Cathedral of the Sea (93 page)

Arnau tried to throw himself on Nicolau, who was still standing there arrogantly challenging him, but before he could reach the table, he was grabbed by the soldiers and dragged back to the center of the chamber.

“Did you burn your father as a devil?” Nicolau shouted again.

“My father was not a devil!” Arnau replied, shouting and struggling to free himself from the soldiers.

“But you did burn his body.”

“Why did you do it, Joan? You are my brother, and Bernat ... Bernat always loved you like a son.” Arnau lowered his head and went limp in the soldiers’ hands. “Why?”

“Did your mother tell you to do it?”

Arnau could barely lift his head.

“Your mother is a witch who transmits the Devil’s sickness,” said the bishop.

What were they talking about?

“Your father killed a boy in order to set you free. Do you confess it?” howled Nicolau.

“What—” Arnau started to say.

“You,” Nicolau interrupted him, “you also killed a Christian boy. What were you planning to do with him?”

“Did your parents tell you to kill him?”

“Did you want his heart?” said Nicolau.

“How many other boys have you killed?”

“What are your relations with heretics?”

The inquisitor and the bishop assailed him with questions. Your father, your mother, boys, murders, hearts, heretics, Jews ... Joan! Arnau’s head fell onto his chest again. His whole body was quivering.

“Do you confess?” Nicolau rounded on him.

Arnau did not move. His interrogators were silent, as he hung in the arms of the soldiers. Eventually, Nicolau signaled to them to take him out of the chamber. Arnau could feel them dragging him away.

“Wait!” came the order from the inquisitor just as they were opening the doors. The guards turned back to him. “Arnau Estanyol!” he shouted. And again: “Arnau Estanyol!”

Arnau slowly raised his head and peered at Nicolau.

“You can take him out,” said the inquisitor once he had met Arnau’s gaze. “Take this down,” Arnau heard him instructing the clerk as he was bundled out of the room. “The prisoner did not deny any of the accusations made by this tribunal, and has avoided confessing by pretending to have fainted, the falseness of which has been discovered when, no longer under oath in the tribunal, the prisoner responded to calls for him to answer his name.”

The sound of the scratching quill followed Arnau all the way to the dungeons.

DESPITE THE INNKEEPER’S
protests, Guillem gave instructions to his slaves to organize his move to the corn exchange, which was close to the Estanyer Inn. He left Mar behind, but he could not risk being recognized by Genis Puig. The slaves only shook their head when the innkeeper tried desperately to get them and their rich master to stay on. “What use to me are nobles who won’t pay?” he growled as he counted out the money the slaves had given him.

Guillem went straight from the Jewry to his new lodgings. None of the merchants staying in Barcelona knew of his former connections with Arnau.

“I have a business in Pisa,” he told a Sicilian trader who sat down to eat at the same table and showed an interest in him.

“What brings you to Barcelona?” he asked.

He almost said, “A friend who is in trouble,” then thought better of it. The Sicilian was a short, bald man with rough-hewn features. He said his name was Jacopo Lercado. Guillem had discussed the situation in Barcelona thoroughly with Jucef, but it was always a good idea to get another opinion.

“Years ago I had good contacts in Catalonia, so I thought I would take advantage of a trip to Valencia to see how things are here now.”

“There’s not much to see,” said the Sicilian, continuing to eat.

Guillem waited for him to go on, but the other man seemed more interested in his stew. It was obvious he would not say anything more unless he thought he was talking to someone who knew as much about business as he did.

“I’ve noticed the situation has changed a lot since I was last here. There don’t seem to be many peasants in the markets: their stalls are empty. I can remember when, years ago, the inspector had to struggle to keep order among all the traders and peasants selling produce.”

“The inspector has no work to do these days,” said the Sicilian with a smile. “The peasants don’t produce, and don’t bring anything to sell. Epidemics have decimated the countryside, the land is poor, and even the landowners no longer plant crops. Many peasant farmers have been heading to where you came from: Valencia.”

“I’ve visited some people I knew before.” The Sicilian looked up from his food. “They no longer want to risk their money in commerce: they prefer to buy the city’s debt. They live on the interest. They have told me that nine years ago, Barcelona’s debt was around a hundred and sixty-nine thousand pounds; nowadays it must be nearer two hundred thousand, and it’s still increasing. The city can no longer pay the interest on the different loans it has given as guarantee for the debt; it is facing ruin.”

Guillem reflected on the endless debate among Christians about whether it was permitted to earn money through interest. With the collapse of trade, and the consequent lack of money from commerce, the city authorities had once again sought to get round the prohibition by creating these new types of loans, which entailed the rich lending them money in return for a guarantee of a yearly payment—which obviously included interest. Repayment of the property levy implied handing over a third more than the original sum. The advantage of these loans was that there was much less risk than that involved in commercial ventures... as long as Barcelona could pay.

“But until that moment of ruin arrives,” said the Sicilian, “there is a great opportunity to make money in Catalonia ...”

“By selling,” Guillem intervened.

“In the main, yes,” said the Sicilian. Guillem could tell he trusted him more now. “But you can also buy, provided you do so in the proper currency. The parity between the gold florin and silver croat is a complete fiction; it has nothing to do with the rate that you can get in foreign exchanges. Silver is pouring out of Catalonia, yet the king is determined to defend the value of his gold florin against the market; his attitude is going to cost him dearly.”

“Why do you think he persists in it then?” Guillem asked. “King Pedro has always behaved very sensibly ...”

“It’s purely out of political interest,” said Jacopo. “The florin is a royal currency: it is minted in Montpellier under his direct control. But the croat is minted in cities like Barcelona and Valencia under licence. The king is determined to support the value of his own currency even if it’s a mistake—but for us, his obstinacy is very fortunate. He has put parity between gold and silver at thirteen times more than its real value in other markets!”

“What about the royal coffers?”

That was what most interested Guillem.

“Thirteen times overvalued!” laughed the Sicilian trader. “The king is still fighting Castille, although it seems the war may soon be over. King Pedro the Cruel is having problems with his barons, who are deserting him in favor of the House of Trastámara. Pedro the Ceremonious can count on support only from the cities and, apparently, the Jews. The war with Castille has ruined him. Four years ago, the Monzón parliament provided him with two hundred and sixty thousand pounds for his war chest in return for fresh concessions for nobles and cities. The king is spending the money on the war, but he is giving up privileges that might affect him in the future. And now there’s a rebellion in Corsica ... if you are owed money by the king, you can forget it.”

Guillem’s attention wandered from what the Sicilian was saying. He merely nodded and smiled when it seemed appropriate. So the king was ruined, and Arnau was one of his biggest creditors. When Guillem had left Barcelona, Arnau had lent the royal house more than ten thousand pounds: how much could it be now? The king had probably not even been able to pay off the interest on the cheap loans. “They will put him to death.” Joan’s words came back into Guillem’s mind. “Nicolau will use Arnau to help strengthen his position,” Jucef had told him. “The king does not pay any revenues to the pope, and Eimerich has promised him part of Arnau’s fortune.” Would the king want to owe money to a pope who had just backed a revolt in Corsica by denying the rights of the crown of Aragon? But how could he get the king to stand up to the Inquisition?

“YOUR PROPOSAL INTERESTS us.”

The infante’s voice was lost in the vastness of the Tinell chamber in Barcelona’s royal palace. He was only sixteen, but he had just presided, in the name of his father, over the parliament that dealt with the revolt in Sardinia. Guillem glanced surreptitiously at the king’s heir, seated on the throne flanked by his two counsellors, Joan Fernández d’Heredia and Francesc de Perellós, both of whom were standing. It was said that the infante was weak, and yet, two years earlier, he had found the strength to try, pass sentence on, and execute the man who had been his tutor since birth: Bernat de Cabrera. And after ordering his beheading in Zaragoza market square, he had been obliged to send the viscount’s head to his father, King Pedro.

The same evening he had spoken to the Sicilian trader, Guillem had met with Francesc de Perellós. The counsellor had listened closely to what he had to say, and then asked him to wait behind a small door. When after many minutes he was told to come in, Guillem found himself in the most imposing chamber he had ever seen: it was an airy room more than thirty paces wide, with six long arches that almost reached the floor. The walls were bare apart from the torches that lit the chamber. The infante and his counsellors were waiting for him at the far end.

When he was still several steps away from the throne, Guillem knelt down on one knee.

“Yet remember,” said the infante, “we cannot oppose the Inquisition.”

Guillem waited until Francesc de Perellós nodded for him to speak.

“You would not have to, my liege.”

“So be it,” the infante ruled, then stood up and left the chamber, accompanied by Joan Fernández d’Heredia.

“You may rise,” Francesc de Perellós told Guillem. “When can you arrange this?”

“Tomorrow, if possible. If not, the day after.”

“I will inform the magistrate.”

GUILLEM LEFT THE royal palace as night was falling. He stared up at the clear Mediterranean sky and took a deep breath. There was still a lot to do.

That same afternoon, when he was still talking to Jacopo the Sicilian, he had received a message from Jucef: “The counsellor Francesc de Perellós will see you today in the royal palace, when the parliament has finished.” He knew how to interest the infante. It was easy: he would cancel the substantial debts that the Catalan crown owed Arnau, thus making sure they did not end up in the hands of the pope. But how could he set Arnau free and yet avoid the duke of Girona having to confront the Inquisition?

Before he headed for the royal palace, Guillem had gone for a walk. His steps led him in the direction of Arnau’s countinghouse. It was boarded up: Nicolau Eimerich must have had all his account books confiscated in order to avoid any further sales. All Arnau’s assistants had gone. Guillem looked toward Santa Maria, still surrounded in scaffolding. How was it possible that someone who had given everything for a church like that ... ? He walked on to the Consulate of the Sea, and then the beach.