Cathedral of the Sea (29 page)

Father Albert said nothing. He stared at Arnau. How often had he heard those words? “I can’t,” someone would say to him, a terrified look on their face. “If it got out ...” Of course, the priest always thought on those occasions, “If it got out that I had stolen, or committed adultery, or blasphemed, then I would be arrested.” And so he had to insist, swearing that he would never tell, until they opened their conscience to God and to forgiveness.

“Would you tell me in private?” he asked.

Arnau nodded. The priest pointed to the Jesus chapel.

“The rest of you wait here,” he told them.

“It was our box that was robbed,” came a voice from behind the group of soldiers. “A
bastaix
should be present too.”

Father Albert agreed, and glanced down at Arnau.

“Ramon?” he suggested.

The boy nodded again. The three of them walked inside the chapel. Arnau immediately told them everything. He told them about Tomás the groom, his father, Grau’s purse, the baroness’s orders, the riots, the execution, the fire ... He told them about being chased, about stumbling upon the man stealing from the box, his fruitless attempt to stop him. He told them of his fear that the soldiers would find out he had Grau’s purse, or that he would be arrested for setting fire to his father’s body.

His explanations went on and on. Arnau could not give a proper description of the man who had hit him: it was too dark, he said in answer to their questions. All he remembered was that he was big and strong. Finally, the priest and the
bastaix
exchanged glances: they believed him, but how could they prove to all the people congregated outside the chapel that it had not been him? The priest looked at the Virgin, then at the forced collection box, and left the chapel.

“I think the boy is telling the truth,” he told the small crowd gathered in the ambulatory. “I don’t think he stole from the box; in fact, I think he tried to prevent the robbery.”

Ramon, who had come out of the chapel behind him, agreed.

“Well, then,” said the officer, “why can’t he answer my questions?”

“I know the reasons.” Ramon nodded agreement again. “And they are convincing ones. If anyone doesn’t believe me, let them say so now.” Nobody spoke. “Now, where are the three aldermen of the guild?” Three bastaixos stepped forward. “Each of you has a key to open the box, don’t you?” The three men agreed. “Do you swear that it has only ever been opened by all three of you together, in the presence of ten guild members, as your statutes specify?” The men swore that it had. “Do you also swear therefore that the final total in the account book should tally with what was in the box?” The three aldermen swore that too. “And you, Captain, do you solemnly swear that this was the purse the boy had on him?” The captain swore. “And that it contains as much as when you found it?”

“Now you are insulting an officer of King Alfonso!”

“Do you solemnly swear it or not?”

Some of the
bastaixos
pressed round the captain, demanding an answer.

“I swear.”

“Good,” said Father Albert. “Now I’ll go and fetch the account book for the box. If this boy is the thief, what is in the purse should match or be more than the last entry in the book. If there is less, then we ought to believe him.”

A murmur of agreement spread through the assembled bastaixos. Most of them looked at Arnau: all of them at one time or another had been given fresh water from his waterskin.

Father Albert gave the chapel keys to Ramon for him to lock the grille. Then he went to the priest’s house to find the account book, which according to the guild’s statutes had to be kept by a third person outside the association. As far as he could recall, the amount of money in the box was much greater than the sum destined by Grau as payment for his prisoners’ food. That should be irrefutable proof of Arnau’s innocence, he thought with a smile.

While Father Albert went to fetch the book, Ramon set about locking the chapel grille. As he was doing so, he saw something glint inside. He went over and, without moving it, examined the shiny object. He said nothing to anyone. He locked the grille, then rejoined the group of
bastaixos
waiting for the priest by the boy and the soldiers.

Ramon whispered something to three of them, and they immediately left the church without anyone else noticing.

“According to the account book,” Father Albert said as he showed it to the three guild aldermen, “there were seventy-four pounds and five shillings in the collection box. Now count what there is in the purse,” he said to the captain.

Even before opening it, the soldier shook his head. There was nothing like that sum inside.

“Thirteen pounds!” he declared. “But,” he shouted, “the boy’s accomplice could have run off with the rest.”

“Why would that accomplice leave thirteen pounds with Arnau then?” said one of the bastaixos.

A murmur of assent ran through the crowd.

The captain stared at all the bastaixos. He almost made the mistake of saying something hasty that he might regret, but then thought better of it. Some of the stone carriers had already gone up to Arnau, clapping him on the back and ruffling his hair.

“If it wasn’t the boy, who was it?” the captain asked.

“I think I know who it was,” came the voice of Ramon from the far side of the main altar.

Behind him, two of the
bastaixos
he had spoken to earlier were dragging in a third, stocky man.

“It would be him,” someone in the crowd agreed.

“That was the man!” shouted Arnau as soon as he saw him.

The Mallorcan had always caused trouble in the guild, until one day they discovered he had a concubine and expelled him. No
bastaix
was allowed to have a relationship with anyone other than his wife. Nor could his wife: if she did, he was also dismissed from the guild.

“What is that boy saying?” the Mallorcan protested as he was pushed into the ambulatory.

“He accuses you of having stolen the money from the
bastaixos’
collection box,” Father Albert told him.

“He’s lying!”

The priest sought out Ramon, who nodded his head slightly.

“I also accuse you!” Ramon shouted, pointing at him.

“He’s lying too!”

“You’ll get the chance to prove it in the cauldron at the Santes Creus monastery.”

A crime had been committed in a church. The Peace and Truce Charter established that innocence had to be proved by the ordeal of boiling water.

The Mallorcan went pale. The aldermen and the soldiers looked inquiringly at the priest, but he indicated that they should not say anything. In reality, the ordeal by boiling water was no longer used, but the priests often still employed the threat of plunging a suspect’s limbs into a cauldron of boiling water to obtain a confession.

Father Albert narrowed his eyes and studied the Mallorcan.

“If the boy and I are lying, I’m sure you will withstand the boiling water on your arms and legs without having to confess to any crime.”

“I’m innocent,” the Mallorcan protested.

“As I’ve told you, you’ll have the chance to prove it,” said the priest.

“And if you’re innocent,” Ramon butted in, “explain to us what your dagger was doing inside the chapel.”

The Mallorcan turned on him.

“It’s a trap!” he said quickly. “Somebody must have put it there to make me look guilty! The boy! It must have been him!”

Father Albert opened the chapel grille again, and came out carrying the dagger.

“Is this yours?” he asked, thrusting it in his face.

“No ... no.”

The guild aldermen and several bastaixos came over to the priest and asked to examine the knife.

“It is yours,” one of the aldermen said, weighing it in his hand.

Six years earlier, as a consequence of all the fights that had broken out in the port, King Alfonso banned the stone carriers and other free workmen from carrying hunting knives or other similar weapons. The only knives they could carry were blunt ones. The Mallorcan had refused to obey the order, and had often shown off his magnificent dagger to the others. It was only when he was threatened with expulsion from the guild that he had agreed to go to a blacksmith’s to have the point filed smooth.

“Liar!” one of the
bastaixos
cried.

“Thief!” shouted another.

“Someone must have stolen it to incriminate me!” the Mallorcan protested, trying to break free from the two men holding him.

It was then that the third
bastaix
who had gone with Ramon to find the Mallorcan came back. He had been to search the man’s house.

“Here it is,” he called out, waving a purse. He handed it to the priest, who passed it on to the captain.

“Seventy-four pounds and five shillings,” the captain announced after counting the coins.

As the captain was counting, the
bastaixos
had encircled the Mallorcan. They knew none among them could ever hope to have so much money! When the count was finished, they flung themselves on the thief. Insults, kicks, punches—all rained down on him. The soldiers did not intervene. The captain looked across at Father Albert and shrugged.

“This is the house of God!” shouted the priest, pushing the stone carriers away. “We’re in the house of God!” he repeated, until he was next to the Mallorcan, who was rolled up into a ball on the floor of the church. “This man is a thief, and a coward too, but he deserves a fair trial. You cannot take the law into your own hands. Take him to the bishop’s palace,” he ordered the captain.

Someone took advantage of his talking to the captain to aim one last kick at the Mallorcan. When the soldiers dragged him to his feet, others spat on him. The soldiers led him out.

AFTER THE SOLDIERS had left Santa Maria with their prisoner, the
bastaixos
came up to Arnau, smiling and apologizing. Then they gradually drifted away. Eventually, the only people left outside the Jesus chapel were Father Albert, Arnau, the three guild aldermen, and the ten witnesses called for whenever the guild’s collection box was involved.

The priest put the money back in the box. He noted what had happened that night in the account book. Day had dawned, and someone had gone to ask a locksmith to come and repair the three clasps. All of them had to wait until the box could be locked again.

Father Albert rested his hand on Arnau’s shoulder. It was only then that he remembered how he had seen him sitting beneath Bernat’s body as it dangled from a rope. He tried not to think about the fire. He was only a boy! He looked up at the Virgin. “He would have been left to rot at the city gate,” he explained to himself silently. “What does it matter? He’s only a boy, and now he has nothing: no father, no job to help feed himself ...”

“I think,” he said all of a sudden, “that you should make Arnau a member of your guild.”

Ramon smiled. He too, once things had calmed down, had been thinking about all Arnau had confessed to them. The others, including Arnau, gave the priest puzzled looks.

“But he’s only a boy,” one of the guild aldermen said.

“He’s not strong enough. How will he be able to carry sacks or stones on his back?” asked another.

“He’s very young,” insisted a third.

Arnau gazed at them all, eyes open wide.

“Everything you say is true,” the priest admitted, “but neither his size, his strength, nor his youth prevented him from defending money that was rightfully yours. But for him, your collection box would be empty.”

The
bastaixos
studied Arnau awhile longer.

“I think we could try him out,” Ramon said finally, “and if he is not up to it...”

Someone in the group agreed.

“All right,” one of the aldermen said eventually, looking across at his two companions. Neither of them demurred. “We’ll take him on trial. If he shows his worth over the next three months, we’ll accept him fully into the guild. He will be paid in proportion to the work he does. Here,” he said, handing Arnau the Mallorcan’s dagger, which he was still holding, “this can be your
bastaix
knife. Father, write that in the book too, so that the boy has no problems of any kind.”

Arnau could feel the priest’s hand gripping his shoulder. He did not know what to say, but he smiled his thanks to the stone carriers. He was a
bastaix!
If only his father could see him!