Cathedral of the Sea

by Ildefonso Falcones

  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 l
ower 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 ...”