Cathedral of the Sea (100 page)

In addition, Eleonor claimed that the accused had publicly embraced a Jewish woman with whom he was suspected of having carnal relations. As witnesses, she cited Nicolau himself and Bishop Berenguer d‘Eril. Guillem looked up again at Nicolau; the inquisitor held his gaze. “It is not true,” Nicolau had written, “that the accused embraced a Jewish woman on the occasion Doña Eleonor was referring to.” Neither he nor Berenguer d’Eril, who had also signed the document—at this point, Guillem did turn to the last sheet to confirm the bishop’s signature and seal—could support this charge. The smoke, the flames, the noise, the crowd’s passion—Nicolau had written—could have led a woman who was by nature weak to have thought this was what she had seen. And since the accusation made by Doña Eleonor regarding Arnau’s relationship with this Jewish woman was obviously false, little credibility could be afforded to the rest of her testimony.

Guillem smiled.

This meant that the only actions that could be held against Arnau were those described by the priests of Santa Maria de la Mar. The blasphemy had been admitted by the prisoner, but he had repented of it in front of the whole tribunal, and this was the ultimate goal of every trial held by the Inquisition. For this reason, Arnau Estanyol was sentenced to pay a penalty consisting of the seizure of all his goods, and to do penance every Sunday for a year outside Santa Maria de la Mar, wearing the cloak of repentance that all those found guilty by the Inquisition were obliged to wear.

Guillem finished reading all the grandiloquent legal formulas, then checked that the document was properly signed and sealed by the grand inquisitor and the bishop. He had done it!

He rolled up the parchment, then searched in his clothes for the bill of payment signed by Abraham Levi. He handed it to Nicolau and watched in silence as he read it. The document signified Arnau’s ruin, but guaranteed his freedom and his life. In any case, Guillem would never have been able to explain to Arnau where the money had come from, or why he had hidden the piece of paper for so many years.

A
RNAU SLEPT THE rest of that day. At nightfall, Mar lit a fire with twigs and the wood the fishermen had collected in the hut. The sea was calm. Mar looked up at the stars coming out in the night sky. Then she peered out at the cliffs surrounding the cove: the moonlight was playing here and there on the edges of the rocks, creating fantastic shapes.

She breathed in the silence and savored the calm. The world did not exist. Barcelona did not exist. Nor did the Inquisition, or Eleonor or Joan. There was only her ... and Arnau.

Around midnight she heard sounds from inside the hut. She got up to see what it was, and saw Arnau emerging into the moonlight. They stood in silence a few steps from each other.

Mar was standing between Arnau and the bonfire. The glow from the fire silhouetted her figure, but hid her features. “Am I in heaven already?” thought Arnau. As his eyes grew used to the darkness, he was able distinguish the details he had so often pursued in dreams: first of all, her bright eyes—how many nights had he shed tears over them?—then her nose, her cheekbones, her chin ... and her mouth, and those lips ... The figure opened its arms to him and the light from the flames streamed round her, caressing a body clothed in ethereal robes that the light and dark complemented. She was calling him.

Arnau answered her call. What was happening? Where was he? Could it really be Mar? When he took her hands, saw her smiling at him and then kissing him on the lips, he had his reply.

Mar clung to him as tightly as she could, and the world returned to normal. “Hold me,” he heard her ask. Arnau put his arm round her shoulder and held her to him. He heard her start to cry. He could feel her sobbing against him, and gently stroked her hair. How many years had gone by before they could enjoy a moment like this? How many mistakes had he made?

Arnau raised Mar’s head from his shoulder and forced her to look up into his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he began to say. “I’m sorry I forced you to—”

“Don’t say anything,” she interrupted him. “The past doesn’t exist. There is nothing to be sorry for. Today is when we start to live. Look,” she said, pulling away from him and taking his hand, “look at the sea. The sea has no past. It is just there. It will never ask us to explain. The stars, the moon are there to light our way, to shine for us. What do they care what might have happened in the past? They are accompanying us, and are happy with that; can you see them shine? The stars are twinkling in the sky; would they do that if the past mattered? Wouldn’t there be a huge storm if God wanted to punish us? We are alone, you and I, with no past, no memories, no guilt, nothing that can stand in the way of ... our love.”

Arnau stood looking up at the sky, then lowered his gaze to the sea and the gentle waves lapping at the shore without even breaking. He looked at the wall of rock protecting them, and swayed in the silent darkness.

He turned back to Mar, still holding her hand. There was something he had to tell her, something painful that he had sworn before the Virgin after the death of his first wife, something he could not renounce. Staring her in the eyes, he told her everything in a whisper.

When he had finished, Mar sighed.

“All I know is that I have no intention of ever leaving you again, Arnau. I want to be with you, to be close to you ... in whatever way you choose.”

ON THE MORNING
of the fifth day, a small boat arrived. The only person to disembark was Guillem. The three of them met on the seashore. Mar stood aside to let the two men fling their arms round each other.

“God!” sobbed Arnau.

“Which God?” asked Guillem, almost too moved to speak. He pushed Arnau away and smiled a broad smile.

“The God of everyone,” replied Arnau, as happy as he was.

“Come here, my child,” said Guillem, releasing one arm.

Mar came up to the two men and put her arms round their waists.

“I’m not your child anymore,” she told him with a mischievous smile.

“You always will be,” said Guillem.

“Yes, that you will always be,” Arnau confirmed.

And so arm in arm they walked over and sat down by the remains of the previous evening’s fire.

“You are a free man, Arnau,” said Guillem when he had settled on the sand. “Here is the Inquisition’s ruling.”

“Tell me what it says,” Arnau asked him, refusing to take the document. “I’ve never read anything that came from you.”

“It says they are seizing your goods ...” Guillem glanced at Arnau, but saw no reaction. “And that you are sentenced to a year’s penitence wearing the cloak of repentance every Sunday for a year outside the doors of Santa Maria de la Mar. Beyond that, the Inquisition says that you are free.”

Arnau saw himself wearing the long penitent’s cloak with two white crosses painted on it, standing outside the doors of Santa Maria.

“I should have known you could do it when I saw you in the tribunal, but I was in no state—”

“Arnau,” said Guillem, interrupting him, “did you hear what I said? The Inquisition has seized all your possessions.”

For a while, Arnau said nothing.

“I was a dead man, Guillem,” he replied at length. “Eimerich wanted my blood. Besides, I would have given everything I have ... everything I used to have,” he corrected himself, taking Mar’s hand, “for these past few days.” Guillem looked at Mar and saw her beaming smile and glistening eyes. His child. He smiled too. “I have been thinking...”

“Traitor!” said Mar, pouting her lips in mock reproach.

Arnau patted her hand. “As far as I can remember, it must cost a lot of money for the king not to oppose the Barcelona
host.”

Guillem nodded.

“Thank you,” said Arnau.

The two men stared at each other.

“Well,” said Arnau, deciding to break the spell. “What about you? What has happened to you in all this time?”

THE SUN WAS high in the sky by the time the three of them headed out to the catboat, which the helmsman brought in close to shore at their signal. Arnau and Guillem climbed on board.

“Just one minute,” Mar begged them.

The girl turned toward the cove and looked at the hut for one last time. What would the future hold for her? Arnau and his penitence, Eleonor ...

Mar looked down.

“Don’t worry about her,” Arnau said when she was on board the boat. “She won’t have any money, and won’t bother us. The palace in Calle de Montcada is part of my wealth, so now it belongs to the Inquisition. All that’s left for her is Montbui. She will have to move there.”

“The castle,” murmured Mar. “Will the Inquisition take that too?”

“No. The castle and its lands were given to us by the king on our marriage. The Inquisition has no authority to seize them.”

“I feel sorry for the feudal peasants,” said Mar, remembering the day when Arnau abolished all the ancient privileges.

Neither of them mentioned Mataró and Felip de Ponts’s farmhouse.

“We’ll get by somehow—” Arnau started to say.

“What are you talking about?” Guillem cut in. “You will have all the money you need. If you wish, you could buy the Calle de Montcada palace all over again.”

“But that’s your money,” Arnau protested.

“It’s our money. Look,” said Guillem, addressing them both. “Apart from you two, I have no one. What am I meant to do with the money I have thanks to your generosity? Of course it’s yours.”

“No, no,” Arnau insisted.

“You are my family. My child ... and the man who gave me freedom and riches. Does this mean you do not want me as part of your family?”

Mar stretched out her arm to him. Arnau stuttered: “No ... that wasn’t what I meant at all ... Of course ...”

“Well, if you accept me, you accept my money,” said Guillem. “Or would you rather the Inquisition took it?”

His question forced a smile from Arnau.

“Besides, I have great plans,” said Guillem.

Mar sat looking back at the cove. A tear trickled down her cheek. She did not try to wipe it away, as it ran down and into the corner of her mouth. They were on their way back to Barcelona. To carry out an unjust punishment, to return to the Inquisition, to Joan, the brother who had betrayed Arnau ... and a wife he hated but from whom he could never be free.