Cathedral of the Sea (40 page)

Aledis was trembling too.

Her taste, her body ... her desire.

Neither of them said anything more.

That night, Aledis did not go down to spy on the apprentices.

I
T WAS ALMOST two months since Maria and Arnau had been married in Santa Maria de la Mar. The ceremony had been led by Father Albert, and all the members of the guild of bastaixos had been present, as well as Pere and Mariona, and Joan, who already had the tonsure and the white habit of the Franciscan order. With the promise of increased payments after his marriage, Arnau and his wife chose a house down by the beach. Maria’s family and all the many others who wanted to contribute helped them furnish it: Arnau did not have to do a thing. House, furniture, crockery, linen—all appeared thanks to the efforts of Maria and her mother, who insisted he do nothing. On their wedding night, Maria gave herself to him willingly, even though with little passion. When Arnau woke at dawn the next morning, his breakfast was waiting for him: eggs, milk, salt meat, bread. The same scene was repeated at midday, and that evening, and the next day, and the one after that: Maria always had Arnau’s food on the table. She also took his shoes off, washed him, and helped treat any cuts or wounds he might have. She was always willing in bed. Day after day, Arnau found everything a man could want: food, cleanliness, obedience, care and attention, and the body of a young, attractive woman. Yes, Arnau. No, Arnau. Maria never argued with him. If he wanted a candle, Maria dropped whatever she was doing to fetch him one. If he complained, she smothered him in kisses. Whenever he breathed, Maria ran to bring him air.

The rain was pouring down. The sky suddenly darkened, and flashes of lightning pierced the dark clouds, lighting up the stormy sea. Soaked to the skin, Arnau and Bartolomé were standing on the beach. All the ships had left the dangerous open port of Barcelona to seek refuge in Salou. The royal quarry was shut. There would be no work for the
bastaixos
that day.

“How are things with you, my boy?” Bartolomé asked his son-in-law.

“Good, very good ... except...”

“Is there a problem?”

“It’s just that ... I’m not used to being treated as well as Maria treats me.”

“That was what we brought her up to do,” said Bartolomé proudly.

“But it’s too ...”

“I said you would not regret marrying her.” Bartolomé looked at Arnau. “You’ll get used to it. Enjoy the love of a good woman.”

They were still discussing the matter when they came to Calle de las Dames, a small side street that gave onto the beach. They saw a group of about twenty poor-looking women, young and old, pretty and ugly, healthy and sick, walking up and down in the rain.

“Do you see them?” asked Bartolomé, pointing in their direction. “Do you know what they are waiting for?” Arnau shook his head. “On stormy days like today, when the fishing boat captains who are not married have done all they can to stay afloat, when they have commended their souls to all the saints and virgins in the Church and still cannot ride out the storm, they have only one other choice. Their crews know it and demand they keep the tradition. In his moment of despair, a captain must swear to God in front of his crew that if they reach port safely he will marry the first woman he sets eyes on as soon as he steps on dry land. Do you understand, Arnau?” Arnau looked more closely at the group of women pacing nervously up and down the street, staring out to sea. “That’s what women are born for: to get married, to serve their man. That was how we brought Maria up, and that’s how we gave her to you.”

The days went by, with Maria utterly devoted to Arnau, while he could think only of Aledis.

“Those stones will ruin your back,” said Maria as she massaged him and applied ointment to a wound Arnau had near his shoulder blade.

Arnau said nothing.

“Tonight I’ll check your headpiece. It can’t fit properly if the stones cut into you like that.”

Arnau still said nothing. He had returned home after dark. Maria had helped him off with his footwear, served him a cup of wine, and forced him to sit down while she massaged his back, in the same way she had seen her mother do for her father all through her childhood. As always, Arnau let her get on with it. If he said nothing, it was because the wound had nothing to do with the stones for the Virgin, or with his headpiece. His wife was caring for a wound that shamed him, a wound made by the nails of another woman, a woman Arnau could not renounce.

“Those stones will destroy all your backs,” Maria repeated.

Arnau drank down the wine in one gulp, feeling Maria’s hands gently rubbing his shoulders.

EVER SINCE HER husband had brought her down to the workshop to see the punishment he had meted out to the apprentice who had dared look at her, Aledis did no more than spy on the young men at night. She discovered that they often slipped out into the garden, where they met women who climbed over the wall to be with them. The apprentices had the leather, the tools, and the knowledge to make themselves thin sheaths, which they greased and put on their penises before they penetrated any of the women. The guarantee that they would not become pregnant, added to the youthful vigor of their partners and the darkness of the night, meant that many local women succumbed to the temptation of an anonymous nocturnal adventure. Aledis had no difficulty getting into the apprentices’ sleeping area and stealing some of these ingenious sheaths; the lack of any risk in her relations with Arnau served only to inflame her passion still further.

Aledis told him that with these sheaths they would not have children. Could it be the grease from them that stuck to his penis? Was it a punishment for going against divine law? Maria was still not pregnant. She was a strong, healthy young woman. What other reason apart from Arnau’s sins could there be for her not being with child? Why else would the Lord not reward her with the offspring she so desired? Bartolomé needed a grandson. Father Albert and Joan both wanted to see Arnau a father. The entire guild of
bastaixos
was waiting for the moment when the young couple would announce the good news: the men joked about it with Arnau; their wives visited Maria to offer their advice and to extol the virtues of family life.

Arnau also wanted a son.

“I don’t want you to put that on me,” he said to Aledis one day when she pounced on him on the way up to the quarry.

Aledis would not listen.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “Before that happens, I would leave the old man and come and find you. Then everyone would know what had gone on between us. It would mean your downfall: they would expel you from the guild, and probably from the city as well. Then you would have only me; I would be the only one willing to follow you. My life makes no sense without you: otherwise I’m condemned to live my days alongside an old, obsessed man who cannot satisfy me in any way.”

“You would see me ruined? Why would you do that?”

“Because I know that deep down you love me,” Aledis said firmly. “In fact, I would only be helping you take a step you’re too frightened to take on your own.”

Hidden among the bushes on the slopes of Montjuic hill, Aledis slid the sheath onto her lover’s penis. Arnau let her do it. Was what she had said true? Was it true that deep down he wanted to live with her, to abandon his wife and all he had in order to run away with her? If only his body were not so pleased to be with her ... What charms did she have that so completely undermined his willpower? Arnau thought of telling her the story of Joan’s mother, and of the possibility that if their relationship became known, her husband could have her walled up for the rest of her days. Instead, he climbed on top of her ... yet again. Aledis panted as he thrust into her, but all he could hear was his own fears: Maria, his work, the guild, Joan, disgrace, Maria, his Virgin, Maria, his Virgin ...

S
EATED ON THE royal throne, King Pedro raised his hand. To his right stood the infantes Don Pedro and Don Jaime; on his left were the count of Terranova and Father Ot de Montcada. The king waited for the rest of the council to fall silent. They were in the great chamber of the royal palace at Valencia, where they had received Pere Ramon de Codoler, steward and messenger from King Jaime of Mallorca. According to Ramon de Codoler, the king of Mallorca, count of Roussillon and Cerdagne, and lord of Montpellier, had resolved because of the constant affronts the French had committed against him to declare war on the king of France, and as a loyal vassal of King Pedro’s, he called on him to present himself at the head of the Catalan armies at Perpignan on the twenty-first of April of the following year, 1341, to support and defend him in that war.

King Pedro and his council had been studying the request all morning. If they did not respond to the king of Mallorca’s call, he would renounce his vassalage and be free of all obligations. But if they did respond-everyone was agreed on this-they would be falling into a trap; as soon as the Catalan forces entered Perpignan, Jaime would take sides with the king of France against them.

When there was silence in the hall, the king spoke:

“You have all been considering this matter, and trying to find a way to refuse the request the king of Mallorca has made. I think I have found the answer: we shall go to Barcelona and call our parliament. Then we shall require the king of Mallorca to come to Barcelona to attend the sessions on the twenty-fifth of March, as is his duty. What can happen? Either he comes, or he does not. If he comes, he will have fulfilled his obligations, and we will do the same ...” At this, some of the royal councillors stirred uneasily: if the king of Mallorca came to Barcelona, then there would be war against France—at the same time Catalonia was fighting Genoa! One of them even raised his voice to protest, but Pedro lifted his hand again to calm him, and smiled before going on to say: “By asking the advice of our vassals, who will be the ones to make the final decision.” Some of the councillors smiled with the king; others nodded their agreement. The Catalan parliament held authority over decisions such as whether or not to start a war. It would therefore not be the king who was refusing to come to the aid of the king of Mallorca, but the Catalan parliament. “If he does not appear,” Pedro went on, “he will have broken the terms of his vassalage. In that case, we will have no obligation to help him, or to get mixed up in his war against the king of France.”