

“They’re documents that accept all the feudal rights that had been allowed to lapse during the years of plenty. There are so few men left that the nobles are making more and more demands so that they can get as much out of them as before, when there were far more serfs.”

Arnau had not been sleeping well for some time now. He had night-mares with all the haggard faces he had seen. Now he found he could not get back to sleep. He had visited all his lands and been generous. How could he allow things to stay as they were? All those peasant families depended on him: they were directly responsible to their lords, but the lords in turn owed their allegiance to him. If he, as their feudal baron, demanded the nobles pay their rents and duties, they would in turn force the wretched peasants to meet the new demands that the thane had through his negligence allowed to be reintroduced.

They were slaves. Chained to the land. Slaves on his lands. Arnau turned to and fro on his bed. His slaves! An army of starving men, women, and children whom nobody considered important... except to extort more and more out of until they died. Arnau recalled the nobles who had come to pay homage to Eleonor: they were all healthy, strong, dressed in fine clothes—happy, fortunate people! How could they have turned their backs so completely on the reality their serfs were forced to live? And what could he do about it?

He was generous. He gave money where he could see it was needed: to him it was a pittance, but it brought delight to the children he saw, and a warm smile to the face of Mar, who never left his side. But he could not carry on doing it forever. If he went on handing out money, the nobles would soon find a way to get their hands on it. They would still refuse to pay him, but would exploit the poorest peasants still further. What could he do?

BUT WHEREAS ARNAU rose each day feeling increasingly pessimistic, Eleonor was in a very different frame of mind.

“She has summoned the nobles, peasants, and other inhabitants on Assumption Day,” said Joan, who as a Dominican friar was the only one among them who had any contact with the baroness.

“What for?”

“So that they can pay her ... pay you both homage,” he said. Arnau waved for him to continue. “According to the law ...” Joan spread his palms, as though to say, “It was you who asked,” and went on: “According to the law, any noble may at any time demand of his vassals that they renew their vows of fealty and homage to the noble. It’s logical that, as they have not done so before now, Eleonor wishes them to do so now.”

“Do you mean to say they will come?”

“Nobles and knights are not obliged to attend a commendation ceremony of this kind. They can instead come and swear fealty in private, provided they do so within a year, a month, and a day of being called upon to do so. However, Eleonor has been talking to them, and it appears they will come. After all, she is the king’s ward. Nobody wants to offend her.”

“What about the husband of the king’s ward?”

Joan made no reply. Yes, there was something in his look ... Arnau knew he was keeping something back.

“Do you have anything more to say to me, Joan?”

The friar shook his head.

ELEONOR ORDERED A platform to be built on the plain below the castle. She dreamed of nothing but Assumption Day. How often had she seen not merely noblemen but whole towns swear fealty to her guardian, the king? Now they would do the same for her. She was the queen, the sovereign in her own lands. What did she care that Arnau would be next to her? Everyone knew that it was to her, the king’s ward, that they were swearing allegiance.

She grew so nervous that as the day drew closer, she even allowed herself to smile at Arnau. He was some distance from her, and it was only the ghost of a smile, but it was a smile nonetheless.

Arnau hesitated, then forced his own lips into a curling grimace.

“Why did I smile at him?” Eleonor cursed herself, and clenched her fists. “Stupid woman! How could you humiliate yourself like that before a vulgar money changer, a runaway serf?” They had been at Montbui for more than six weeks now, yet Arnau had not once come near her. Wasn’t he a man? When no one was looking, she would glance at his strong, powerful body, and at night all alone in her room she even dreamed of him mounting and fiercely taking possession of her. How long had it been since she felt like this? But he humiliated her with his disdain. How dared he? Eleonor bit her bottom lip savagely. “His time will come,” she told herself.

On the feast day of the Assumption, Eleonor rose at dawn. From the window of her lonely bedroom she could see the plain and the high dais she had ordered built. The peasants were beginning to gather round it; many of them had gone without sleep in order not to be late for their lord’s summons. Not a single nobleman was yet to be seen.

40

THE SUN HERALDED a hot, glorious day. The clear, cloudless sky, similar to the one that almost forty years earlier had greeted the wedding celebration of a serf called Bernat Estanyol, rose like a bright blue dome over the heads of the thousands of vassals. The hour was fast approaching, and Eleonor, dressed in her finest robes, paced nervously up and down the great hall of Montbui castle. What had happened to the nobles and knights? Dressed as usual in his black habit, Joan was resting in an armchair, while Arnau and Mar, as though detached from the scene, shot each other amused looks whenever they heard Eleonor sighing anxiously.

At last the nobles arrived. As impatient as his mistress, a servant came rushing into the room to tell Eleonor they were coming. The baroness went to look out of a window; when she turned again to face the others, her face was beaming with delight. The nobles and knights who lived on her lands had obviously made great efforts. Their fine clothes, swords, and jewels stood out among the crowd of peasants dressed in their gray, sad tunics. The grooms led their horses behind the platform, where their neighing and stamping broke the silence with which the poor peasants had greeted the arrival of their lords. The servants set up elaborate seats, covered in bright silks, beneath the dais. This was where noblemen and knights were to swear fealty to their new masters. The peasants instinctively moved away from the final line of seats in order to leave a space between them and the privileged.

Eleonor looked out of the window again. She smiled as she saw the wealth and power her new vassals were displaying so openly. Followed by her retinue she made her way to the dais, and sat before them all, like a true queen.

Eleonor’s scribe, who today was introducing the proceedings, began by reading King Pedro the Third’s decree, which gave as dowry to the royal ward Eleonor the baronies of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui, with all the vassals, lands, and rents that they contained ... As the scribe was reading this, Eleonor drank in his words: she felt herself observed and envied—hated even, why not?—by all those who until now had been vassals of the king. They would still owe him their loyalty, of course, but from now on there would be someone else between them and their sovereign : her. Arnau, by contrast, was not even listening to the scribe’s speech: he merely smiled back at all the peasants he had visited and helped, when they greeted him.

In the midst of the crowd of people were two women dressed in vivid colors, as befitted their condition as common prostitutes. One was already old; the other was mature but still beautiful, and unabashedly displayed her charms.

“Nobles and knights,” shouted the scribe, this time succeeding in capturing Arnau’s attention, “do you swear fealty to Arnau and Eleonor, barons of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui?”

“No!”

The refusal seemed to rend the sky. The former thane of Montbui castle had risen to his feet to reject the oath in a thunderous voice. A low murmur spread among the peasants grouped behind the nobles. Joan shook his head as though he had expected something of this sort; Mar looked uneasy, as if she did not know what she was doing up on the platform in front of all these people; Arnau was at a loss; and Eleonor’s face had turned as pale as wax.

The scribe turned to the platform, expecting instructions from his mistress. When none were forthcoming, he took the initiative.

“You refuse?”

“We refuse,” boomed the thane, sure of himself. “Not even the king can oblige us to pay homage to someone who is of lower rank than ourselves. That is the law!” Joan nodded sadly. He had not wanted to tell Arnau as much. The nobles had tricked Eleonor. “Arnau Estanyol,” the thane went on, “is a citizen of Barcelona, the son of a runaway serf. We will not pay homage to the runaway son of a landed serf, even if the king has granted him the baronies you spoke of!”

The younger of the two women in the crowd stood on tiptoe to get a better view of the dais. Seeing all the nobles seated in front of it had aroused her curiosity, but now when she heard the name of Arnau, citizen of Barcelona and a peasant’s son, her legs began to give way beneath her.

With the crowd still murmuring in the background, the scribe once again turned toward Eleonor. So did Arnau, but she made no sign to either of them. She sat transfixed. After the initial shock, her astonishment had turned to anger. Her face had gone from white to bright red; she was shaking with rage and her hands were grasping the arms of her chair so tightly it seemed as though she wanted to claw into the wood.

“Why did you tell me he had died, Francesca?” asked the younger of the two prostitutes.

“He’s my son, Aledis.”

“Arnau is your son?”

Francesca nodded, at the same time gesturing to Aledis to keep her voice down. The last thing in the world she wanted was for anyone to find out that Arnau was the son of a common prostitute. Fortunately, the people around them were too absorbed in the dispute among the nobles in front of them.

The argument was unresolved. When he saw that no one else would take the lead, Joan decided to intervene.

“You may be right in what you affirm,” he cried from behind the outraged baroness, “and may refuse to pay homage, but that does not absolve you from fulfilling your duties and pledging your obedience to them. That’s the law! Are you willing to do so?”

The thane of Montbui knew the friar was right. He looked around the other nobles to judge their opinion. Arnau gestured for Joan to come closer.

“What does this mean?” he whispered to him.

“It means they save face. Their honor is intact if they do not swear fealty and homage to ...”

“To a person of lower rank,” Arnau helped him out. “You know that has never troubled me.”

“They refuse to swear homage to you or to be your vassals, but the law obliges them to fulfill their duties to you and pledge their obedience, recognizing that they hold their lands and honors in your name.”

“Is that something similar to the capbreus they make the peasants accept?”

“Something similar.”

“We will pledge our obedience,” said the thane.

Arnau paid him no attention. He did not even look at him. He was thinking: perhaps this was the solution to the peasants’ misery. Joan was still leaning over him. Eleonor was no longer there: her eyes were staring out beyond the spectacle in front of her, at her lost illusions.

“Does that mean,” Arnau asked Joan, “that although they will not legally recognize me as their feudal lord, I can still give them orders that they must obey?”

“Yes. They are concerned above all about their honor.”

“Good,” said Arnau, standing up unobtrusively and gesturing to the scribe to come over. “Do you see the gap between the nobles and the others?” he asked when he was beside him. “I want you to stand there and repeat word for word in the loudest voice you can everything I am about to say. I want everyone to hear what I am to say!” As the scribe made his way to the open ground behind the nobles, Arnau smiled wryly at the thane, who was waiting for some response to his pledge of obedience. “I, Arnau, baron of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui ...”

Arnau waited for the scribe to repeat his words:

“I, Arnau,” the scribe duly called out, “baron of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui ...”

“... declare null and void on my lands all those privileges known as malpractices ...”

“... declare null and void ...”

“You cannot do that!” shouted one of the nobles over the scribe’s words.

When he heard this, Arnau glanced at Joan to confirm that he did indeed have the power to do what he was suggesting.

“Yes, I can,” he said shortly, after Joan had backed him up.

“We will petition the king!” shouted another noble.

Arnau shrugged. Joan came up to him on the dais.

“Have you thought what will happen to all those poor people if you give them hope and then the king rules against you?”

“Joan,” said Arnau, with a self-confidence that was new to him, “I may know nothing about honor, nobility, or the rules of knighthood, but I do know what is written in my account books regarding all the loans I have made to His Majesty. Which, by the way,” he added with a smile, “have been considerably increased for the Mallorca campaign since my marriage to his ward. That I do know. I can assure you that the king will not question my decisions.”

Arnau looked at the scribe and gestured to him to continue: “... declare null and void on my lands all those privileges known as malpractices ... ,” shouted the scribe.

“I annul the right of intestia, by which a lord has the right to inherit part of the possessions of his vassals.” Arnau went on speaking clearly and slowly, so that the scribe could repeat his words. The peasants listened quietly, caught between astonishment and hope. “Also that of cugutia, by which lords may take half or all of the possessions of an adulterous woman. That of exorquia, which gives them part of the inheritance of married peasants who die without issue. That of ius maletractandi, which allows nobles to mistreat peasants at their will, and to seize their goods.” Arnau’s words were met with a silence so complete that the scribe decided the crowd could hear their feudal lord’s proclamation without any help from him. Francesca gripped Aledis’s arm. “I annul the right of arsia, which obliges peasants to compensate their lord for any fire on his land. Also the right of firma de espoli forzada, which gives the lord the right to sleep with a bride on her wedding night ...”

The son could not see it, but in the crowd that was starting to react joyously as they realized Arnau meant what he was saying, an old woman—his mother—let go of Aledis’s arm and raised her hands to her face. Aledis instantly understood. Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned to embrace the older woman. At the foot of the dais, nobles and knights were noisily debating the best way to present the problem to King Pedro.

“I declare null and void all other duties that poor peasants have been obliged to fulfill, apart from the right and proper levies on their lands. I declare you free to bake your own bread, to shoe your animals, and repair your gear in your own forges. I declare you women and mothers free to refuse to give suck to the children of your lords without payment.” At this, lost in her memories, the old woman could not stop the tears flowing. “And also to refuse to serve unpaid in their households. I further free you from having to offer gifts to your lords at Christmas and to work on their lands for no reward.”

Arnau fell silent for a few moments, his eyes fixed not on the squabbling nobles but on the throng of peasants beyond them. They were waiting to hear something more. One thing more! They all knew it, and were waiting impatiently for Arnau to speak again. One more thing!

“I declare that you are free!”

The thane leapt up and shook his fist at Arnau. All around him, the nobles stood and shouted their fury.

“Free!” sobbed the old woman as the peasants cheered wildly.

“From this day on, a day when nobles have refused to pay homage to the king’s ward, the peasants who work on the lands that are part of the baronies of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui are to be treated exactly the same as those in New Catalonia, the baronies of Entenca, Conca del Barberà, the counties of Tarragona and Prades, the Serraga and Garriga, the marquisate of Aytona, the territories of Tortosa and Urgell ... the same as in all the nineteen regions of Catalonia conquered thanks to the efforts and the blood of your fathers. You are free! You are peasants but never again in these lands will you be serfs, and nor will your children or your children’s children!”

“Nor will your mothers,” Francesca murmured to herself. “Nor will your mothers,” she said again, before dissolving into floods of tears once again, and clutching Aledis, who was close to tears herself.

Arnau had to leave the dais in order not to be overwhelmed by the peasants rushing to congratulate him. Joan helped Eleonor away: she was unable to walk on her own. Behind them, Mar was trying to control the emotions she felt were about to explode inside her.

When Arnau set off back toward the castle, the plain began to empty of people. After agreeing on how they would present their complaint to the king, the nobles galloped off, paying no heed to those on foot, who were forced to leap off the tracks into the fields to avoid being knocked down by the furious horsemen. Nevertheless, as they headed back to their farms, there were smiles on all the peasants’ faces.

Soon the only ones left near the dais were the two women.

“Why did you lie to me?” asked Aledis.

This time the old woman turned to face her.

“Because you did not deserve him ... and he was not meant to live with you. You were never meant to be his wife.” Francesca said this without hesitation. She said it coldly, despite the emotion still choking her.

“Do you really think I don’t deserve him?” asked Aledis.

Francesca wiped away her tears, and soon was once again the energetic, determined woman who had run her business for so many years.

“Haven’t you seen what he has become? Didn’t you hear what he just said? Do you think his life would have been the same if he had been with you?”

“What you said about my husband and the duel ...”

“All a lie.”

“That I was being pursued ... ?”

“That too.” Aledis frowned and glared at Francesca. The old woman was not intimidated. “You lied to me too, remember?”

“I had my reasons.”

“So did I.”

“You wanted me for your business... I see that now.”

“That was one of the reasons, I admit. But do you have anything to complain about? How many naive girls have you fooled in the same way since then?”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you ...”

“Remember, the choice was yours.” Aledis looked doubtful. “Some of us never had a choice.”

“It was very hard, Francesca. To reach Figueres, dragging myself there with all that I went through, and with what result?”

“You live well, better than many of those nobles here today. You lack for nothing.”

“My honor.”

Francesca straightened as far as her bent body would permit. She turned to confront Aledis.

“Listen, Aledis, I know nothing about honor or honors. You sold me yours. Mine was stolen when I was still a girl. Nobody gave me any choice. Today I cried in a way I have never allowed myself to do before, and that is enough. We are what we are, and it serves no purpose for either of us to think about how we became it. Let others fight for their honor. You saw today what they are like. Who among them knows what honor really is?”

“Perhaps now that those privileges have been abolished ...”

“Don’t fool yourself; the peasants will continue to be poor, wretched souls with nowhere to lay their heads. We have had to struggle hard to gain what little we have, so forget about honor: that is not for ordinary people.”

Aledis looked around her at the peasants streaming away. They might no longer have to submit to their lords’ abusive privileges, but they were still the same men and women deprived of hope, the same starving, barefoot children dressed in rags. She nodded and put her arms round Francesca.

41

“YOU’RE NOT THINKING of leaving me here, are you?”

Eleonor flew down the staircase. Arnau was in the great hall, seated at the table signing the documents that annulled the malpractices and privileges on his lands. “As soon as I’ve signed them, I’m leaving,” he had told Joan. The friar was standing with Mar behind Arnau, watching him sign.

Arnau finished what he was doing, and then looked up to confront Eleonor. This must have been the first time they had spoken since their marriage. Arnau did not stand up.

“Why do you want me to stay with you?”

“You don’t expect me to stay in a place where I’ve suffered so much humiliation, do you?”

“I’ll put it another way then: why would you want to come with me?”

“You’re my husband!” screeched Eleonor. She had gone over it time and again: she could not stay at Montbui, but she could not return to court either. Arnau grimaced. “If you go and leave me here, I’ll protest to the king.”

This time, her words gave Arnau pause for thought. “We’ll petition the king!” the nobles had threatened him. He thought he could deal with the threat from the nobles, but ... He looked at the documents he had signed. If the king’s ward Eleonor added her voice to theirs ...

“Sign these,” he said, passing her the parchments.

“Why should I? If you abolish all the privileges, we’ll not receive any revenues.”

“Sign and you will live in a palace on Calle de Montcada in Barcelona. You won’t need the revenues: you’ll have all the money you could wish for.”

Eleonor walked across to the table, picked up the quill, and leaned over the documents.

“What guarantees do I have that you will keep your word?” she asked suddenly, glancing at Arnau.

“The fact that the bigger the palace is, the less I’ll see of you. That’s one guarantee. The fact that the better life you have, the less you’ll bother me. That’s another. Is that enough? I’ve no intention of offering any more.”

Eleonor looked up at the two figures standing behind Arnau. Was that a smile on the girl’s face?

“Are they going to live with us?” she asked, pointing at them with the quill.

“Yes.”

“The girl too?”

Mar and Eleonor glared at each other.

“Wasn’t I clear enough for you, Eleonor? Are you going to sign or not?”

She signed.

ARNAU DID NOT wait for Eleonor to pack all her things. To avoid the August heat he set off that evening in the same rented cart he had arrived in.

None of them looked behind as the cart emerged from the castle gates.

“Why do we have to go and live with her?” Mar asked Arnau during the journey back to Barcelona.

“I cannot afford to offend the king, Mar. One never knows how a king may react.”

Mar sat silently for a few moments, deep in thought.

“Is that why you offered her all you did?”

“No ... Well, yes, in part, but the main reason was the peasants. I don’t want her to make any complaint. The king has supposedly given us the revenues from these lands to live on, even if in fact they are tiny or nonexistent. If she goes to the king and says that through my fault those revenues have vanished, he could possibly overturn my decisions.”

“The king ... Why would the king ... ?”

“You need to know that only a few years ago the king published a decree against the serfs, a decree that even went against privileges he and his predecessors had given the cities. The Church and nobility had demanded he take measures against any serfs who escaped and left their lands untended ... and the king did so.”

“I didn’t think he would do anything like that.”

“He’s just another noble, Mar, even if he is first among them.”

They spent the night in a farmhouse outside the village of Montcada. Arnau paid the peasants generously. They rose at dawn and were in Barcelona before the heat of the day.

“The situation is dramatic, Guillem,” Arnau told him once everyone had finished their greetings and the two men were on their own. “The Catalan countryside is in a far worse state than we thought. We hear about it only when there is news, but when you see how bad the fields and properties are, you realize we are in real trouble.”

“I’ve been taking that into account for some time now,” Guillem said, to Arnau’s surprise. “It’s a real crisis, but I could see it coming. We’ve talked about it, if you remember. Our currency is constantly losing value in foreign markets, but the king is not doing anything about it here in Catalonia, and the exchange rate is unsustainable. The city is falling deeper and deeper into debt in order to finance everything it has created in Barcelona. Nobody is making any profit from trade, and so people are looking for more secure places to invest.”

“What about our business?”

“I’ve moved it outside the country. To Pisa, Florence, even Genoa. Those are places where we can trade with logical exchange rates.” The two men fell silent. “Castelló has been declared abatut,” Guillem said eventually. “Disaster is looming.”

Arnau remembered the fat, sweating money changer who had always been very friendly to him.

“What happened?”

“He wasn’t sufficiently cautious. His clients began to reclaim their deposits, and he couldn’t meet their demands.”

“Will he be able to?”

“I don’t think so.”

ON AUGUST 29, the king disembarked after his victorious campaign in Mallorca. As soon as the Catalan fleet arrived at the islands, Pedro the Cruel had fled Ibiza after taking and plundering it.

A month later, Eleonor arrived. All the Estanyol family, including Guillem despite his initial protests, moved to the palace on Calle de Montcada.

Two months later, the king granted an audience to the thane of Montbui. The previous day, Pedro the Third had sent envoys to ask for a fresh loan from Arnau. When it was granted, he gave short shrift to the castellan, and upheld all Arnau’s proclamations.

Two months later, when the six months the law allowed for an abatut to settle his debts had elapsed, the money changer Castelló was beheaded outside his countinghouse in Plaza del Canvis. All the city’s money changers were forced to witness the execution from the front row of spectators. Arnau saw Castelló’s head severed from his body at the executioner’s first accurate blow. He would have liked to close his eyes as many others did, but found it impossible. He had to see it. It was a reminder to exercise caution, and he would never forget it, he told himself as his colleague’s blood ran down the scaffold.

42

HE COULD SEE her smile. Arnau could still see his Virgin smile, and life was smiling at him too. Two years had passed, and despite political turmoil his business ventures were prospering, bringing him handsome profits, part of which he donated to the poor or to Santa Maria. With time, Guillem was forced to admit he was right: the common people repaid their loans, coin by coin. His church, the temple to the sea, was still growing: work was now going on to build the third central vault and the octagonal towers on either side of the main front. Santa Maria was filled with artisans: marble cutters and sculptors, painters, glassmakers, carpenters, and the smiths working on the iron railings. There was even an organist, whose work Arnau followed with interest. What would music sound like in this marvelous church? he wondered. After the death of the archdeacon Bernat Llull and two canons who had followed him, the post was now filled by Pere Salvete de Montirac. Arnau had a good relationship with him. Others who had died by now were the master builder Berenguer de Montagut and his successor, Ramon Despuig. Work on the church was now directed by Guillem Metge.

It was not only with the provosts of Santa Maria that Arnau had close relations. His economic situation and his newly acquired social rank brought him into contact with the city councillors, aldermen, and members of the Council of a Hundred. His opinion was much sought after in the exchange, and his advice was followed by traders and merchants alike.

“You ought to accept the position,” Guillem told him.

Arnau thought about it. He had just been offered one of the two posts of consul of the sea of Barcelona. The consuls were the highest authorities for all aspects of trade in the city. They acted as judges in mercantile matters and had their own jurisdiction, independent of all other institutions in Barcelona. This gave them the authority to mediate in any problem related to the port or port workers, as well as to ensure that the laws and customs of commerce were respected.

“I don’t know whether I could—”

“Nobody could do it better, Arnau, believe me,” Guillem interrupted him. “You can do it. Of course you can.”

Arnau agreed to take over as consul when the two currently in office had finished their term.

The church of Santa Maria, his business concerns, his future duties as consul of the sea—all this created a wall around Arnau behind which he felt comfortable, so that when he went back to his new home, the palace in Calle de Montcada, he did not realize what was going on inside its imposing gateway.

Although he had fulfilled the promises made to Eleonor, he also made sure that the guarantees he had given her were respected, so that his dealings with her were reduced to an absolute minimum. Mar meanwhile was a wonderful twenty-year-old who still refused to be married. “Why should I when I have Arnau? What would he do without me? Who would take his shoes off? Who would look after him when he gets back from work? Who would talk to him and listen to his problems? Eleonor? Joan, who’s more and more devoted to his studies? The slaves? Or Guillem, whom he spends most of the day with anyway?” she reasoned to herself.

Every day, Mar waited impatiently for Arnau to return home. Her breathing quickened whenever she heard him knocking at the door in the gate, and the smile returned to her lips as she ran to greet him at the top of the staircase that led up to the principal rooms of the palace. When Arnau was out during the day, her life was both boring and a torture.

“Not partridge!” she heard the shout from the kitchens. “Today we are going to eat veal.”

Mar turned to confront the baroness, who was standing in the kitchen doorway. Arnau liked partridge. She had gone with Donaha to buy them. She chose them herself, hung them from a rack in the kitchen, and checked on them each day. When she decided they had hung long enough, she went down early in the morning to pluck them.

“But... ,” Mar tried to object.

“Veal,” Eleonor insisted, glaring at her.

Mar turned to look at Donaha, but the slave merely gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

“I decide what is eaten in this house,” the baroness went on, addressing all the slaves in the kitchen. “I say what happens here!”

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

Eleonor waited to see what would happen following this explosion. Would the girl turn to Arnau, or keep their argument secret? Mar also thought it over. Should she tell Arnau? What would she gain by that? If Arnau took her side, he would argue with Eleonor, who when it came down to it was mistress of the house. And if he didn’t support Mar? Her stomach churned. Arnau had once said that he could not afford to offend the king. What if Eleonor complained to the sovereign over this? What would Arnau say then?

By the end of the day, when Arnau had still not said a word to her, Eleonor smiled scornfully at Mar. From then on, she stepped up her attack on the girl. She forbade her to go with the slaves to the markets, or to go into the kitchens. She put slaves on the door of whichever room she was in. “The lady baroness does not wish to be disturbed,” they would tell Mar if she tried to enter. Day after day, Eleonor found new ways of making her life difficult.

The king. They had to avoid offending the king. Those words were engraved in Mar’s memory; she repeated them to herself time and again. Eleonor was still his ward; she could go and see him whenever she wished. She was not going to be the one who gave Eleonor that excuse!

She could not have been more wrong. Eleonor took little satisfaction from these domestic disputes. All her tiny victories were as nothing when Arnau came home and Mar flung herself in his arms. The two of them laughed, talked together ... their bodies touched. Sitting in an armchair, Arnau would tell her all that had happened during the day: the discussions at the exchange, his business deals, his ships, while Mar kneeled at his feet, entranced by his stories. Wasn’t that the place of his legitimate spouse? At night after dinner he would sit in one of the window openings with Mar in his arms, staring up at the starry sky. Behind them, Eleonor would dig the nails into her hands until they began to bleed; the pain would eventually make her get up and withdraw to her own apartments.

All alone, she considered her situation. Arnau had not touched her since their marriage. She stroked her body, ran her hands over her breasts... they were still firm! Then her hips, and between her legs... As pleasure began to surge through her, she was jolted back to reality: that girl... that girl had taken her rightful place!

“WHA’T WILL HAPPEN when my husband dies?”

She asked the man straight-out, as soon as she had taken a seat at his book-laden table. She could not help coughing; the chamber was full of books, papers, and dust ...

Reginald d’Area studied his visitor unhurriedly. Eleonor had been told he was the best lawyer in Barcelona, an expert interpreter of the Customs and Usages of Catalonia.

“I understand you have no children with your husband? Is that right?” Eleonor frowned. “I need to know,” he said placidly. Everything about him, from his plump frame and friendly expression to his white flowing hair and beard, inspired confidence.

“No, I haven’t had any.”

“I imagine your inquiry concerns the inheritance?”

Eleonor stirred uneasily in her chair.

“Yes,” she said at length.

“Your dowry will be returned to you. As far as your husband’s own inheritance is concerned, he can dispose of it as he wishes in his will.”

“Do I get nothing as of right?”

“You may have use of his goods and properties for a year, the year of strict mourning.”

“Is that all?”

Reginald d’Area was taken aback by her violent retort. Who did she think she was?

“You can thank your guardian King Pedro for that,” he said dryly.

“What do you mean?”

“Until your guardian came to the throne there was a law in Catalonia laid down by King Jaime the First by which the widow could enjoy the whole of her husband’s inheritance for life, if she did not misuse it. But the merchants of Barcelona and Perpignan are very jealous of their wealth, even when their wives are involved. It was they who won the concession from Pedro the Third that widows should have access to the inheritance for a year. And your guardian has made this provision into a law throughout the entire principality ...”

Eleonor was not listening, and got up even before the lawyer had finished speaking. She started coughing again and surveyed his chamber. Why did he need so many books? Reginald stood up as well.

“If you need anything else ...”

Still with her back to him, Eleonor merely raised her hand.

One thing was clear: she needed a child from her husband to secure her future. Arnau had kept his word, and Eleonor had been able to enjoy a very different kind of life: one of luxury, which she had seen while she lived at court, but had been unable to enjoy for herself because of all the royal treasurers’ petty regulations. Now she could spend as much as she wanted; she had all she could wish for. But if Arnau were to die ... And the only thing that stood in her way, the only thing keeping him from her, was that voluptuous young witch. If that witch were not there ... if she disappeared ... Arnau would be hers! Surely she would be capable of seducing a runaway serf.

A FEW DAYS later, Eleonor summoned the friar to her apartments. He was the only one among the Estanyol family with whom she had any dealings.

“I don’t believe it!” said Joan.

“But it’s true, Brother Joan,” said Eleonor, face buried in her hands. “He has not even touched me since we were married.”

Joan knew that Arnau had no love for Eleonor and that they slept in different chambers. That was unimportant: nobody married for love, and most nobles slept apart. But if Arnau had not ever lain with Eleonor, they were not properly married.

“Have you spoken to him about it?” he asked.

Eleonor moved her hands from her face, making sure that Joan got a good view of her reddened eyes.

“I do not dare. I would not know what to say. Besides, I think ...” Eleonor let her suspicions float on the air.

“What do you think?”

“I think Arnau is much closer to Mar than to his own wife.”

“You know Arnau adores her.”

“I am not talking about that kind of love, Brother Joan,” she insisted, lowering her voice. Joan sat upright in his chair. “Yes. I know you find it hard to believe, but I’m sure that girl, as you call her, wants my husband for herself. It’s like having the Devil in my house, Brother Joan!” Eleonor brought a tremble to her voice. “My weapons, Brother Joan, are those of a simple woman who merely wishes to comply with the precepts of the Church to married women, but every time I try to, I find that my husband is so blinded by her charms he is prevented from even seeing me. I have no idea what to do!”

Was that why Mar refused to get married? Could it be true? Joan reflected on it: the two were always together, and he had seen her fling herself in his arms. And the way they looked each other, the way they laughed and smiled! How stupid he had been! He was sure the Moor knew it, and that was why he always defended her.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said evasively.

“I have a plan ... but I need your help and, above all, your advice.”

43

As HE LISTENED to Eleonor’s plan, a shudder ran through Joan’s body.

“I have to think about it,” he told her when she insisted how dramatic her situation was.

That evening he shut himself up in his room. He excused himself from dinner. He avoided Mar and Arnau. He avoided Eleonor’s inquisitive looks. Instead, he consulted his volumes of theology, which were neatly arranged in a cupboard. He was confident he could find the answer to his dilemma there. During all the years he had spent apart from his brother, he had always thought of him. He loved Arnau; he and his father were the only ones Joan could turn to in his childhood. Yet there were as many hidden folds to his affection as there were in his black habit. Lurking somewhere among them was an admiration that came close to envy. Arnau, with that frank smile of his, those easy gestures: a little boy who claimed he could talk to the Virgin. Brother Joan clenched his fists when he remembered how often he himself had tried to hear that voice. Now he knew it was almost impossible, and that only a chosen few were blessed with that honor. He had studied and disciplined himself in the hope that he might be one of them. He fasted until his health was threatened, but all in vain.

Brother Joan buried himself in the doctrines of Bishop Hincmaro of Rheims, those of Saint Leo the Great, of Master Graciano, the epistles of Saint Paul, and many others.

It was only through the carnal communion of the married couple, the coniunctio sexuum, that matrimony among human beings reflected the union of Christ with the Church, which was the main objective of the sacrament. Without that carnalis copula, matrimony did not exist, according to the first of these authors.

Only when a marriage had been consummated through carnal relations was it regarded as valid by the Church, ruled Saint Leo the Great.

Graciano, his master at the university of Bologna, went further in this doctrine, linking the symbolism of marriage, the consent freely given by the bride and groom at the altar, and sexual relations between man and woman: the una caro. Even Saint Paul, in his famous epistle to the Ephesians, had written: “So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself. For no man ever yet hated his own flesh; but nourisheth and cherisheth it, even as the Lord the church. For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh. This is a great mystery; but I speak concerning Christ and the church.”

Joan pored over the teachings and doctrines of the doctors of the Church until far into the night. What was he searching for? He opened one of the treatises a second time. For how long was he going to ignore the truth? Eleonor was right: without copulation, without the union of the flesh, there could be no true matrimony. “Why have you not lain with her? You are living in sin. The Church does not recognize your marriage.” By the light of a candle he reread Graciano, following the words with his finger. He was looking for something that did not exist. “The royal ward! The king himself gave her to you, and yet you have not copulated with her. What would the king say if he found out? Not even all your money ... It’s an insult to him. He gave you Eleonor in marriage. He himself led her to the altar, and you have spurned the offer he gave you. What about the bishop? What would he say?” He went back to Graciano. And all because of a stubborn young girl who was refusing to fulfill her destiny as a woman.

Joan spent hours with his books, but his mind continually strayed to thoughts of Eleonor’s plan and possible alternatives. He ought to tell Arnau straight-out. He imagined himself sitting face-to-face with Arnau, or possibly standing, yes, both of them standing... “You must lie with Eleonor. At the moment, you are living in sin,” he would tell him. What if this made him angry? After all, he was a Catalan baron, and consul of the sea. Who was he to tell Arnau what to do? He returned to his books. Why on earth had they ever adopted that girl? She was the cause of all their problems. If Eleonor was right, his brother might feel closer to Mar than to her. Mar was the guilty one. She had rejected all offers of marriage in order to keep tempting Arnau with her charms. What man could resist her? She was the Devil! The Devil made flesh, temptation, sin. Why should he risk losing his brother’s love when she was the Devil? Yes, she was the evil one. She was the guilty one. Only Christ was strong enough to resist temptation. Arnau was not God; he was a man. Why should men suffer if the Devil was the guilty one?

Juan plunged into his books again, until finally he found what he was looking for:See how this evil inclination is so ingrained within us, that human nature of itself and through its original corruption, without need of any other motive or instigation, turns toward this vileness, and were it not for the grace of our Lord in repressing this natural inclination, the whole world would fall into this loathsome temptation. So it is that we read that a young and pure boy, brought up by saintly hermits in the desert far from contact with any female, was sent to the city where his mother and father dwelt. And as soon as he entered the place where they were living, he asked those who had brought him what all the new sights he had seen might be: and as he had seen beautiful, finely adorned women, he asked what they might be, and the saintly hermits told him that these things were devils who brought turmoil everywhere they went, and while they were in his father and mother’s house, the hermits who had brought him there asked him as follows: “Of all the beautiful, new things you have seen and had never seen before, which did you most admire?” And the boy replied: “Of all the beautiful things I have seen, what I most liked are those devils which bring turmoil to the world.” And when the saintly fathers replied: “Oh, wretched creature! Have you not often heard and read the evil that are devils and their works, and that their dwelling place is Hell: how then can they have so much pleased you on your first sight of them?” They say the boy answered them: “Even though the devils are so evil, and do so much harm, and although they may dwell in Hell, I would not care about all that evil or to be in Hell if I could be and live with devils of that sort. Now I know that the devils of Hell are not as evil as is said. Now I know it would be good to be in Hell, since those devils are there and I would like to be with them. Would that I could join them, God willing.”

It was dawn by the time that Brother Joan had finished reading and closed his books. He was not going to take the risk. He was not going to be the saintly hermit who confronted the little boy who preferred the Devil. He was not going to be the one who called his brother a wretched creature. It was there in his books, the ones Arnau himself had paid for. There was no other possible way. He knelt on the footstool in his room beneath an image of the crucified Christ and prayed.

That night, before he finally succeeded in finding sleep, he thought he could detect a strange smell, the smell of death seeping into his room and threatening to choke him.

ON SAINT MARK’s Day, the members of the Council of a Hundred, together with the city aldermen, elected Arnau Estanyol, baron of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui, as consul of the sea of Barcelona. Then, as laid down in the Llibre de Consolat de Mar, to popular acclaim Arnau and the other newly chosen consul led a procession of councillors and prominent citizens down to the exchange, where the Consulate of the Sea was housed. The exchange was also being rebuilt, on the shore close to Santa Maria church and Arnau’s countinghouse.

The missatges, as the soldiers belonging to the consulate were known, were drawn up to greet them as the party entered the palace, and the councillors of Barcelona handed possession of the building over to the newly elected consuls. As soon as the others had left the exchange, Arnau immediately set to work: a merchant was claiming the value of a shipment of pepper that had fallen into the sea while a young boatman was unloading it. The pepper was brought to the courtroom for Arnau to verify that it had been damaged as claimed.

Arnau listened to the different versions from the merchant, the boatman, and the witnesses both sides had brought. He knew the merchant personally, as he did the boatman. The latter had recently asked him for a loan. He was newly married, in Santa Maria as befitted all men of the sea. On that occasion, Arnau had congratulated him and wished him well.

“I rule,” he said, his voice trembling, “that the boatman must pay the price of the pepper. This is as laid down in”—Arnau consulted the heavy tome the clerk passed him—“article sixty-two of our Customs of the Sea.” Was his wife pregnant already? Arnau recalled the gleam of excitement in the young bride’s eyes the day he had congratulated them. He cleared his throat. “Do you have... ?” He coughed again. “Do you have the money to pay”

Arnau could not look at him. He had just given him a loan. Could it have been for his house? For linen? For furnishings, or perhaps for the boat itself? The young man’s negative reply rang in his ears.

“I therefore sentence you to ...” The lump rising in his throat almost prevented him from going on. “I sentence you to prison until you pay off the entire amount of your debt.”

How could he pay it if he were not able to work? Was his wife pregnant? Arnau forgot to rap the bench with his gavel. The missatges stared at him. He remembered, and hit the wooden bench in front of him. The young boatman was led away to the consulate’s cells. Arnau lowered his head.

“It’s something you have to do,” the clerk said when all the others had left the courtroom.

Seated to the right of the clerk in the center of the immense judge’s bench, Arnau said nothing.

“Look,” the clerk insisted, showing him another thick book that contained the consulate’s rules and regulations. “Here’s what it says concerning prison sentences: ‘This is how the consul shall demonstrate his power, from greater to less.’ You are the consul of the sea and have to demonstrate your power. Our prosperity, the prosperity of this city, depends on it.”

He did not have to send anyone else to prison that day, but on many others he found himself forced to do so. The consul of the sea’s jurisdiction included everything that had to do with commerce: prices, the crews’ wages, the security of ships and goods... and anything else related to the sea. After taking up his post, Arnau quickly established himself as an authority independent of the city bailiff and magistrate; he passed sentence, embargoed ships, seized debtors’ goods, sent others to jail, backed up by the army of missatges.

While Arnau was busy at the Consulate, obliged to send young boatmen and others to prison, Eleonor summoned Felip de Ponts. He was a knight she had known since her first marriage. He had been to see her on several occasions for her to intercede on his behalf with Arnau, whom he owed a considerable amount of money he could not repay.

“I’ve tried everything I could, Don Felip,” Eleonor lied when he appeared before her, “but it is impossible. He is going to call in your debt soon.”

When he heard this, Felip de Ponts, a tall, strong-looking man with a bushy blond beard and small eyes, turned pale. If his debts were reclaimed, he would lose what little land he possessed ... and even his warhorse. A knight without land to provide him with income and without a horse to go to war on was no knight at all.

Felip de Ponts bent on one knee.

“I beg you, my lady,” he pleaded. “I’m sure that if you so desired, your husband would postpone his decision. If he recovers his debt, my life will not be worth living. Do it for me! For old times’ sake!”

Eleonor stood in front of the kneeling knight for some time, giving the impression she was thinking the matter over.

“Stand up,” she ordered him. “There might be a possibility ...”

“I beg you!” Felip de Ponts begged, before rising.

“It is very hazardous.”

“That does not matter! I’m not afraid of anything. I’ve fought with the king in all—”

“It would involve abducting a young girl,” Eleonor blurted out.

“I don’t ... I don’t understand,” the knight stuttered after a few moments.

“You understood perfectly,” Eleonor replied. “It involves abducting a young girl and then ... deflowering her.”

“That is punishable by death!”

“Not always.”

THIS WAS WHAT Eleonor had heard. She had never dared ask, especially with this plan of hers in mind, but she turned to Joan to confirm it.

“We need to find someone who will abduct her,” she told him, “and then rape her.” Joan buried his face in his hands. “As I understand it,” she went on, “the Customs of Catalonia state that if the girl or her parents agree to the marriage, then the rapist will not face punishment.” Joan’s hand was still in front of his face. “Is that true, Brother Joan?” she insisted, when he made no reply.

“Yes, bur ...”

“Is it true or not?”

“It is true,” Joan concurred. “Rape is punishable by lifelong exile if no violence is involved, and with death if there is. But if the two agree to marry, or the rapist proposes a husband of similar social rank whom the girl accepts, then there is no punishment.”

A smile stole across Eleonor’s face, which she quickly tried to stifle when Joan again tried to get her to change her mind. She adopted the position of the wronged wife.

“I don’t know, but I can tell you there is nothing I would not try in order to win my husband back. Let’s find someone who will abduct her,” she insisted, “then rape her, and then we will consent to his marrying the girl.” Joan shook his head. “What’s the difference?” Eleonor stressed. “We could force Mar to marry, even against her will, if Arnau were not so blind ... so bewitched by that girl. You yourself have said you wanted to see her marry, but Arnau will not hear of it. All we would be doing is to remove that woman’s pernicious influence on my husband. We would be the ones who chose Mar’s future husband, just as if she were being married in an ordinary way. The only difference is we do not need Arnau’s agreement. We cannot count on that, because he has lost his reason over that girl. Do you know any other father who would allow his daughter to grow old without marrying? However much money they may have, or however noble they are. Do you know anyone? Even the king gave me away against ... without asking my opinion.”

Joan gradually yielded to Eleonor’s arguments. She used the friar’s weakness to insist over and over again on her precarious situation, the sin that was being committed in her own home ... Joan promised to think it over ... and did so. Eventually, he agreed they should approach Felip de Ponts: with conditions, but he did agree.

“Not always,” Eleonor said again.

Knights were expected to know what was in the Usatges.

“Are you sure the girl would agree to the marriage? Why hasn’t she married already then?”

“Her guardians will give their permission.”

“Why don’t they simply arrange a marriage for her?”

“That is none of our business,” Eleonor cut in. “That,” she thought, “will be for me to sort out... me and the friar.”

“You are asking me to abduct and rape a girl, and yet you tell me the reason behind it is none of my business. You have chosen the wrong man, my lady. I may be a debtor, but I am a knight ...”

“She is my ward.” Felip de Ponts looked surprised. “Yes. I’m talking about my ward, Mar Estanyol.”

Felip de Ponts well remembered the girl Arnau had adopted. He had seen her several times in the countinghouse and had even shared a pleasant conversation with her one day when he had gone to visit Eleonor.

“You want me to abduct and rape your own ward?”

“I think I have been sufficiently clear, Don Felip. I can assure you that there will be no punishment.”

“What reason... ?”

“The reasons are my affair! Well, what do you say?”

“What will I gain by it?”

“Her dowry will be generous enough to cancel all your debts. Believe me, my husband will be exceedingly generous toward his daughter. Besides, you would win my favor, and you know how close I am to the king.”

“What about the baron?”

“I will deal with him.”

“I don’t understand ...”

“There’s nothing more to understand: ruin, disrepute, dishonor ... or my support.” At this, Felip de Ponts sat down. “Ruin or riches, Don Felip. If you reject my offer, tomorrow will see the baron calling in your debt and disposing of your lands, your weapons, and your animals. You can rest assured of that.”

44

TEN DAYS OF anguished uncertainty went by until Arnau received the first news of Mar. Ten days during which he suspended all activity beyond that of trying to find out what had become of the girl, who had disappeared without a trace. He met the city magistrate and councillors to press them to do all they could to discover what had happened. He offered huge rewards for any information about Mar’s fate or whereabouts. He prayed more than he had ever prayed before, until finally Eleonor, who said she had heard something from a passing merchant who had been looking for him, confirmed his worst suspicions. The girl had been kidnapped by a knight by the name of Felip de Ponts who was one of his debtors. The knight was keeping her by force in a fortified farmhouse close to Mataró, which was less than a day on foot north of Barcelona.

Arnau sent the Consulate’s missatges to the farmhouse. He himself returned to Santa Maria to pray to his Virgin of the Sea once more.

Nobody dared interrupt him; out of respect, the workmen took greater care with whatever they were doing. On his knees beneath the small stone figure that had always meant so much to him, Arnau tried to ward off the scenes of horror and panic that had assaulted him over the past ten days and now came flashing into his mind once again, interspersed with images of Felip de Ponts’s face.

Felip de Ponts had seized Mar inside her own house. He had bound and gagged her, and beat her until she was so exhausted she could no longer resist. He bundled her into a sack and sat with it up on the back of a cart loaded with harnesses driven by one of his servants. Then, making as though he had come to buy or repair bridles and saddles, he was able to pass through the city gates without arousing the slightest suspicion. Back in his own farmhouse, he took her into the fortified tower lying alongside it, and there raped her time and again, his violence and passion only increasing as he realized how beautiful his captive was and how obstinately she tried to defend her body even after she had lost her virginity. Felip de Ponts had promised Joan he would rob her of her virtue without even undressing her, without showing her his own body, and using only the minimum force. He kept his promise the first time, which was meant to be the only one he came near her, but soon desire overcame his knight’s sense of honor.

Nothing that Arnau imagined, with tears in his eyes and quaking heart, could compare to what Mar had really suffered.

When the missatges entered Santa Maria, all work on the church stopped. Their captain’s words echoed as loudly as they did in the Consulate courtroom:

“Most honorable consul, it is true. Your daughter has been seized and is being held by the knight Felip de Ponts.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No, Your Honor. He has barricaded himself in his tower and refused to accept our authority. He claims that this has nothing to do with commerce or the sea.”

“Do you know how the girl is?”

The captain lowered his gaze.

Arnau clawed at the footstool. “He is challenging my authority? If it’s authority he wants,” he growled between clenched teeth, “I’ll see he gets it.”

THE NEWS OF Mar’s abduction spread rapidly. At dawn the next morning all the bells of Barcelona began to ring. The cry of “Via fora” came from the throats of all the citizens in the streets: a woman from Barcelona had to be rescued.

As so often in the past, Plaza del Blat became the meeting point for the sometent, the army of Barcelona. Soon all the guilds of the city were present in the square. Not one was missing; they all lined up beneath their pennants, fully armed. Instead of wearing his fine merchant’s clothes, Arnau donned the tunic he had worn when he had fought under Eiximèn d’Esparca and later against Pedro the Cruel. He still had his father’s precious crossbow, which he had never wanted to replace and which he now stroked as he had never done before. He tucked into his belt the dagger he had used so skillfully years before to kill his enemies.

When he appeared in the square, more than three thousand men cheered him. The standard-bearers raised their pennants. Swords, spears, and crossbows were waved above the heads of the crowd, as they shouted a deafening “Via fora!” Arnau did not react, but Joan and Eleonor turned pale. Arnau searched beyond the sea of weapons and pennants: the money changers did not belong to any guild.

“Was this part of your plans?” the Dominican asked Eleonor above the hubbub.

Eleonor was staring fearfully at the massed guilds. The whole of Barcelona had come out to support Arnau. They were waving their weapons in the air and howling. All for that wretched young girl!

At last Arnau saw the pennant he was looking for. The crowd opened in front of him to allow him to join the bastaix guild.

“Was this part of your plans?” the friar asked again. Both of them watched Arnau striding away into the crowd. Eleonor made no reply. “They’ll eat your knight alive. They will destroy his lands, raze his farmhouse, and then ...”

“Then what?” grunted Eleonor, still staring straight ahead of her.

“Then I’ll lose my brother. Perhaps we’re still in time to do something. This is going to end badly ...,” thought Joan.

“Speak to him ...,” he insisted.

“Are you mad, Friar?”

“What if he won’t accept the marriage? What if Felip de Ponts tells him everything? Talk to him before the host sets off. For the love of God, do it, Eleonor!”

“For the love of God?” As she spat out the words, she turned to face him. “You speak to your God. Do it, Friar.”

They followed Arnau toward the bastaix pennant. They met Guillem, who as a slave was not allowed to bear arms.

When he saw her arriving, Arnau frowned.

“She’s a ward of mine as well,” she said.

The city councillors gave the order. The army of the people of Barcelona began to march out of the square. The pennants of Sant Jordi and the city were at the head, followed by that of the bastaixos and then all the other guilds. Three thousand men against a single knight. Eleonor and Joan fell in beside them.

Outside the city, the host was joined by more than a hundred peasants from Arnau’s lands. They were happy to come to the defense of someone who had treated them so generously. Arnau noticed that no other nobles or knights were among them.

Grim-faced, Arnau walked alongside the pennant with the bastaix column. Joan tried to pray, but the words that usually came so readily to him now stubbornly refused to appear in his mind. Neither he nor Eleonor had ever imagined that Arnau would call out the host. Joan was still deafened by the noise of the three thousand men clamoring for justice and vengeance for a citizen of Barcelona. Many of them had kissed their daughters before they left; more than one, already strapped into their armor, had cupped their wives’ chins in their hands and told them: “Barcelona defends its own ... especially its women.”

“They will lay waste to poor Felip de Ponts’s lands as if it were their own daughter who had been abducted,” thought Joan. “They will try him and execute him, but first they will give him the chance to talk ...” Joan looked at Arnau, who was still marching along in silence.

By evening, the host had reached Felip de Ponts’s lands. It came to a halt at the foot of a small hill atop of which the knight’s fortress was perched. It was nothing more than a peasant farmhouse; its only defenses consisted of a small tower rising on one side. Joan studied the farmhouse, then surveyed the army awaiting its orders from the city councillors. He looked at Eleonor, who avoided his gaze. Three thousand men to take one simple farmhouse!

Joan shook himself and ran to where Arnau and Guillem were standing, next to the councillors and other prominent citizens of Barcelona, beneath the Sant Jordi pennant. As he drew near, he could hear them discussing what to do next. His stomach wrenched when he realized most of them were in favor of attacking the farmhouse without warning or offering de Ponts the chance to surrender.

The councillors began to give orders to the guild aldermen. Joan looked at Eleonor, but she was staring straight ahead at the farmhouse. Joan went up to Arnau: he wanted to speak to him, but found it impossible. Guillem was standing proudly beside him; he glanced at the friar with a look of scorn. The guild aldermen passed on the orders to their columns. Sounds of preparation for battle could be heard. Torches were lit; the sound of swords being drawn and crossbows tightened rose through the evening air. Joan turned to look at the farmhouse, and then again at the host. The men began to march on the building. There would be no concessions: Barcelona would show no mercy. Arnau drew his dagger and set off with all the rest, leaving the friar behind as he advanced on the house. Joan glanced despairingly toward Eleonor; still she showed no reaction.

“No ... !” shouted Joan as his brother strode away from him.

His cry was swallowed up in a murmur that spread through the ranks of the entire host. A man on horseback had emerged from the farmhouse. It was Felip de Ponts, slowly riding his horse down toward them.

“Seize him!” shouted one of the councillors.

“No!” shouted Joan again. Everyone turned in his direction. Arnau looked inquiringly at him. “A man who surrenders should not be seized and made captive.”

“What’s this, Friar?” one of the councillors asked. “Do you think you can give orders to the Barcelona host?”

Joan looked at Arnau.

“A man who surrenders should not be taken captive,” he implored his brother.

“Let him give himself up,” Arnau conceded.

Felip de Ponts looked first for his accomplices, then turned to face the men gathered beneath the pennant of Sant Jordi, among them Arnau and the city councillors.

“Citizens of Barcelona,” he shouted, loud enough for the whole army to hear, “I know the reason why you are here today. I know you are seeking justice for one of your citizens. Here I stand. I confess to being the perpetrator of the crimes I am accused of, but before you take me prisoner and lay waste to my buildings, I beg you for the chance to speak.”

“Do so,” one of the councillors authorized him.

“It is true that, against her will, I have abducted and lain with Mar Estanyol ...” At this, a murmur ran through the ranks of the host, forcing him to break off for a moment. Arnau’s hands gripped his crossbow. “I did so at the risk of losing my life, aware that this is the punishment for such an offense. I did it, and if I were born a second time I would do it again, because such is the love I have for this girl, such the despair I felt at seeing her waste her youth without a husband beside her to help her enjoy the fruits God blessed her with, that my emotions overcame my reason, and I behaved more like an animal crazed with passion than one of King Pedro’s knights.” Joan could sense the entire army listening intently, and willed the knight to say the right thing. “For being an animal, I hand myself over to you; but as the knight I long to become once more, I solemnly swear to marry Mar Estanyol and to love her for the rest of my life. Judge me! I am not prepared, as our laws provide, to give her up to another husband of the same social rank. I would kill myself rather than see her with anyone else.”

Felip de Ponts finished his speech and waited, proud and erect on his steed, defying an army of three thousand men. The host was silent, trying to take in all that they had heard.

“Praised be the Lord!” shouted Joan.

Arnau stared at him in astonishment. Everyone, including Eleonor, turned to look at the friar.

“What do you mean by that?” Arnau asked him.

“Arnau,” Joan insisted, taking hold of his arm and speaking loud enough for all those around them to hear, “this is nothing more than the result of our own negligence.” Arnau looked startled. “For years we have gone along with Mar’s whims, neglecting our duties toward a beautiful young woman who should already have brought children into the world, as the laws of God decree—and who are we to go against our Lord’s intentions?” Arnau started to say something, but Joan raised his hand to cut him short. “I feel guilty for this. For years I have felt guilty for being too complaisant with a headstrong girl whose life was without meaning according to the precepts taught by the holy Catholic Church. This knight,” he went on, pointing to Felip de Ponts, “is nothing more than the hand of God, someone sent by our Lord to carry out a task we have proved ourselves unequal to. Yes, for years I have felt guilty seeing how God-given beauty and health were being wasted by a girl fortunate enough to be adopted by somebody as good and kind as you. I have no wish also to feel guilty for the death of a knight who, risking his own life, has merely accomplished what we ourselves were incapable of doing. Give your consent to the marriage. I, if my opinion is of any worth, would accept the knight’s proposal.”

Arnau said nothing for some time. The whole army was waiting to hear what he had to say. Joan took advantage to glance round at Eleonor, and thought he could see a triumphant smile on her lips.

“Do you mean to say that all this is my fault?” Arnau asked Joan.

“Mine, Arnau, mine. It’s I who should have instructed you concerning the laws of the Church, and what God’s designs for mankind are, but I never did ... and am sorry for it.”

Guillem’s eyes were blazing.

“What are the girl’s wishes?” Arnau asked Felip de Ponts.

“I am a knight of King Pedro,” the other man replied, “and his laws, the exact same ones that have brought you here today, take no account of the wishes of a woman of marrying age.” A mutter of approval ran through the ranks of the host. “I, Felip de Ponts, a Catalan knight, am offering my hand in marriage. If you, Arnau Estanyol, baron of Catalonia and consul of the sea, do not consent to the marriage, then take me prisoner and judge me. But if you do consent, then the girl’s wishes are of little importance.”

“This is not about her wishes, Arnau,” Joan insisted, lowering his voice. “It’s about your duty. Fulfill it. Nobody asks their daughters’ or their wards’ opinion. The decision as to what is best for them is taken on their behalf. This man has lain with Mar. What she wishes does not really matter now. Either she marries him or her life will be hell. You are the one to decide, Arnau: another senseless death, or the divine solution to our lack of care.”

Arnau turned to his companions. He saw Guillem still staring at the knight, bristling with hatred. He saw Eleonor, the wife the king had forced on him. They met each other’s gaze. Arnau gestured to her for her opinion. Eleonor nodded. Arnau turned back to Joan.

“It’s the law,” Joan insisted.

Arnau looked at the knight, then at the army. They had all lowered their weapons. None of the three thousand men seemed to dismiss Felip de Ponts’s arguments: none of them wanted war. They were all waiting for Arnau’s decision. Such was the law of Catalonia, the law regarding women. What was to be gained by fighting, killing the knight, and freeing Mar? What would her life be like now that she had been abducted and raped? Would she spend it in a convent?

“I give my consent.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then, as Arnau’s decision spread through them, a murmur rose from the ranks of soldiers. Someone shouted his approval. Another man agreed. Several more joined in, until the entire host acclaimed it.

Joan and Eleonor glanced at each other.

A hundred yards away, locked in the tower of Felip de Ponts’s farmhouse, the woman whose future had just been decided was watching the army massed at the foot of the hill outside. Why did they not charge up it? Why did they not attack? What could they be discussing with that wretch? What were they shouting?

“Arnau? What are your men shouting?”

45

IT WAS THE shouts from the host that convinced Guillem that what he had heard was true: “I consent.” He clenched his teeth. Somebody clapped him on the back and joined in the shouting. “I consent.” Guillem stared at Arnau and then at the knight. His face seemed relaxed. What could a mere slave like him do? He looked again at Felip de Ponts: now he was smiling. “I have lain with Mar Estanyol ...” That was what he had said: “I have lain with Mar Estanyol!” How could Arnau ... ?

Someone thrust a wineskin at him. Guillem pushed it away.

“Don’t you drink, Christian?” he heard someone ask.

He caught Arnau’s eye. The city councillors were congratulating Felip de Ponts, who was still on his steed. All around him, soldiers were drinking and laughing.

“Don’t you drink, Christian?” he heard again behind him.

Guillem pushed the man off and looked in Arnau’s direction once more. The councillors were congratulating him as well. Despite being surrounded, Arnau met Guillem’s gaze.

Then the crowd, with Joan among them, forced Arnau to head up the hill to the farmhouse. Arnau was still looking back at Guillem.

The entire host was celebrating the agreement reached. Some soldiers had lit campfires and sat around them singing.

“Drink to our consul and the happiness of his daughter,” said another man, again offering him a wineskin.

Arnau had disappeared on the track up to the house.

Guillem pushed the wineskin away again.

“Are you refusing to drink to ... ?”

Guillem stared the man in the eye, then turned his back on him and set off walking in the direction of Barcelona. Gradually the noise of the host faded in the distance. Guillem found himself alone on the road back to the city. He walked along, dragging his feet ... dragging along with him his feelings, and what little pride as a man he could still feel as a mere slave. All this he dragged along with him back to Barcelona.

Arnau refused the cheese that the trembling old woman who looked after Felip de Ponts’s farmhouse offered him. Aldermen and councillors had all crowded into the large room above the stables, where the big stone hearth stood. Arnau looked in vain for Guillem among the crowd of people. Everyone was talking and laughing, calling out to the old woman for her to serve them cheese and wine. Joan and Eleonor stayed close to the hearth; whenever Arnau looked in their direction, they glanced away.

A sudden whisper in the crowd made him switch his attention to the far end of the room.

Mar had come in, on Felip de Ponts’s arm. Arnau saw her pull herself free and come running over to him. She was smiling. She threw her arms open, but instead of embracing him, she suddenly stopped and let them fall by her sides.

Arnau thought he could see a bruise on her cheek.

“What is going on, Arnau?”

Arnau turned to Joan for help, but his brother was still looking down at the floor. Everyone in the room was waiting for him to speak.

“The knight Felip de Ponts has invoked the usatge: Si quis virginem ...,” he muttered at length.

Mar did not move. A tear started to roll down her cheek. Arnau lifted his hand to brush it away, then thought better of it, and the teardrop slid down Mar’s neck.

“Your father ...,” Felip de Ponts began to say from behind them, before Arnau could silence him, “the consul of the sea, has consented to your marriage before the entire host of Barcelona.” He rushed through the words before Arnau could stop him ... or change his mind.

“Is this true?” asked Mar.

“The only thing that’s true is that I would like to hold you ... kiss you ... have you with me always. Is that what a father should feel?” Arnau thought.

“Yes, Mar.”

No more tears appeared in Mar’s eyes. When Felip de Ponts came up and took her arm again, she did not object. Somebody behind Arnau gave a cheer, and all the others joined in. Arnau and Mar were still staring at each other. When a shout of congratulation to the bride and groom rang out, Arnau felt as if he was drowning. Now it was his cheeks that were streaming with tears. Perhaps his brother was right; perhaps Joan had understood what he himself had been unable to see. He had sworn to the Virgin that he would never again be unfaithful to a wife, even if that wife was not of his choosing, out of love for another woman.

“Father?” Mar beseeched him, reaching out her hand to dry his tears.

Arnau’s whole body shook when he felt her fingers on his face. He turned on his heel and fled.

At that moment, out on the lonely, dark road back to the city of Barcelona, a slave raised his eyes to the heavens and heard the ghastly cry of pain issuing from the throat of the girl he had loved and looked after as his own child. He was born a slave and had lived all his life as one. He had learned to love in silence and to stifle his emotions. A slave was not an ordinary man, which was why in his solitude—the only place where no one could restrict his freedom—he had learned to see much farther than all those whose souls were clouded by life. He had seen the love they had for each other, and had prayed to his twin gods that the two he loved most in the world would seize the chance and free themselves from the chains that bound them far tighter than those a slave had to endure.

Guillem allowed his tears to flow, something that as a slave he never permitted himself.

GUILLEM NEVER ENTERED the city. He reached Barcelona while it was still dark, and stood outside the closed San Daniel gate. His little girl had been snatched from him. Perhaps he had not been aware of it, but Arnau had sold her just as if she had been a slave. What would Guillem do in Barcelona? How could he sit where once Mar had sat? How could he walk down streets where he had walked with her, talking, laughing, sharing the secrets of her innermost feelings? What would he do in Barcelona apart from remember her day and night? What future could he have alongside the man who had put an end to both their dreams?

Guillem turned away from the city and continued along the coast. After two days’ travel he reached the port of Salou, the second-most important in Catalonia. He stared out at the horizon. The sea breeze brought him memories of his childhood in Genoa, of a mother and brothers and sisters he had been cruelly separated from when he was sold to a merchant who began to teach him his trade. Then during a sea voyage, master and slave had been captured by the Catalans, who were constantly at war with Genoa. Guillem was passed from master to master until Hasdai Crescas saw in him qualities far beyond those of a simple workman. Guillem gazed out to sea again, at the ships, the people on board ... Why not Genoa?

“When does the next ship leave for Lombardy, for Pisa?” The young man rummaged in the papers strewn all over the table in the store. He did not know Guillem, and at first had treated him with a great show of disdain, as he would have any dirty, foul-smelling slave, but as soon as the Moor told him who he was, he remembered what his father had often said to him: “Guillem is the right-hand man of Arnau Estanyol, the consul of the sea, and someone who provides us with our livelihood.”

“I need writing materials and a quiet place to write in,” Guillem said.

“I accept your offer of freedom,” he wrote. “I am leaving for Genoa via Pisa, where I will travel in your name, still a slave, and await my letter of emancipation.” What else should he write: that he could not live without Mar? Would his master and friend Arnau be able to? Why remind him of that? “I am going in search of my roots, of my family,” he wrote. “Together with Hasdai, you have been my best friend. Take care of him. I shall be forever grateful to you. May Allah and Santa Maria keep watch over you. I will pray for you.”

As soon as the galley Guillem had embarked on was making its way out of Salou harbor, the young man who had attended him left for Barcelona.

VERY SLOWLY, ARNAU signed the letter setting Guillem free. Each stroke of the pen reminded him of something from the past: the plague, the confrontation, the countinghouse, day after day of work, talk, friendship, shared happiness ... As he reached the end, his hand shook, and when he had finished, the feather quill bent double. Both he and Guillem knew the real reason why he had been driven away from Barcelona.

Arnau returned to the exchange. He ordered that his letter be sent to his agent in Pisa, together with a bill of payment for a small fortune.

“SHOULD WE NOT wait for Arnau?” Joan asked Eleonor when he came into the dining room and saw her already seated at the table, ready to eat.

“Are you hungry?” Joan nodded. “Well, if you want supper you had better have some now.”

The friar sat beside Eleonor at one end of Arnau’s long dining table. Two servants offered them white wheat bread, wine, soup, and roast goose with pepper and onions.

“Didn’t you say you were hungry?” asked Eleonor when she saw that Joan was merely playing with the food on his plate.

Joan looked across at his sister-in-law and said nothing. They did not exchange another word that evening.

Several hours after he had trudged upstairs to his room, Joan heard noises in the palace. Several servants had gone out into the yard to receive Arnau. They would offer him food and he would refuse, just as he had done on the three previous occasions that Joan had decided to wait up for him: Arnau had sat in one of the chambers, and waved away their offers with a weary gesture.

JOAN COULD HEAR the servants coming back. Then he heard Arnau’s footsteps outside his door, as he slowly made for his bedroom. What could he say to him if he went out and greeted him? He had tried to talk to him on the three occasions he had waited up for him, but Arnau had been completely withdrawn and had answered his brother’s questions in monosyllables : “Do you feel well?” “Yes.” “Did you have a lot of work at the exchange?” “No.” “Are things going well?” No answer. “What about Santa Maria?” “Fine.” In the darkness of his room, Joan buried his face in his hands. Arnau’s footsteps had faded away. What could he talk to him about? About her? How could he hear from Arnau’s lips the fact that he loved her?

Joan had seen Mar wipe away the tear running down Arnau’s cheek. “Father?” he had heard her say. He had seen Arnau tremble. He had turned and seen Eleonor smile. He had needed to see Arnau suffer to understand... but how could he confess the truth to him now? He could he tell him he had been the one... ? The sight of that tear came back into his mind. Did he love her so much? Would he be able to forget her? Nobody was there to comfort Joan when yet again he got down on his knees and prayed until dawn.

“I SHOULD LIKE to leave Barcelona.”

The Dominican prior studied the friar: he looked haggard, with sunken eyes circled with dark lines. His black habit was filthy.

“Do you think, Brother Joan, that you are capable of taking on the role of inquisitor?”

“Yes,” Joan assured him. The prior looked him up and down. “If I can only leave Barcelona, I will feel better.”

“So be it. Next week you are to leave for the north.”

His destination was a region of small farming villages dedicated to growing crops or raising livestock. They were hidden in valleys and mountains, and their inhabitants were terrified by the arrival of an inquisitor. The Inquisition was nothing new to them: since more than a century earlier, when Ramon de Penyafort was charged by Pope Innocent the Fourth with bringing the institution to the kingdom of Aragon and the principality of Narbonne, these villages had suffered visits from the black friars. Most of the doctrines that the Catholic Church considered heretical came through Catalonia from France: first the Cathars and the Waldensians, then the Beghards and finally the Templars when they were chased out by the French king. The border regions were the first to come under these heretical influences, and many of their nobles were condemned and executed: Viscount Arnau and his wife, Ermessenda; Ramon the lord of Cadí; and Guillem de Niort, the deputy of Count Nuno Sane in the Cerdagne and Coflent. These were the lands Joan was called upon to work in.

“Your Excellency.” He was greeted by a party of the leading citizens of one of these villages. They all bowed before him.

“Do not call me ‘Excellency,’” insisted Joan, urging them to straighten up. “Simply say, ‘Brother Joan.’”

In his brief experience, this scene had already been repeated time and again. The news of his arrival, accompanied by a scribe and half a dozen soldiers from the Holy Office, always preceded him.

Now he found himself in the main square of the village. He surveyed the four men who still stood in front of him with bowed heads. They had taken off their caps, and shifted uneasily. Although there was no one else in the square, Joan knew that many pairs of hidden eyes were watching him. Did they have so much to hide?

After being received in this way, Joan knew they would offer him the best lodgings in the village. There he would find a table that was too well stocked for the possibilities of people like these.

“I only want a piece of cheese, some bread, and water. Take away all the rest and make sure my men are seen to,” he repeated once again after installing himself at the table.

The kind of house he was put up in was becoming familiar as well. It was a humble, simple dwelling, but stone-built, unlike most of the other buildings that were nothing more than mud or wooden shacks. The table and a few chairs were the only furniture in the room, the center of which was the hearth.

“Your Excellency must be tired.”

Joan stared at the cheese on his plate. To get here, he and his men had walked for several hours up rocky tracks in the chill of early morning, their feet muddy and wet from dew. Under the table, he rubbed his aching calf and crossed his right foot over his left to rub that too.

“Don’t call me ‘Excellency,’” he repeated yet again, “and I am not tired. God does not tolerate tiredness when it is a question of defending his name. We will start as soon as I have had something to eat. Gather the people in the square.”

Before he had left Barcelona, Joan had asked in Santa Caterina convent to consult the treatise that Pope Gregory the Ninth had written in 1231 describing the procedures to be adopted by itinerant inquisitors.

“Sinners! Repent!” First came the sermon to the people. The sixty or so inhabitants of the village who had gathered in the square lowered their heads when they heard the friar’s opening words. The black friar’s stern expression paralyzed them. “The fires of hell await you!” The first time he had spoken, he did not know whether he would be able to find the words to address them, but he soon discovered that the more he became aware of the power he had over these terrified peasants, the more easily the words came. “Not one of you will escape! God will not allow black sheep in his flock.” They had to speak out: heresy had to be brought to light. That was his task: to seek out the sins committed in secret, the ones only neighbors, friends, or spouses knew about...

“God knows this. He knows you. His all-seeing eye is upon you. Anyone who sees sin and does not denounce it will burn in the eternal fires, because it is even worse to tolerate sin than to commit it; he who sins may be forgiven, but he who hides sin ...” Having said this, he would study them closely: an uneasy shuffling here, a furtive glance there. They would be the first. “He who hides sin”—Joan fell silent again, saying nothing until he could see them quaking at his threatening words—“will never be forgiven.”

Fear. Fire, pain, sin, punishment... the black friar shouted and persisted in his diatribe until he controlled their minds; his grip over them began with this first sermon.

“You have a period of grace of three days,” he said finally. “Anyone who comes voluntarily to confess their guilt will be dealt with mercifully. After those three days ... the punishment will be exemplary.” He turned to the captain. “Investigate that blond woman over there, that barefoot man, and the one with the black belt. And that girl with the baby ...” Joan pointed them all out discreetly. “If they do not come forward themselves, you are to bring them to me, together with another three chosen at random.”

THROUGHOUT THE THREE days of grace, Joan remained seated, unmoving, behind the table in his lodging. With him were the scribe and the soldiers, who shifted from foot to foot as the hours slowly went by.

Only four people appeared to relieve their boredom: two men who had not fulfilled their obligation to attend mass, a woman who had disobeyed her husband on several occasions, and a child who poked his head, wide-eyed, around the door.

Someone was pushing him from behind, but the boy refused to enter the room properly and stood in the doorway, half-in and half-out.

“Come in, boy,” Joan urged him.

At this, the boy drew back, but once again a hand pushed him inside the room, then shut the door behind him.

“How old are you?” asked Joan.

The boy stared at the soldiers, at the scribe who had already begun to write, and at the black friar.

“Nine,” he said hesitantly.

“What is your name?”

“Alfons.”

“Come closer, Alfons. What do you want to tell us?”

“That ... that two months ago I picked some beans from our neighbor’s garden.”

“You picked?” asked Joan.

Alfons lowered his gaze.

“I stole,” he said in a faint voice.

JOAN GOT UP from his pallet and trimmed the lantern. The village had been silent for hours, and he had spent all that time trying to get to sleep. Whenever he shut his eyes and felt drowsy, a teardrop falling down Arnau’s cheek would jerk him back awake. He needed light. He tried many times to sleep, but always found himself sitting up on the pallet, sometimes fearful, at others bathed in sweat, always engulfed by memories that haunted him.

He needed light. He checked that there was still oil in the lamp. Arnau’s sad face peered at him out of the shadows.

He fell back on the pallet. It was cold. It was always cold. For a while he lay and watched the flickering flame and the shadows dancing in its light. The only window in the room had no glass, and the wind was whistling through it. “We are all dancing a dance ... Mine is ...”

He curled up under the blankets and forced himself to close his eyes once more.

Where was the light of day? One more morning, and their three days of grace would be up.

Joan fell into an uneasy sleep, but half an hour later he woke up again, in a sweat.

The lantern was still burning, the shadows still dancing. The village was completely quiet. Why did day not dawn?

He wrapped himself in the blankets and went over to the window.

Another village. Another night waiting for day to dawn.

Waiting for the next day...

THAT MORNING A line of villagers stood outside the house, guarded by the soldiers.

She said her name was Peregrina. Joan pretended not to be paying much attention to the blond woman who was fourth in line. He had got nothing out of the first three. Peregrina stood in front of the table where Joan and the scribe were sitting. The fire crackled in the hearth. Nobody else was inside the house: the soldiers were posted outside the front door. All of a sudden, Joan looked up. The woman began to tremble.

“You know something, don’t you, Peregrina? God sees everything,” Joan told her. Peregrina nodded, but did not raise her eyes from the beaten earth floor. “Look at me. I need you to look at me. Do you want to burn in everlasting flames? Look at me. Do you have children?”

Slowly, the woman looked up.

“Yes, but—” she stammered.

“But they are not the sinful ones, is that it?” Joan interrupted her. “Who is then, Peregrina?” The woman hesitated. “Who is it, Peregrina?”

“Blasphemy,” she said.

“Who is committing blasphemy, Peregrina?”

The scribe was poised to write.

“She is ...” Joan waited without saying anything. There was no going back now. “I’ve heard her blaspheme when she is angry ...” Peregrina’s gaze darted back to the floor. “My husband’s sister, Marta. She says terrible things when she is angry.”

The scratch of the scribe’s quill on the parchment drove out all other noises.

“Is there anything more, Peregrina?”

This time the woman raised her eyes and looked at him calmly. “No, nothing more.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear it. You have to believe me.”

Joan had been mistaken only about the man with the black belt. The barefoot man had denounced two shepherds who did not follow the rules of abstinence: he swore he had seen them eat meat during Lent. The girl with the baby, a young widow, denounced her neighbor. He was a married man who was continually making advances to her ... and had even stroked her breast.

“What about you? Did you allow him to do that?” Joan asked her. “Did you enjoy it?”

The girl burst into tears.

“Did it give you pleasure?” Joan insisted.

“We were hungry,” she sobbed, holding up her baby.

The scribe wrote down her name. Joan stared at her. “What did he give you?” he thought. “A crust of dry bread? Is that all your honor is worth?”

“Confess!” he shouted, pointing a finger at her.

Two more people denounced their neighbors, claiming they were heretics.

“Some nights I hear strange noises and see lights in their house,” one of them said. “They are Devil worshippers.”

“What could your neighbor have done for you to denounce him like this?” wondered Joan to himself. “You know he will never find out who betrayed him. What do you stand to gain if I condemn him? A strip of land perhaps?”

“What is your neighbor’s name?”

“Anton the baker.”

The scribe copied out the name.

By the time Joan had finished the interrogations, night was falling. He called the captain in, and the scribe read out the names of all those who were to present themselves to the Inquisition at first light the next day.

THEN AGAIN IT was the silence of the night, the cold, the flickering flame... and his memories. Joan got up once more.

A blasphemous woman, a lecherous man, and a Devil worshipper. “At dawn I shall have you,” he muttered. Could it be true about the Devil worshipper? He had heard similar accusations, but only one had borne fruit. Could it be true this time? How was he going to prove it?

He felt weary, and returned to the pallet to close his eyes. A Devil worshipper...

“Do YOU SWEAR on the four Gospels?” Joan asked as the light of dawn began to filter through the window on the ground floor of the house.

The man nodded.

“I know you have sinned,” said Joan.

Flanked by two tall soldiers, the man who had bought a moment’s pleasure from the young widow turned pale. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“What is your name?”

“Gaspar.”

“I know you have sinned, Gaspar,” said Joan.

The man stammered: “I ... I ...”

“Confess!” said Joan, raising his voice.

“I...”

“Flog him until he confesses!” shouted Joan, thumping the table with both fists.

One of the soldiers moved his hand to his belt, where a leather whip was hanging. The man fell to his knees in front of the table where Joan and the scribe were sitting.

“No. I beg you. Don’t flog me.”

“Confess.”

With the whip still rolled up in his hand, the soldier pushed him in the back.

“Confess!” cried Joan.

“It ... it isn’t my fault. It’s that woman. She has bewitched me,” the man said in a sudden rush. “Her husband no longer possesses her.” Joan did not react. “She seeks me out; she pursues me. We have done it only a few times, but... but I will never do it again. I will never see her again. I swear it.”

“Have you fornicated with her?”

“Ye ... yes.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know ...”

“Four times? Five? Ten?”

“Four. Yes. That’s right. Four times.”

“What is the name of this woman?”

The scribe wrote it down.

“What other sins have you committed?”

“No ... nothing more, I swear.”

“Do not swear oaths in vain,” said Joan with slow emphasis. “Whip him.”

After ten lashes, the man confessed to fornicating with the woman and with several prostitutes when he went to market at Puigcerdà. He also confessed to having blasphemed, lied, and committed an endless number of minor sins. After a further five lashes he remembered the young widow.

“I have your confession,” Joan declared. “Tomorrow you are to be in the square to hear my sermo generalis, when I will tell you what your punishment is to be.”

The man did not even have time to protest before he was dragged out of the room on his knees by the soldiers.

Marta, Peregrina’s sister-in-law, confessed without any need to threaten her further. Joan ordered her to appear in the square the next day, then urged the scribe to move on to the next case.

“Bring in Anton Sinom,” the scribe told the captain, reading from his list.

As soon as he saw the Devil worshipper enter the room, Joan sat upright in his hard wooden chair. The man’s hooked nose, his high forehead, those dark eyes of his...

He wanted to hear his voice.

“Do you swear on the four Gospels?”

“I do.”

“What is your name?” asked Joan, even before the man was standing in front of him.

“Anton Sinom.”

The small, slightly stooped man answered his question flanked by two soldiers who towered over him. Joan was quick to catch the note of resignation in his voice.

“Has that always been your name?”

Anton Sinom hesitated. Joan waited.

“People here have always known me by that name,” Sinom said finally.

“And elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere I had another name.”

Joan and Anton stared at each other. The little man did not lower his eyes.

“Was it a Christian one?”

Anton shook his head. Joan suppressed a smile. How should he start? By saying that he knew the man had sinned? This converted Jew would not fall for that. No one in the village had discovered his secret; if they had, there would have been more than one accusation against him. Converted Jews were often a target. This Sinom must be clever. Joan regarded him for a few moments while he thought about it: What could this man be hiding? Why did he keep a light on at night in his house?

Joan stood up and went outside; neither the scribe nor the soldiers made a move to follow him. As he shut the door behind him, the curious onlookers who had gathered outside the building froze. Joan ignored them and spoke to the guard captain: “Is the family of the man inside here?”

The captain pointed to a woman and two children who were staring in their direction. There was something ...

“What does this man do for a living? What is his house like? What did he do when you told him to appear before the tribunal?”

“He’s a baker,” replied the soldier. “He has his shop on the ground floor of his house. What’s that like? It’s normal enough, it’s clean. But we didn’t see him to tell him to appear. We talked to his wife.”

“Wasn’t he in the bakery?”

“No.”

“Did you go at first light as I ordered?”

“Yes, Brother Joan.”

“Some nights he wakes me up ... ,” his neighbor had said. “He wakes me up.” A baker ... a baker has to get up before dawn. “Don’t you sleep, Sinom? If you have to get up before dawn ...” Joan thought. Joan looked across again at the convert’s family, who were standing slightly apart from the others. He walked round in circles for a moment or two, then plunged back inside the house. The scribe, soldiers, and Sinom had not moved from where he had left them.

“Take his clothes off,” he ordered the soldiers.

“I am circumcised. I’ve already admitted—”

“Take his clothes off!”

The soldiers turned to Sinom, but before they even laid their hands on him, the look the converted Jew gave Joan convinced him he was right.

“Now,” said Joan once Sinom was completely naked, “what do you have to say to me?”

The convert tried as best he could to maintain his composure.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“I mean,” said Joan, lowering his voice and emphasizing each word as he said it, “that your face and neck are dirty, but from the chest down, your skin is white. I mean that your hands and wrists are dirty, but your forearms are spotless. I mean that your feet and ankles are dirty, but your legs are clean.”

“Dirty where I wear no clothes, clean where I do,” Sinom countered.

“Not even flour, and you a baker? Would you have me believe that the clothes a baker wears protect him completely from flour? Would you have me believe that you work in the same clothes you wear to protect yourself from the winter cold? Where is the flour on your arms? Today is Monday, Sinom. Did you keep God’s day holy?”

“Yes.”

Joan thumped the table and rose from his chair.

“But you also purified yourself according to your heretic rites!” he shouted, pointing straight at him.

“No!” groaned Sinom.

“We shall see, Sinom, we shall see. Lock him up and bring me his wife and children.”

“No!” begged Sinom as the soldiers dragged him out toward the cellar. “They have nothing to do with this.”

“Stop!” Joan ordered. The soldiers halted, and turned their prisoner to face the inquisitor once more. “What do they have nothing to do with, Sinom? What do they have nothing to do with?”

Trying to save his family, Sinom confessed. When he had finished, Joan ordered his arrest... and that of his family. Then he ordered the others brought in.

JOAN WENT OUT into the square before first light.

“Does he never sleep?” asked one of the soldiers between yawns.

“No,” another one answered. “He’s often heard pacing up and down his room all night.”

The two soldiers looked at Joan, who was busy preparing everything for his final sermon. His threadbare black habit was so stiff with dirt it seemed unwilling to follow his movements.

“But if he doesn’t sleep and doesn’t eat... ,” said the first soldier.

“He lives on hatred,” said the captain, who had overheard them talking.

At first light, the villagers began to file into the square. The accused were led to the front by the soldiers: among them was Alfons, the nine-year-old boy.

Joan began the auto-de-fé. The village authorities came to pledge their oath of obedience to the Inquisition, and to swear they would see that the sentences were carried out. Those who had appeared before Joan during the period of grace were given lesser punishments: to make a pilgrimage to Girona cathedral. Alfons was sentenced to help the neighbor he had stolen from for free one day a week for a month. When the scribe read Gaspar’s testimony, he was interrupted by a man shouting:

“Whore!” A man in the crowd threw himself on the woman who had fornicated with Gaspar. The soldiers moved in to protect her. “So that was the sin you would not tell me?” he went on shouting behind the line of soldiers.

As soon as the wronged husband had fallen silent, Joan read out the sentence:

“Every Sunday for the next three years, wearing the cloak of repentance, you will kneel outside the church from sunup to sunset. As for you... ,” he began, turning to the woman.

“I claim the right to punish her,” cried the husband.

Joan looked at her. “Do you have any children?” he almost asked her. What had they done wrong to have to talk to her from on top of a crate outside a tiny window, their only consolation that of feeling a hand stroke their hair? But the man had a right to ...

“As for you,” he repeated, “I hand you over to the lay authorities, who will see to it that the laws of Catalonia are respected, as your husband requests.”

Joan continued to pass sentence and hand out punishments.

“Anton Sinom. You and your family are to be put at the disposition of the inquisitor general.”

“LET’S GO,” JOAN ordered after loading all his scant belongings on a mule.

Joan took one last look at the village. He could hear his own words still echoing around the small square; later that day they would arrive at another one, and then another, and still another. “And in each of them,” thought Joan, “the people will stare at me and listen fearfully to my sermon. Then they will accuse one another, and their sins will come out. And I shall have to investigate everything. I shall have to interpret the way they move, their expressions, their silences, their feelings, in order to uncover sin.”

“Hurry up, Captain. I want to arrive before noon.”

PART FOUR

Chained to Destiny

46

Holy Week 1367

Barcelona

ARNAU REMAINED ON his knees in front of his Virgin of the Sea while the priests said the Easter mass. He had stridden into Santa Maria with Eleonor on his arm. The church was full to overflowing, but the congregation gave way to allow them to reach the front. He recognized their smiles: this man had asked him for a loan for his new boat; that one had entrusted him with his savings; over there was someone who wanted a dowry for his daughter; and there was another who had not paid him the sum they had agreed on. The man avoided his gaze, but Arnau paused next to him and, to Eleonor’s disgust, shook him by the hand.

“Peace be with you,” he said.

The man’s eyes lit up. Arnau continued on his way up toward the main altar. That was all he had, he told the Virgin: humble people who appreciated him because he helped them. Joan was tracking down sin, and he did not know what had become of Guillem. As for Mar, what could he say?

Eleonor kicked his ankle. When Arnau glanced across at her, she flapped her hand for him to get up. “Have you ever seen a noble who stays on his knees as long as you do?” she had already chided him on several occasions. Arnau paid no attention, but Eleonor continued flicking her foot at his ankles.

“I have this too, Mother. A wife who is more concerned with appearances than anything else, except for wanting me to make her a mother too. Should I? She only wants an heir, a son who can guarantee her future.” Eleonor was still kicking his ankles. When Arnau turned to her, she lifted her chin toward the other nobles in Santa Maria. Some were standing; the rest were seated on their pews. Arnau was the only one still down on his knees.

“Sacrilege!”

The cry resounded through the church. The priests fell silent. Arnau got to his feet, and everyone turned to look at the main doorway.

“Sacrilege!” came the cry again.

Several men pushed their way to the altar, still shouting, “Sacrilege! Heresy! The Devil’s work! ... Jews!” They wanted to talk to the priests, but one of them came to a halt and addressed the congregation:

“The Jews have profaned a sacred host!”

A murmur rose from the ranks of the faithful.

“As if they hadn’t done enough by killing Jesus Christ!” the first man cried out again from the altar. “Now they want to profane his body!”

The murmur grew to an uproar. Arnau turned to face the congregation, but Eleonor’s scornful countenance was all he saw.

She scoffed. “Your Jewish friends.”

Arnau knew what his wife meant. Ever since Mar had married, he had found it almost impossible to be at home, and so on most evenings he went to see his old friend Hasdai Crescas, and stayed talking to him until late into the night. Before he could say anything to Eleonor, the nobles and other leading citizens began to discuss what they had heard:

“They want Christ to suffer even after his death,” said one of them.

“By law they are obliged to stay at home with doors and windows shut during Holy Week. How could they have done such a thing?”

“They must have escaped,” another man asserted.

“What about our children?” said a woman. “What if they have taken a Christian child to crucify him and then eat his heart ... ?”

“And drink his blood,” another voice chimed in.

Arnau could not take his eyes off this group of enraged nobles. How could they... ? He caught Eleonor’s eye again. She was smiling.

“Your friends,” she said sarcastically.

Then the entire congregation started to shout, demanding vengeance. “To the Jewish quarter!” they cried, driving one another on with more shouts of “Heresy!” and “Sacrilege!” Arnau watched them all rushing out of the church, with the nobles bringing up the rear.

“If you don’t hurry,” he heard Eleonor hiss, “you won’t get into the Jewry.”

Arnau turned to look at her again, and then glanced up at the Virgin. The noise from the crowd of people was dying away down Calle de la Mar.

“Why so much hatred, Eleonor? Don’t you have everything you want?”

“No, Arnau. You know I don’t have what I want, and perhaps that’s exactly what you give your Jewish friends.”

“What are you talking about, woman?”

“About you, Arnau, about you. You know you have never fulfilled your conjugal duties.”

For a few brief seconds, Arnau recalled all the occasions he had rejected Eleonor’s advances, at first gently, trying not to hurt her feelings, but gradually more roughly and impatiently.

“The king forced me to marry you. He said nothing about satisfying your needs.”

“The king may not have done so,” she replied, “but the Church does.”

“God cannot force me to lie with you!”

Eleonor withstood his rebuff, staring straight at him, then turned her face toward the main altar. They were alone in Santa Maria ... apart from the three priests standing there, openly listening to the couple arguing. Arnau also looked at the three priests. When he confronted Eleonor once more, her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. He turned his back on her and headed for the doorway out of the church.

“Go to your Jewish lover!” he heard his wife shout behind him.

A shudder ran the length of his backbone.

That year, Arnau was once again consul of the sea. Dressed in his robes of office, he made his way to the Jewish quarter. The din of the crowd grew still louder as it advanced along Calle de la Mar, Plaza del Blat, then down Calle de la Presó to San Jaume church. The people were baying for vengeance, and rushed toward the gates of the Jewry, which was defended by a troop of the king’s soldiers. Despite the crush, Arnau had little difficulty pushing his way to the front.

“You cannot enter the Jewry, Honorable Consul,” the captain of the guard told him. “We’re awaiting orders from the king’s lieutenant, the infante Don Juan, son of Pedro the Third.”

The orders duly arrived. The next morning, Don Juan ordered all the Jews to be shut in the main synagogue of Barcelona, without food or water, until those guilty of the profanation of the host came forward.

“Five thousand people,” Arnau growled in his office at the exchange when he heard the news. “Five thousand people shut up in the synagogue without food and water! What will happen to the children, the newborn babies? What does the infante want? What fool could expect any Jew to admit to profaning the host and condemn themselves to death?”

Arnau thumped his table and stood up. The bailiff who had brought him the news looked startled.

“Tell the guard,” Arnau ordered him.

The honorable consul of the sea made his way hastily through the streets of the city, accompanied by half a dozen armed missatges. Still guarded by soldiers, the gates to the Jewry stood wide open. Outside, the angry mob had disappeared, but there were at least a hundred curious onlookers trying to get a glimpse inside, despite being pushed and jostled by the soldiers.

“Who is in charge here?” Arnau asked the captain.

“The magistrate is inside,” the officer told him.

“Tell him I’m here.”

The magistrate soon appeared.

“What do you want, Arnau?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“I want to talk to the Jews.”

“The infante has given the order—”

“I know,” Arnau interrupted him. “That’s exactly why I need to talk to them. I’ve got a lot of outstanding business with Jews. I need to talk to them.”

“But the infante ...,” the magistrate began to protest.

“The infante lives from the Jewish quarters in Catalonia! The king has ordered that they pay him twelve thousand in yearly wages.” The magistrate nodded. “The infante would like those responsible for the profanation to be found, but you know very well that he also wants Jewish commerce to continue, because if it doesn’t... Remember, the Jews of Barcelona contribute most of those twelve thousand wages.”

The magistrate was convinced, and allowed Arnau and his men through.

“They are in the main synagogue,” he said as they passed by.

“I know, I know.”

Even though all the Jews were shut in, the streets of the quarter were thronged with people. As he walked toward the synagogue, Arnau could see a swarm of black-robed monks searching each and every house for the bleeding host.

At the synagogue entrance, Arnau came up against more guards.

“I’ve come to talk to Hasdai Crescas.”

The captain tried to stand in his way, but the other guard, who had accompanied Arnau, explained he had permission.

While they were waiting for Hasdai to come out, Arnau looked back toward the Jewish quarter. The houses stood wide open and had obviously been ransacked. The friars came and went, carrying out objects and showing them to one another. They shook their heads, then threw them onto the growing pile of Jewish possessions. “Who are the profaners?” thought Arnau.

“Your Worship,” he heard behind him.

Arnau wheeled round and found Hasdai standing there. For a few seconds he stared into the Jew’s eyes, full of tears at the violation of his intimate world. Arnau ordered all the soldiers to withdraw. His missatges obeyed at once, but the king’s soldiers stayed where they were.

“Since when did the consul of the sea’s affairs interest you?” Arnau asked them. “Stand back with my men. The consul’s concerns are secret.”

The soldiers obeyed reluctantly. Arnau and Hasdai studied each other.

“I’d like to embrace you,” Arnau said when nobody could hear them.

“Better not.”

“How are you?”

“Not good, Arnau. We old people are unimportant, the young can cope, but the children have had nothing to eat or drink for hours. There are several infants; when their mothers have no more milk to give them ... We’ve been here only a few hours, but bodies have their needs ...”

“Can I help?”

“We’ve tried to negotiate, but the magistrate will not listen. You know there is only one way out: we have to buy our freedom.”

“How much should I ... ?”

Hasdai’s stare prevented him from finishing. How much was the life of five thousand Jews worth?

“I trust you, Arnau. My community is in danger.”

Arnau stretched out his hand.

“We all trust you,” said Hasdai again, taking it in his.

Arnau went back among the black friars. Could they have found the bleeding host already? The contents of the houses, including pieces of furniture, were being heaped ever higher in the streets. As he left the Jewry, Arnau thanked the magistrate. He would ask for an official audience with him that afternoon; but how much should he offer for a man’s life? Or for an entire community’s? Arnau had bargained with all kinds of goods: fabrics, spices, grain, animals, ships, gold, and silver; he knew the price of slaves, but—how much was a friend worth?

ARNAU LEFT THE Jewry. He turned left, took Calle Banys Nous down to Plaza del Blat, but when he was in Calle Carders by the corner with Calle Montcada close to his own house, he suddenly halted. What was the point? To clash yet again with Eleonor? He turned on his heel to go back to Calle de la Mar and his exchange table. From the day he had agreed to Mar’s marriage ... Ever since that day, Eleonor had pursued him relentlessly. At first she did it stealthily. Why, she had not even called him her beloved before then! She had never concerned herself about his business, what he ate, or even how he felt. When that tactic failed, she tried a frontal attack. “I’m a woman,” she told him one day. She must have been discouraged by the way Arnau looked at her, because she said nothing more ... until a few days later : “We have to consummate our marriage; we’re living in sin.”

“Since when were you so interested in my salvation?” Arnau asked.

Despite her husband’s gruff rejection, she did not give up. Eventually she decided to talk about it to Father Juli Andreu, one of the priests at Santa Maria. He was interested in the salvation of the faithful, among whom Arnau was one of the most highly regarded. With him, Arnau could not find excuses as he did with Eleonor.

“I can’t do it, Father,” he told the priest when he confronted him one day in the church.

It was true. Immediately after handing Mar to the lord of Ponts, Arnau had tried to forget her. Why not have a family of his own? He was all alone. All the people he loved had gone from his life. He could have children, play with them, devote himself to them, and perhaps find what was missing. But he could do this only with Eleonor, and whenever she sidled up to him, or pursued him through the palace chambers, or he heard her false, forced voice, so different from the way she usually spoke to him, all his resolve came to nothing.

“What do you mean, my son?” asked the priest.

“The king forced me to marry Eleonor, Father, but he never asked what my feelings were for his ward.”

“The baroness ...”

“The baroness does not attract me, Father. My body refuses.”

“I could recommend a good doctor ...”

Arnau smiled. “No, Father, no. It’s not that. Physically I’m fine; it’s simply...”

“Well, then, you should make an effort to fulfill your matrimonial obligations. Our Lord expects ...”

Arnau listened to the priest’s harangue, imagining the stories Eleonor must have told him. Who did they think they were?

“Listen, Father,” he said, interrupting him. “I cannot oblige my body to desire a woman if it doesn’t.” The priest raised his hand as though to intervene, but Arnau stopped him. “I swore to be faithful to my wife, and I am; nobody can accuse me of being otherwise. I come often to Santa Maria to pray. I donate large sums of money to the church. It seems to me that my contributions to building this church should compensate for the shortcomings of my body.”

The priest stopped rubbing his hands. “My son ...”

“What do you think, Father?”

The priest searched among his scant theological knowledge for ways of refuting Arnau’s arguments. He was defeated, and soon hastened away among the men still working on Santa Maria. Left alone, Arnau went to find the Virgin in her chapel. He knelt before her statue.

“I think only of her, Mother. Why did you allow me to give her to Lord de Ponts?”

He had not seen Mar since her marriage to Felip de Ponts. When her husband died a few months later, he tried to approach the widow, but Mar refused to see him. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” Arnau told himself. The oath he had sworn to the Virgin bound him even more than ever now: he was condemned to be faithful to a woman who did not love him and whom he could not love. And to give up the only person with whom he might have been happy ...

“HAVE THEY FOUND the host yet?” Arnau asked the magistrate as they sat opposite each other in the palace overlooking Plaza del Blat.

“No,” said the magistrate.

“I’ve been talking to the city councillors,” Arnau told him, “and they agree with me. Imprisoning the entire Jewish community could seriously affect Barcelona’s commercial interests. The seagoing season has just begun. If you went down to the port, you would see there are several ships ready to depart. They have Jewish goods on board; they will either have to be unloaded or will need to wait for the traders. The problem is that not all the cargoes belong to Jews; part of them are owned by Christians.”

“Why not unload them then?”

“The cost of transporting the Christians’ merchandise would go up.”

The magistrate spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Then put all the Jews’ merchandise on some ships, and the Christians’ goods on others,” he suggested finally.

Arnau shook his head.

“That’s impossible. Not all the ships are headed for the same destination. You know the sailing season is short. If the ships cannot leave, all our trade will be held up. They will not be back in time, and so will miss some journeys. That will push the price of everything up again. We will all lose money.” “You included,” thought Arnau. “On top of which, it’s dangerous for ships to wait too long in Barcelona: if a storm blows up ...”

“So what do you suggest?”

“That you set them all free. That you order the friars to stop searching their homes. That you give them back their belongings, that... ,” thought Arnau. “Impose a fine on the whole Jewish community,” was what he said.

“The people are demanding the guilty be punished, and the infante has promised to find them. The profanation of a host—”

“The profanation of a host,” Arnau interrupted him, “whether or not the bleeding host appeared, will of course be more expensive than any other kind of crime.” Why bother to argue? The Jews had been judged and condemned. The magistrate wrinkled his brow. “Why not make the attempt? If we succeed, it will be the Jews and only them who pay. If not, it’s going to be a bad year for trade, and all of us will lose.”

SURROUNDED BY WORKMEN, noise, and dust, Arnau looked up at the keystone that topped the second of the four vaults above Santa Maria’s central nave, the latest completed. On the end of the keystone was an image of the Annunciation, with the Virgin dressed in a red cape edged with gold, kneeling as the angel brought her the news that she was to give birth. Arnau’s attention was caught by the bright reds, blues, and especially the golden hues of the delicate scene. The magistrate had considered Arnau’s arguments and finally yielded.

Twenty-five thousand shillings and fifteen guilty men! That was the answer the magistrate gave Arnau the next day after he had consulted with the infante Don Juan’s court.

“Fifteen culprits? You want to execute fifteen people because of the ravings of four madmen?”

The magistrate thumped the table. “Those madmen belong to the holy Catholic Church.”

“You know it’s an impossible demand,” said Arnau.

The two men stared at each other.

“No culprits,” Arnau insisted.

“That’s not possible. The infante—”

“No culprits! Twenty-five thousand shillings is a fortune.”

Arnau left the magistrate’s palace not knowing where to go. What could he say to Hasdai? That fifteen Jews had to die? Yet he could not get out of his mind the image of those five thousand people packed into the synagogue with no water or food ...

“When will I have my answer?” he had asked the magistrate.

“The infante is out hunting.”

Hunting! Five thousand people were shut up on his orders, and he had gone hunting. It could not have been more than three hours by horse from Barcelona to Gerona, where the infante, duke of Gerona and Cervera, had his lands, but Arnau had to wait until late the following afternoon to be summoned again by the magistrate.

“Thirty-five thousand shillings and five culprits.”

Ten Jews for ten thousand shillings. “Perhaps that’s the price of a man,” thought Arnau.

“Forty thousand, and no culprits.”

“No.”

“I’ll appeal to the king.”

“You know that the king has enough problems with the war against Castille without looking for more with his son. That was why he named him his lieutenant.”

“Forty-five thousand, but no one guilty.”

“No, Arnau, no ...”

“Ask him!” Arnau exploded. “I beg you,” he added apologetically.

WHEN HE WAS still several yards from it, Arnau was hit by the stench from the synagogue. The streets of the Jewry looked still more wretched than before: furniture and possessions were strewn everywhere. From inside the houses came the sounds of the friars demolishing walls and floors in their search for the body of Christ. When Arnau saw Hasdai, he had to struggle to keep his composure. Hasdai was accompanied by two rabbis and two leaders of the community. Arnau’s eyes were stinging. Could it be from the acid fumes of urine coming from inside the synagogue, or simply because of the news he had to give them?

For a few moments, to a background noise of groans and wails, Arnau watched as the others tried to get fresh air into their lungs: what could it be like inside? All of them cast anxious glances at the streets around them; for a while they seemed to hold their breath.

“They want culprits,” Arnau told him when the five men had recovered. “We started with fifteen. Now it’s down to five, and I hope that—”

“We can’t wait, Arnau Estanyol,” one of the rabbis interrupted him. “One old man has died today; he was sick, and our doctors could do nothing for him, not even moisten his lips. And we are not allowed to bury him. Do you know what that means?” Arnau nodded. “Tomorrow, the stink of his decomposing body will be added to—”

“Inside the synagogue,” Hasdai said, “we have no room to move. No one ... no one can even get up to relieve themselves. The nursing mothers have no more milk: they have suckled their own babies and tried to feed the other infants. If we have to wait many more days, five culprits will be nothing.”

“Plus forty-five thousand shillings,” Arnau pointed out.

“What do we care about money when we could all die?” the other rabbi added.

“Well?” asked Arnau.

“You have to try, Arnau,” Hasdai begged him.

Ten thousand more shillings speeded up the infante’s reply ... or perhaps he never even got the message. Arnau was summoned the next morning. Three culprits.

“They are men!” Arnau said accusingly to the magistrate.

“They are Jews, Arnau. Only Jews. Heretics who belong to the crown. Without the king’s favor they would already be dead, and the king has decided that three of them have to pay for the profanation of the host. The people demand it.”

“Since when has the king been so concerned about his people?” thought Arnau.

“Besides,” the magistrate insisted, “it will mean that our seafarers’ problems are solved.”

The old man’s body, the mothers’ dried-up breasts, the weeping children, the wailing and the stench: Arnau nodded in agreement. The magistrate leaned back in his chair.

“On two conditions,” said Arnau, forcing him to listen closely once more. “First, the Jews themselves must choose the guilty men.” The magistrate nodded. “And secondly, the agreement has to be ratified by the bishop, who must promise to calm the faithful.”

“I’ve already done that, Arnau. Do you think I want to see another massacre of Jews?”

THE PROCESSION LEFT the Jewry. All the doors and windows were shut, and apart from the piles of furniture, the streets seemed deserted. The silence inside the Jewry was in stark contrast to the hubbub outside, where a crowd had gathered around the bishop, standing there with his gold vestments gleaming in the Mediterranean sunlight, and with the countless priests and black friars lining Calle de la Boqueria, separated from the people by two lines of the king’s soldiers.

When three figures appeared at the gates of the Jewish quarter, a loud shout rent the air. The crowd raised their fists, and their insults mingled with the sound of swords being drawn as the soldiers prepared to defend the members of the procession. Shackled hand and foot, the three men were brought in between the two lines of black friars. Then, with the bishop of Barcelona at its head, the group set off down the street. The presence of the soldiers and the friars was not enough to prevent the mob from throwing stones and spitting at the three men being slowly dragged past them.

Arnau was in Santa Maria, praying. It was he who had taken the infante’s final decision to the synagogue, where he had been met by Hasdai, the rabbis, and the community leaders.

“Three culprits,” he said, trying to meet their gazes, “and you can ... you can choose them yourselves.”

None of them said a word. They merely stared at the streets of the Jewish quarter and let the cries and laments from inside the synagogue guide their thoughts. Arnau did not have the heart to negotiate any further, but told the magistrate as he left the Jewry: “Three innocent men ... because you and I know that this idea of the profanation of Christ’s body is false.”

Arnau began to hear the uproar from the crowd as he approached Calle de la Mar. The hubbub filled Santa Maria; it filtered in through the gaps in the unfinished doors, it climbed the wooden scaffolding surrounding the unfinished structures as rapidly as any workman, and filled the vaults of the new church. Three innocent men! How did they choose them? Did the rabbis make the choice, or did they come forward voluntarily? Arnau remembered Hasdai’s expression as he looked out at the devastated streets of the Jewry. What had been in his eyes? Resignation? Or had it been the look of someone ... saying good-bye? Arnau trembled; his legs almost gave way, and he had to cling to the prayer stool. The procession was drawing near to Santa Maria. The noise was getting louder and louder. Arnau stood up and looked toward the door that gave onto Plaza Santa Maria. The procession would soon be there. He stayed inside the church, staring out at the square, until the shouts and insults became a reality.

He ran to the church door. Nobody heard his cry. Nobody saw him in tears. Nobody saw him fall to his knees when he caught sight of Hasdai being dragged along in chains with curses, stones, and spit raining down on him. As Hasdai went past Santa Maria, he looked straight at the man who was on his knees beating the ground in despair. Arnau did not see him, and continued flailing at the beaten earth until the sad procession had disappeared and the earth was turning red from his bleeding fists. Someone knelt in front of him and gently took his hands.

“My father wouldn’t want you to harm yourself for him,” said Raquel. Arnau glanced up at her.

“They’re going ... they’re going to kill him.”

“Yes.”

Arnau searched the face of this girl who had grown into a woman. Many years ago, he had hidden her underneath this very church. Raquel was not crying, and although it was very dangerous, she was wearing her Jewish costume and the yellow badge.

“We have to be strong,” said the girl he remembered.

“Why, Raquel? Why him?”

“For me. For Jucef. For my children and Jucef’s children, and for our grandchildren. For all the Jews of Barcelona. He said he was already old, that he had lived enough.”

With Raquel’s help, Arnau got to his feet. They followed the noise of the crowd.

The three men were burned alive. They were tied to stakes on the top of bonfires of twigs and branches, which were set alight while the Christians were still baying for revenge. As the flames enveloped his body, Hasdai looked up to the heavens. Now it was Raquel’s turn to burst into tears; she hugged Arnau and buried her face in his chest.

His arms round Hasdai’s daughter, Arnau could not take his eyes off his friend’s burning body. At first he thought he saw him bleeding, but the flames quickly took hold. All of a sudden, he could no longer hear the crowd shouting; all he saw was them raising their fists menacingly ... and then something made him look to his right. Fifty paces or so from the crowd, he saw the bishop and the grand inquisitor standing next to Eleonor. She was talking to them and pointing directly at him. Beside her was another elegantly dressed woman, whom he did not at first recognize. Arnau met the inquisitor’s gaze as Eleonor continued to point at him and shout.

“That Jewish girl is his lover. Just look at them. Look at the way he is embracing her.”

Arnau had his arms tightly round Raquel, who was sobbing desperately on his chest as the flames rose skyward, accompanied by the cheers of the mob. Turning his eyes away from this horror, Arnau found himself looking at Eleonor. When he saw the mixture of deep-rooted hatred and joyous revenge on her face, he shuddered. It was then that he heard the woman standing next to his wife laugh, the same scornful, unforgettable laugh that had been engraved on his memory since childhood: the laugh of Margarida Puig.

47

THIS WAS A revenge that had been a long time coming, and involved many more than Eleonor. A revenge for which the accu-JL sation against Arnau and Raquel was only the start.

The decisions Arnau Estanyol had made as baron of Granollers, San Vicenc dels Horts, and Caldes de Montbui had ruffled the feathers of the other Catalan nobles. They were afraid of the winds of rebellion stirring their own serfs ... Several of them had been obliged to use more force than ever needed before to stifle a revolt among the nobles that was demanding the abolition of privileges which Arnau—that baron who had been born a serf—had reneged on. Among them were Jaume de Bellera, son of the lord of Navarcles, whom Francesca had suckled as a boy, and someone from whom Arnau had taken his house, his fortune, and his way of life: Genis Puig. After losing, Genis had been forced to live in the old Navarcles house that belonged to his grandfather, Grau’s father. The house was a world away from the palace on Calle Montcada where he had spent most of his life. Both these men spent hours lamenting their ill fortune and plotting revenge. Revenge which, if his sister Margarida’s letters were true, was about to come to fruition...

ARNAU ASKED THE sailor giving evidence to wait. He turned to the court usher of the Consulate of the Sea, who had burst into the chamber.

“A captain and soldiers sent by the Holy Inquisition wish to see you,” the usher whispered in Arnau’s ear.

“What do they want?” asked Arnau. The usher shrugged. “Tell them to wait until the hearing is over,” Arnau told him, before urging the sailor to continue his testimony.

Another sailor had died during a journey, and the owner of the ship was refusing to pay his heirs more than two months’ wages. The widow claimed that the contract had not been in terms of months, and that since her husband had died at sea, she ought to be paid half his total wage.

“Go on,” said Arnau, looking over at the widow and her three children.

“No sailor is ever paid by the month ...”

Suddenly the courtroom doors crashed open. A captain and six soldiers of the Inquisition came in wielding their swords. They pushed the usher aside and stood in the middle of the room.

“Arnau Estanyol?” the captain asked, looking directly at him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arnau protested. “How dare you interrupt—”

The captain stepped forward until he was directly in front of Arnau. “Are you Arnau Estanyol, consul of the sea, baron of Granollers?”

“You know very well I am, Captain,” Arnau interrupted him, “but—”

“By order of the tribunal of the Holy Inquisition, you are under arrest. Come with me.”

The court missatges made to defend the consul, but Arnau motioned to them to be still.

“Be so kind as to stand aside,” Arnau asked the captain.

The soldier hesitated a moment. Arnau calmly motioned with his hand for the intruders to move closer to the door. Still glaring at his prisoner, the captain stepped aside just enough for Arnau to be able to see the dead sailor’s relatives.

“I find in favor of the widow and her children,” Arnau ruled imperturbably. “They are to receive half of the total wage for the journey, and not the two months, as the ship owner is claiming. That is the resolution of this court.”

Arnau thumped the table, stood up, and faced the captain.

“Now we can go,” he said.

THE NEWS OF Arnau Estanyol’s arrest spread throughout Barcelona, and from there, nobles, merchants, and even peasants took it to the rest of Catalonia.

A few days later, in a small village to the north of the principality, an inquisitor who was busy putting the fear of God into a group of inhabitants suddenly heard it from an officer of the Inquisition.

Joan stared at him.

“It seems it is true,” the officer insisted.

The inquisitor turned toward the group of people. What had he been saying to them? What was this about Arnau being arrested?

He glanced at the captain, who nodded.

Arnau?

The small crowd began to shift uneasily. Joan wanted to go on, but could not find the words. He turned to the captain again; the man was smiling.

“Aren’t you going to continue, Brother Joan?” said the officer. “These sinners are waiting.”

Joan turned to him. “Let’s go to Barcelona,” he said.

On their way back to the city, Joan passed close by the baron of Granollers’s lands. If he had turned aside a little from his route, he would have seen how the thane of Montbui and other knights who owed allegiance to Arnau were already riding through their lands to threaten the peasants that they would soon see the return of practices Arnau had abolished. “They say it was the baroness herself who accused Arnau,” someone said.

But Joan did not pass through Arnau’s lands. Ever since they had begun their journey, he had not said another word to the captain or anyone else in their small party, not even the scribe. There was no way he could not hear what they were saying, however.

“It seems they’ve arrested him for heresy,” said one of the soldiers, loud enough for Joan to hear.

“The brother of an inquisitor?” another soldier shouted.

“Nicolau Eimerich will make him confess everything he is trying to hide,” the captain replied.

Joan remembered Nicolau Eimerich well. How often had he congratulated him on his work as an inquisitor?

“We have to fight heresy, Brother Joan ... We have to seek out sin beneath people’s virtuous exteriors: in their bedrooms, their children, their spouses.”

And Joan had done the same. “You should not hesitate to use torture to obtain a confession.” He had done the same, tirelessly. What torture could they have used on Arnau for him to confess to heresy?

Joan quickened his pace. His filthy, shabby black habit hung stiffly down his legs.

“IT’S HIS FAULT I am in this situation,” Genis Puig said, pacing up and down the chamber. “I, who once had—”

“Money, women, and power,” the baron interrupted him.

But Genis paid no attention.

“My parents and brother died as starving peasants. They died from illnesses that thrive only among the poor, and I—”

“A mere knight who has no soldiers to offer the king,” the baron said, wearily finishing the phrase he had heard a thousand times.

Genis Puig came to a halt in front of Jaume, Llorenç de Bellera’s son.

“Do you think it’s amusing?”

The lord of Bellera did not move from the seat from which he had been watching Genis roving round the chamber in the keep of Navarcles castle.

“Yes,” he replied after a while. “Extremely amusing. Your reasons for hating Arnau Estanyol are grotesque compared to mine.”

Jaume de Bellera looked up toward the roof of the keep. “Will you please stop walking up and down?”

“How long will your man be?” Genis asked, still on the move.

Both of them were waiting for confirmation of the news Margarida Puig had hinted at in a previous letter. From Navarcles, Genis had convinced his sister stealthily to win the confidence of the baroness in the long hours Eleonor spent alone in the Puig family house. It was not difficult: Eleonor was desperate for a confidante who hated her husband as much as she did. It was Margarida who insinuated to Eleonor where the baron had come from that day. It was Margarida who had invented the adultery between Arnau and Raquel. And now that Arnau Estanyol had been arrested for having congress with a Jewess, Jaume de Bellera and Genis Puig were ready to take the next step as planned.

“The Inquisition has arrested Arnau Estanyol,” the captain confirmed as soon as he came into the keep.

“So Margarida was—” Genis exclaimed.

“Be quiet,” the lord of Bellera warned him from his seat. “Go on.”

“He was arrested three days ago, while presiding over the Consulate of the Sea tribunal.”

“What is he accused of?” asked the baron.

“That isn’t very clear. Some say heresy, others say it’s because he consorts with Jews, others still say it is because he has had relations with a Jewish woman. He has not been brought before the Inquisition yet; he is being held in the dungeons of the bishop’s palace. Half the city supports him; the other half is against, but they are all clamoring at his money change to claim their deposits back. I’ve seen them. They’re all fighting to get their money.”

“Are they being paid?” asked Genis.

“For the moment, yes, but everyone knows that Arnau Estanyol lent a lot of money to people who didn’t have a penny, and if he cannot call in those loans ... That’s why everyone is fighting to get there first: they don’t think he’ll be able to pay up for long.”

Jaume de Bellera and Genis Puig exchanged looks.

“The fall has begun,” said the knight.

“Find the whore who gave me suck!” the baron ordered the captain. “Shut her in the castle dungeons!”

Genis Puig added his voice to that of the lord of Bellera, urging the official to hurry up.

“That diabolical milk was not meant for me,” he had heard the baron complain time and again. “It was for that son of hers, Arnau Estanyol. And now he’s the one who has money and is the king’s favorite, while I have to endure the consequences of the sickness his mother gave me.”

Jaume de Bellera had been forced to talk to the bishop for the epilepsy he suffered from not to be considered the Devil’s work. All the same, the Holy Inquisition would no doubt see Francesca as possessed.