The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “This is magical, my love,” whispered Emilia.

  “And will always be so, I promise you,” replied Joan.

  With much kissing and fondling, they fell asleep. In the night Emilia awoke. Joan had vanished. “Where are you, my love?” she whispered anxiously.

  “Down here, on the floor,” came Joan’s reply. “I’ve never slept in a bed before. Give me time. I’ll get used to it – I hope.”

  “Come back, and embrace me some more. Goodness, it will soon be light, and you’ll be going down to start your baker’s day. Come kiss me.”

  Miquel Blanxart was born in February 1620. The extended family were delighted to see that he had inherited his father’s blond curls, although as a baby he was often mistaken for a girl. Joan’s mass of blond hair marked him out in La Ribera as different, and he was particularly pleased to see his baby son with similar blond hair.

  There could not have been a greater contrast between Miquel’s early years and his father’s. The new baby was pampered not only by loving parents, but three doting grandparents. The sunny bedchamber built by Joan for his bride, became an airy nursery for his son. Emilia was able to focus all her attention on her growing infant, and whenever he could be spared from the bakery, Joan would run up the stairs to cuddle his precious boy.

  As he grew, Miquel developed the same mane-like mass of golden curls, making obvious the likeness between himself and his father. His life was spent between the warmth of the bakehouse and the cool of his grandfather’s wine shop, and soon he was running between the two with errands for the happy family. Joan similarly was spending his time between the two businesses, maintaining his flourishing bakery whilst learning the wine trade from his father-in-law.

  Although the Ribera remained a slum, with most of the population crammed into shacks and hovels, the family lived between two of the grandest buildings in the barrio. The bedchamber Joan had created above the baker’s shop was the envy of many, with glass in the windows, the ornate bed, and the winter warmth of the bakery chimney. Miquel’s crib, which he quickly out-grew, was also in the chamber, and little did he realise how rare it was for a little boy to be growing up in such luxury.

  More than this, he could explore the even grander premises of Grandfather Dominguez’s wine shop. The huge barn-like doors of the shop front were unique in La Ribera: solidly closed at night, opening wide in the daytime to reveal the well-stocked shop. Miquel was always intrigued by the little door set into one of the big barn doors: it was as if it had been specially designed for a small boy, although all the family stooped through it when the shop was closed. In the shop itself, barrels and bottles stood neatly on shelves, and a rich warm smell filled the air. Behind the shop was the large living area for the family, with its ever-warm oven, the open fireplace, and the table around which the family would gather.

  Down a steep ladder was the cellar, but the little boy was not allowed there on his own. More barrels were lying in the cool and dark cellar, wine which had been brought gently from the surrounding hillsides, mainly good Rioja but also a few small casks of precious brandy. Miquel was slightly afraid of the dark corners and cobwebs of the cellar, and preferred his grandfather’s house when the trap door was firmly shut.

  Upstairs, however, was another matter for him: a place of both safety and fun. The upper floor was reached, unusually, by an internal staircase: a small door in the panelling near the fire opened to reveal the spiral of stairs. Upstairs, the area was divided into smaller sleeping cubicles, giving the little boy many hiding places and unexpected alcoves to snuggle against his mother or grandmother.

  Whenever he could, Joan would tell Miquel the stories of Catalunya he had learned from his beloved Abuelo. Miquel in his turn became as passionate about his inheritance as his father before him. The Catalan flag, the senyera, flew proudly over both businesses. Tales of fighting reached the family from many customers, but the war in the countryside seemed far away and did not affect daily life. Miquel, however, was excited by the prospect of the war, and often told his father that he wanted to be a soldier and go and fight for Catalunya. “Your time may come, my boy,” replied Joan, “Indeed, one day we may all be called to defend our city and country. Bide your time – you are still young.”

  As Miquel grew older and stronger, Grandfather Dominguez grew older and frail, and increasingly unable to cope with the physical demands of the wine trade. The time came when Joan took over the wine merchant’s work, and Miquel started to run the bakery. The two men were remarkably alike – sixteen-year-old Miquel had his father’s mop of long blond curly hair, and his father, twice his age, was still a strong and handsome man. The gossips of La Ribera came to calling them the Old Lion and the Young Lion, and many a head turned when the two of them marched down the lanes together. Emilia had given Joan three other sons and a daughter, but it was her first-born who had all the charisma and good looks of his father.

  Joan marvelled at being in the centre of such an idyllic life, and felt that nothing could go wrong. Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth.

  There were early hints of trouble when deliveries of both wine and flour failed to arrived. Vague messages of difficulties in the countryside were hard to interpret. Farmers who were previously reliable grape growers would send less wine than expected, and in some cases failed to deliver at all. Millers would report similar failures in the crops from farms. It appeared marauding Castilian soldiers were making random attacks against Catalan farms. The farmer’s lives were in danger and their farms falling into ruin. War was beginning to affect everyone in La Ribera.

  At the same time, troubling demands for extra taxation arrived in La Ribera; it was rumoured that King Philip of Castile was trying the raise taxes for his Castilian troops, in order to mount an attack on France. Joan and other shopkeepers like him, got together and decided to ignore such demands, and sent a message to the Generalitat of Barcelona that they would not pay anything to the Castilian king. The Generalitat supported this refusal to pay extra taxes, and Canon Pau Claris himself, President of the Generalitat, visited La Ribera and met the leading businessmen of the area, including both the younger and older Blanxarts.

  Matters came to a head in 1639. Miquel was now 19, and being chased by all the young women of the slum. Joan would joke with him, that by that age, he had been happily married for a year, and it was time to choose one of the enthusiastic maidens. Joan and Emilia were in the wine cellar when Miquel came bursting through the door.

  “Come quickly, they’re commandeering the bakehouse. Grandmother is on her own, and she needs help!”

  Telling Emilia to stay with her elderly parents in case the trouble spread to them, he and Miquel ran full tilt back to the bakery. As they turned into the lane, they could hear cries of many neighbours, and see much struggling going on in the street around the bakehouse. Pushing through the crowd, Joan found Viuda Marta blocking the staircase against a small group of well-armed Castilian soldiers. Behind Marta peered the frightened faces of Miquel’s younger brothers and sister. The tall, strong baker commanded much respect and his neighbours stood back, knowing that Joan’s authority would prevail.

  “Stand back from my mother!” roared Joan, oblivious to the weapons of the soldiers. Surprised by his direct approach, the soldiers paused in their assault upon Marta, and turned to Joan. They were confronted by both the Old Lion and the Young Lion, and for a moment, even though they were soldiers, they hesitated, just long enough for Marta to pick herself up and resume some dignity, standing on the stairs.

  The moment did not last long. Thrusting the sword, with which he had been threatening Marta, towards Joan, the leader of the soldiers replied with a similar roar.

  “Castilian troops are now stationed in Barcelona. I am charged by his Majesty King Philip the Fourth of Castile, to requisition billets for my men here in this Ribera slum. My men will not hesitate to use whatever force is necessary to assert their authority. If this fat woman is your mother, tell her to mov
e quickly, or we will slit all your throats!”

  “Never!” growled Joan. “Catalunya does not recognise your king, and we refuse. We spit upon your king.”

  A great shout of support went up from the crowd as Joan lunged towards the soldier, but the unarmed baker stood no chance against the sword and the skill of his adversary. Before Marta or Miquel could move, Joan was stabbed through the stomach and fell to the floor. Miquel knelt at his father’s side, desperate to do something to save him. Marta ran down the stairs to her son, whilst two of the soldiers laughed and jabbed at her with their swords.

  Miquel and his grandmother desperately tried to staunch the wound, but Joan’s blood was spilling freely, and a dark stain appeared on the ground beneath him. “I love you, my boy,” groaned Joan, “and I love you Auntie. Tell Emilia I love her. Tell Emilia….” But he could not finish the sentence. His eyes closed, and Marta and Miquel stared horrified at one another.

  “Father!” shouted Miquel, “Father!” And he shook Joan as if to wake him from a sleep.

  “He’s gone,” said Marta. “Help me take him indoors.”

  News of Joan’s murder spread like wildfire throughout La Ribera and beyond, and street fighting broke out in many places. Guerilla warfare developed in the city, and many groups of Castilian soldiers, despite being fully armed, were ambushed. Soldiers were killed and their weapons stolen. At the same time, many loyal Catalonians died themselves.

  Nowhere was the street fighting fiercer than in La Ribera. Joan Blanxart had been one of the heroes of the barrio, popular and well-respected. His strong loyalty to the Catalan flag was well known, and his murder was seen as an insult to all that Catalunya stood for. Men who had never fought before, found reserves of anger and strength they didn’t know they possessed, and formed vigilante groups, determined to kill every Castilian soldier they encountered. Even priests from Santa Maria del Mar, hearing of the rioting, rushed into La Ribera to assist, only to find themselves tending the injured and dying.

  Whilst Marta and Miquel had been trying to save the life of Joan, one of the brothers had run to his mother at the wine merchant’s. Great was the screaming and panicking with the realisation that Joan was dead.

  Later in the day, Miquel’s brothers, with one of the priests from Santa Maria, solemnly carried Joan’s body to the wine merchant’s house where Emilia was waiting. Senora Dominguez laid a white cloth on a table, and Marta and Emilia tearfully prepared him for burial. Miquel’s brothers and sister and the wine merchant and his wife watched, tears flowing freely. When the body was ready, Emilia whispered, “Clogs?” and Marta replied, “No, he couldn’t wear them in this life, he’ll not thank us for making him wear them in heaven. He will want to meet his maker with bare feet!”

  Everyone looked to Miquel, who nervously looked around the room. “Our father must not die in vain. We must all, everyone of us, swear to keep up the fight against Castile.” Suddenly he stood up straight, and continued vehemently, “ never will we live under the House of Austria. In the name of our father, Joan Blanxart, I swear to uphold the Catalan tradition, to speak the Catalan language, and to fly proudly, the Catalan flag.”

  “Well said, young man,” replied Senor Dominguez. “Joan is now at peace, but here in La Ribera, the fight will go on.”

  Initially, the bakehouse was lost to the soldiers, who let the fire in the oven go out. Once they had eaten and drunk all they could find they settled in, and presumed to think they had secured the billet. One was posted at the stair whilst the others slept, desecrating Joan and Emilia’s beautiful room. Silently from an adjacent rooftop, came the knife-men, slitting the throat of the guard, and waiting for the others to appear. One by one, they surely did, needing to piss in the alley, and one by one their throats were cut. The bakehouse resembled a butcher’s more than anything else, and the neighbours sent word that the bodies could be retrieved by their fellow soldiers.

  Shortly after, in the evening, a neighbour arrived at the wine shop with a strange bundle. Handing it to Miquel, there was a brief whispered conversation, Miquel took the bundle, and the neighbour vanished into the night. Without unwrapping the blood-soaked cloth, Miquel felt the hardness of the steel within. He nodded silently to himself, and climbed down into the wine cellar. By the light of one small candle, he unwrapped the bundle and revealed a large, sharp Castillian sword. He sat for a long time with the sword on his lap, his eyes closed, and his mind full. This was the sword which had killed his father, retrieved by one of the many loyal friends who had hunted and murdered the murderers. With a sigh, he re-wrapped the bundle and hid it behind the furthest barrel in the darkest corner. “Wait there,” he muttered, “until our time comes.”

  The rioting continued for days, and weeks, and skirmishes continued to break out all over the city, and in the surrounding countryside. More farms were destroyed and rural livelihoods ruined. The Generalitat attempted to send messengers to Madrid, but they were murdered before they got there. Canon Pau Claris was at his wits’ end, desperate to stop the killings, but unwilling to submit to the Castilian demands.

  Miquel conferred with the family, and they agreed that the bakehouse was violated beyond repair. None of them ever wanted to live there again, and with the encouragement of the old wine merchant, they abandoned the bakery and all moved into the winery. The laughter and jollity of the family had vanished. It was as if with the death of Joan, a light had gone out.

  The Dominguez’s home, however, gave them a haven in which to regroup and recover. Although in the heart of La Ribera slum, it was larger than most of the surrounding buildings: the street frontage was, like all the neighbours, the open shop front, but behind it, the spacious living room gave the family a safe place to mourn the loss of Joan. The trap-door and ladder from the living room led down to the cellar, where Miquel had hidden the Castilian sword. Wine and casks of brandy were stored in the cellar, and Joan had used all his youthful strength to move the barrels of Rioja up and down the ladder, relieving his father-in-law of the tasks which were becoming too strenuous for him, in much the same way he had relieved Abuelo at the bakery. Rising from the living room the steep staircase lead to the bedchambers on the upper floor, which also provided private spaces where Emilia and her children could hide away when the grief became overwhelming. Senor Dominguez was much admired for achieving such a grand home, but he never expected his dwelling to become such a centre of such grief.

  Time slowly started to heal the emotional wounds, although Joan and his memory was never far from the family’s lips. Some semblance of normality returned to the merchant’s house, which now contained all of Emilia’s children. A further ladder led up to the roof – a space which was mainly used for drying the washing, but which became a favourite place for Miquel and his brothers to sleep on hot summer nights.

  Usually, however, Miquel and his brothers slept in the large living room behind the shop, and the women and Senor Dominguez were able to sleep upstairs; Emilia returning to her old room from her younger years, and Marta enjoying the novelty of a small room of her own. The household also had the benefit of a servant, a bright young man who lived day and night in the shop.

  One evening, a stranger arrived at the wine shop asking for Miquel. The two stepped outside for a while, and then Miquel returned, looking unusually grim faced.

  “I have a chance to seek revenge for my father’s death,” he said. “There is a plot to kill King Phillip, and all of the House of Austria. Loyal Catalonians, those few of us with the courage and desire to avenge the murders, not only of our father, but the hundreds of fellow Catalans we have lost recently, have been asked to go to Madrid. This is the call. I am determined to go. You, my brothers, must help Grandfather Dominguez to run the wine shop, and my sister, I charge you with caring for our grandmothers and our mother. I alone will go, and avenge our father’s death.”

  Grandfather Dominguez, with his characteristic and unswerving Catalan loyalty, spoke first. “This is a dangerous mission, and we are l
oath to lose you, my boy. But you will go with my blessing, and that of your grandmother.”

  “And mine,” came the voice of Emilia. “There is no more noble endeavour than to seek revenge for the death of your father.”

  “And for the deaths of all loyal Catalans. We have lost so many,” said grandmother Dominguez. “God speed you.”

  “God speed you,” repeated the others.

  Asking everyone to wait, Miquel climbed down to the cool dark cellar, and swiftly pulled the mysterious bundle from behind a barrel. Upstairs, and to everyone’s horror, he appeared with the bloodied bundle. Looking around the room, he slowly unwrapped a sword. The family were silent, looking at him in confusion. With an ironic smile, he said, “You didn’t know I had this. I have been waiting for this moment. This is the sword that killed our father, and this is the sword that will kill King Philip. Now it, and I, will do our duty.”

  June 7th, 1640 would go down in Catalan history as “Corpus de Sang” - the night a band of guerillas attacked the royal family in Madrid. Where they came from nobody knew, and they melted back into the night after the bloody business. King Philip survived the attack, protected by loyal soldiers, but several of his family, members of the House of Austria, died. Each time a prince or princess was slaughtered, the murderer would dip his hand in the blood and draw the four bloody stripes of Catalunya across the victim’s face. The Castilian king could be in no doubt where the murderers came from.

  At this time, impoverished peasants from the countryside, from farms devastated by the Castilian soldiers, joined with the workers and servants of the city in a general uprising against anyone showing sympathy for the Castilians. Many were the nobles and knights who met untimely deaths. Weapons were anything to hand, and the country folk showed many grotesque and deadly skills with such tools as sickles. History would remember this chaotic time as ‘The Reaper’s War’ and it would take its place in the folklore of Catalunya, and in the history of the Blanxart family.