Cathedral of the Sea (64 page)

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?”