Cathedral of the Sea (97 page)

“What is that infidel doing in here?” he cried. “Do they have to mock us in this way?”

The captain of the guard did not know what to say. He had been concentrating so intently on the inquisitor that he had not seen Guillem come in with the councillors. Guillem was on the point of telling him that he was in fact baptized a Christian, but thought better of it: despite the grand inquisitor’s efforts, the Holy Office did not have any jurisdiction over Jews and Moors. Nicolau could not threaten or arrest him.

“My name is Sahat de Pisa,” Guillem said out loud, “and I should like to speak to you.”

“I have nothing to say to an infidel. Throw him out...”

“I think you will be interested in what I have to say.”

“I don’t care what you think.” Nicolau gestured to the captain, who drew his sword.

“Perhaps you will be interested to learn that Arnau Estanyol is abatut,” said Guillem, backing away from the soldier’s sword. “You will not be able to use a single penny of his fortune.”

Nicolau gave a deep sigh and stared up at the chamber roof. Although the captain received no fresh order, he put down his weapon and stopped threatening Guillem.

“What do you mean, infidel?” the inquisitor asked.

“You have Arnau Estanyol’s books; look at them closely.”

“Do you think we haven’t?”

“Did you know that the king’s debts have been pardoned?”

It was Guillem himself who had signed the receipt and given it to Francesc de Perellós. As the Moor had discovered, Arnau had never withdrawn his authority over his affairs.

Nicolau did not move a muscle. Everyone in the tribunal had the same thought: that was why the magistrate had refused to intervene.

Several seconds went by, with Guillem and Nicolau staring at each other. Guillem knew precisely what was going through the grand inquisitor’s mind: “What are you going to tell the pope? How are you going to pay the money you promised him? You’ve already dispatched the letter; he is bound to receive it. What will you say to him? And you need his support against a king whom you have always confronted.”

“And what has all this got to do with you?” Nicolau eventually asked.

“I could explain ... in private,” said Guillem, when Nicolau gestured impatiently at him.

“Barcelona has risen against the Inquisition, and now an infidel dares demand a private audience with me!” Nicolau complained in a loud voice. “Who do you think you are?”

“What will you say to your pope?” Guillem’s eyes questioned him. “Do you really want the whole of Barcelona to hear about your machinations?”

“Search him,” he commanded the captain. “Make sure he is not carrying any weapons, and take him to the antechamber to my office. Wait for me there.”

Flanked by the captain and two soldiers, Guillem stood and waited in the antechamber. He had never dared tell Arnau where his fortune had come from: the slave trade. Now that the king’s debts had been pardoned, if the Inquisition seized Arnau’s possessions, it also took on his debts. Only he, Guillem, knew that the entries in favor of Abraham Levi were false; if he did not show anyone the receipt that the Jewish merchant had signed all those years ago, Arnau’s wealth did not exist.

A
S SOON AS she emerged from the bishop’s palace, Francecsa moved away from the doors and stood pressed against the wall. From there she could see how the crowd launched itself at Arnau, and watched as the councillors struggled unsuccessfully to keep them away. “Look at your son!” Nicolau’s words drowned out the shouts of the host in her memory. “Didn’t you want me to look at him, Inquisitor? Well, there he is, and he’s won.” When she saw Arnau falter and stumble, she stiffened, but then he disappeared in a waving sea of heads, weapons, and banners, with the small statue of the Virgin bobbing up and down in the midst of them.

Little by little, still shouting and waving weapons in the air, the host made its way down Calle del Bisbe. Francesca did not move. Her legs were giving way beneath her, and she needed to hold herself up against the wall. It was as the square gradually emptied that she saw her: Aledis had refused to follow Mar and Joan, suspecting that the old woman had been left behind. There she was! Aledis was overcome with emotion when she saw her clinging to the only support she could find: she looked so old, frail, and helpless ...

Aledis ran toward her at the very moment the Inquisition guards finally dared poke their noses outside the bishop’s palace, as the shouts of the crowd died away in the distance. Francesca was standing only a few steps away.

“Witch!” the first soldier spat at her.

Aledis came to an abrupt halt a few steps from them.

“Let her be,” shouted Aledis. Several more soldiers had come running out of the palace. “Leave her alone or I’ll call the
host,”
she threatened them, pointing toward the last backs disappearing down Calle del Bisbe.

Some of the soldiers followed her gaze, but another one drew his sword.

“The inquisitor will be pleased with the death of a witch,” he said.

Francesca did not even look at them. She was staring intently at the woman running toward her. How many years had they spent together? How much suffering had they seen?

“Leave her, you dogs!” shouted Aledis, stepping back and pointing toward the host once more. She wanted to run and fetch them, but the soldier had already lifted his sword high over Francesca’s head. The blade seemed bigger than she did. “Leave her!” Aledis shrieked.

Francesca saw Aledis cover her face in her hands and sink to her knees. She had taken her in all those years ago in Figueres, and ever since ... Was she going to die without one last embrace?

The soldier had drawn back his arm to strike when Francesca’s cold eyes stopped him in his tracks.

“Swords can’t kill witches,” she warned him in an even voice. The blade wavered in his hand. What was she saying? “Only fire can purify a witch at death.” Could it be true? The soldier turned to his companions for support, but they were already backing away. “If you kill me with your sword, I’ll pursue you for the rest of your life—all of you!” None of them could have imagined that the threat they had just heard could come from such a shriveled old body. Aledis looked up. “I’ll pursue you,” hissed Francesca. “I’ll pursue your wives, your children, and your children’s children, and their wives too! A curse on all of you!” For the first time since she had left the palace, Francesca felt strong enough to move away from the wall. By now, the other soldiers had retreated back into the palace, leaving the one with his raised sword all on his own. “I curse you,” Francesca said, pointing her finger at him. “If you kill me, your corpse will never find rest. I’ll turn into a thousand worms and devour you. I’ll make your eyes mine for all eternity.”

As Francesca continued with her curses, Aledis got up from her knees and went over to her. She put an arm round her shoulder and started to lead her away.

“Your children will be lepers ...” The two women passed beneath the sword blade. “Your wife will become the Devil’s whore ...”

They did not look round. For some time, the soldier stood with his arm still raised. He lowered it slowly, and watched the two women crossing the square.

“Let’s get out of here, my child,” Francesca said as soon as they were in Calle del Bisbe, which by now was completely empty.

Aledis was trembling. “I have to pass by the inn ...”

“No. No. Let’s just go. Now. This very minute.”

“What about Teresa and Eulàlia ... ?”

“We’ll send word to them,” said Francesca, clinging to the girl from Figueres.

They came to Plaza San Jaume, then skirted the Jewry heading for the Boqueria gate, the nearest way out of Barcelona. They walked silently, arm in arm.

“What about Arnau?” asked Aledis.

Francesca did not reply.

THE FIRST PART
of his plan had worked. By now, Arnau should be with the bastaixos in the small boat Guillem had hired. The agreement with the infante had been very precise: “The only commitment His Highness makes,” Francesc de Perellós had told him, “is not to oppose the Barcelona host. Under no circumstance will he challenge the Inquisition, try to oblige it to do anything, or question its resolutions. If your plan is successful and Estanyol is set free, the infante will not defend him if the Inquisition arrests him again or condemns him. Is all that clear?” Guillem agreed, and handed him the bill of payment for the loans made to the king. Now Guillem had to tackle the second part of his scheme: convincing Nicolau that Arnau was ruined and that there was little to be gained from pursuing or sentencing him. They could all have left for Pisa and left Arnau’s possessions to the Inquisition; but the fact was the Inquisition already had control over his wealth, and if sentence was pronounced on Arnau, even in absentia, there would be a warrant for his arrest. This was why Guillem wanted to try to deceive Eimerich; there was nothing to lose, and a lot to gain: Arnau’s peace of mind and ensuring that the Inquisition did not pursue him for the rest of his life.

Nicolau kept Guillem waiting several hours. When he finally appeared, he was accompanied by a small Jewish man dressed in a black coat and wearing the obligatory yellow badge. The Jew scurried after the inquisitor, carrying several account books under his arm. He avoided looking at Guillem when Nicolau gestured to both of them to step inside his chamber.

He did not ask them to sit down, but himself took a seat behind his big table.

“If what you say is true,” he said, addressing Guillem, “Estanyol is abatut, ruined.”

“You know it’s true,” Guillem replied. “The king does not owe Arnau Estanyol a penny.”

“In that case, I could call the city’s finance inspector,” said the inquisitor. “How ironic if the same city that freed him from the Holy Office were to execute him for being
abatut.”

“That will never happen,” Guillem was tempted to reply. “I can easily secure Arnau’s freedom, simply by showing Abraham Levi’s receipt...” But no: Nicolau had not agreed to receive him just to denounce Arnau to the finance inspector. What he wanted was his money, the money he had promised the pope, the money that this Jew (who must be a friend of Jucef’s) had told him was available.

Guillem said nothing.

“I could do so,” insisted Nicolau.

Guillem spread his palms. The inquisitor looked at him more closely.

“Who are you?” he asked at length.

“My name is—”

“I know, I know,” Eimerich said, with a chopping, impatient gesture. “Your name is Sahat from Pisa. What I should like to know is what someone from Pisa is doing in Barcelona defending a heretic.”

“Arnau Estanyol has a lot of friends, even in Pisa.” “Infidels and heretics!” cried Nicolau.

Guillem spread his palms once more. How long would it be before the inquisitor succumbed to the idea of money? Nicolau seemed to have understood. He said nothing for a few moments.

“What do those friends of Arnau Estanyol have to offer the Inquisition?” he finally asked.

“In those books,” said Guillem, nodding toward the tiny Jew, who had not taken his eyes off Nicolau’s table, “there are entries in favor of one of Arnau Estanyol’s creditors. They amount to a fortune.”

For the first time, the inquisitor addressed the Jew. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” replied the Jew. “From the outset, there are entries in the name of Abraham Levi ...”

“Another heretic!” Nicolau exploded.

The three men fell silent.

“Go on,” ordered the inquisitor.

“Those entries have added up over the years. By now, they must amount to more than fifteen thousand pounds.”

A glint appeared in the inquisitor’s narrowed eyes. Neither Guillem nor the little Jew failed to notice it.

“Well?” asked the inquisitor.

“Arnau Estanyol’s friends could see to it that Levi renounced his right to the money.”