Cathedral of the Sea (41 page)

Barcelona, 1341

 

NOBLES, CHURCHMEN, AND representatives from the free cities of the principality of Catalonia-the three branches that made up the parliament-had congregated in Barcelona. They filled the city streets with their colorful attire: silks from Almeria, Alexandria, and Damascus; wool from England or Brussels; lace from Flanders, Mechlin, and Orlanda; and the fabulous black linen from Byssus, all of their garments shot through with threads of gold or silver in the most exquisite designs.

Yet Jaime of Mallorca had not arrived. For several days now, boatmen, bastaixos, and all the other port workers had been on standby in case the king of Mallorca appeared. The port of Barcelona was not prepared for the arrival of such great figures: they could hardly be carried from the lowly craft that went out to meet the big ships in the same way the merchants were, in order not to get their clothes wet. Instead, whenever someone important came to Barcelona, the boatmen lined up their craft from the shore to well into the sea, and built a temporary bridge over them to allow kings and princes to disembark with the required dignity.

The
bastaixos,
including Arnau, had already brought all the necessary planks of wood down to the beach. Like many of the inhabitants of Barcelona and members of the parliament who had congregated on the shore, they scanned the horizon for a glimpse of the lord of Mallorca’s galleys. Everyone was talking about what was going on: the king of Mallorca’s request for aid and King Pedro’s ruse were common knowledge.

“It seems to me,” Arnau said one morning to Father Albert as he was tidying up the candles in the Holy Eucharist chapel, “that if the entire city is aware of what King Pedro is proposing, then King Jaime must know as well: so why would he come?”

“He will not come,” replied the priest, without pausing in his tasks in the chapel.

“What will happen then?” Arnau looked at the priest, who stopped and shrugged nervously.

“I am afraid Catalonia will embark on a war against Mallorca.”

“Another war?”

“Yes. Everybody knows how much King Pedro wishes to reunite the ancient Catalan kingdoms that Jaime the First divided among his heirs. Ever since then, the kings of Mallorca have constantly betrayed the Catalans. It was scarcely fifty years ago that Pedro the Great had to defeat the armies of France and Mallorca at the Col de Panissars. After that victory, he went on to conquer Mallorca, Roussillon, and the Cerdagne, only to be ordered to return them to Jaime the Second by the pope.” The priest turned to face Arnau. “There is going to be war, Arnau. I don’t know when or with what excuse, but there is going to be war.”

Jaime of Mallorca did not appear before the Barcelona parliament. The king allowed him a further three days, but at the end of that time there was still no sight of his galleys in the port of Barcelona.

“There you have the excuse,” Father Albert told Arnau when they met again in the chapel. “I still do not know when, but now there is the excuse.”

When the sessions of parliament had concluded, King Pedro began the legal process to try his vassal for disobedience. He added the accusation that Catalan money was being minted in the territories of Roussillon and the Cerdagne, whereas the royal currency could by right be struck only in Barcelona.

Jaime of Mallorca still did not comply, but the trial, headed by the magistrate of Barcelona, Arnau d’Erill, and assisted by Felip de Montroig and the royal vice chancellor, Arnau Camorera, took place in his absence. Soon, however, the king of Mallorca grew concerned when his envoys informed him of what the outcome could be: the requisition of all his kingdoms and territories. He then turned to the king of France, to whom he paid homage, and to the pope, for them to intercede on his behalf with his brother-in-law King Pedro.

The holy pontiff took his side, and asked King Pedro for a safe conduct for Jaime and his followers to come to Barcelona to present his apologies and to defend himself against the accusations. The king could not go against the pope’s wishes, and so granted Jaime the safe conduct, although he also made sure he sent word to Valencia for them to dispatch four galleys under the command of Mateu Mercer to keep watch on the king of Mallorca’s fleet.

WHEN THE SAILS of the king of Mallorca’s galleys appeared on the horizon, all Barcelona rushed down to the port. The squadron under Mateu Mercer was waiting for them, just as heavily armed. The Barcelona magistrate, Arnau d’Erill, ordered the port workers to start building the pontoon bridge: the boatmen lined up their vessels, and the
bastaixos
began laying the planks over them.

As soon as the king of Mallorca’s ships had dropped anchor, the remaining boatmen sailed out to the royal galley.

“What’s going on?” asked one of the bastaixos when he saw the royal standard still flying from the ship and only one nobleman disembarking from it.

Arnau and all his companions were already soaked. They all looked across the beach at the magistrate, who in turn was staring at the small boat now approaching the shore.

Just one person made use of the bridge they had constructed: Viscount Èvol, a nobleman from Roussillon. He was richly attired and armed, and instead of stepping down onto the beach, he remained standing at the end of the wooden planks.

The magistrate went to meet him. From the sandy shore, he listened to what Lord Èvol had to say. The others could see Èvol pointing toward Framenors, and then back at the king of Mallorca’s galleys. When the two men had finished talking, the viscount returned to the royal galley, while the magistrate headed up into the city. Soon afterward the magistrate returned, with instructions from King Pedro.

“King Jaime of Mallorca,” he shouted for everyone on the beach to hear, “and his wife, Constanza, queen of Mallorca and sister of our beloved King Pedro, intend to stay in Framenors convent. A fixed wooden bridge, with a roof and covered-in sides, is to be built from where his ships are anchored to the royal apartments.”

At this, a murmur of protest spread along the shore, but the magistrate stifled it with a stern gesture. Most of the workmen turned to look at the convent of Framenors, perched on the edge of the sea.

“This is madness,” Arnau heard one of his companions mutter.

“If a storm blows up,” another one said, “the bridge will never withstand it.”

A bridge with a roof and covered-in sides! Why on earth would the king of Mallorca demand something like that?

Arnau turned back toward the magistrate, and saw Berenguer de Montagut arriving on the beach. Arnau d’Erill pointed to the Framenors convent, then with his right hand drew an imaginary line out into the sea.

All the
bastaixos,
boatmen, ships’ carpenters, caulkers, oarsmen, smiths, and rope-makers stood silently as the magistrate finished his explanation and the master builder considered the problem.

The king gave orders to suspend all work on Santa Maria and the cathedral : all the laborers were transferred to building the new bridge. Berenguer de Montagut oversaw the dismantling of part of the scaffolding round the church, and that same morning the
bastaixos
started carrying material over to Framenors.

“This is nonsense,” Arnau complained to Ramon as the two of them were carrying a heavy tree trunk. “We break our backs carrying stones down to Santa Maria, and now here we are undoing our work on the church, and all at the whim—”

“Be quiet!” Ramon urged him. “We’re following the king’s orders; he must know what he is doing.”

The king of Mallorca’s galleys—still closely watched by the ones from Valencia—were rowed across to Framenors, where they anchored at a considerable distance from the shore. Workmen and carpenters began to put up scaffolding round the façade of the convent, then extended it down toward the shore. The bastaixos and anyone without a precise task to fulfill went back and forth carrying tree trunks and planks for the bridge itself.

Work ended at nightfall. Arnau came home exhausted.

“Our king has never demanded anything so crazy; he is happy to come ashore using the traditional bridge we build over the small craft. Why should we allow a traitor to do as he wishes?”

His protests and grumbling gradually ceased as he felt Maria’s hands gently massaging his shoulders.

“Your wounds are getting better,” said his young wife. “Some people use ointment with geranium and raspberry, but in our family we’ve always preferred heartsease. My grandmother treated my grandfather with it. My mother did the same for my father ...”

Arnau closed his eyes. Heartsease? He had not seen Aledis for days. That was the only reason his back was getting better!

“Why are you tensing your muscles?” Maria reproached him, interrupting his thoughts. “Relax: you need to relax so that ...”

He still paid her little attention. Why should he? Relax so that she could treat the wounds another woman had made? If only she would get angry with him ...

But instead of shouting at him, that night Maria gave herself to him again: she sought him out and gently embraced him. Aledis had no idea what it meant to be gentle. They fornicated like animals! Arnau let Maria wrap her arms round him, keeping his eyes tightly shut. How could he look at her? The young girl caressed his body ... and his soul. She brought him pleasure so intense it became a torment.

At dawn the next day, Arnau got up to set off for Framenors. Maria was already downstairs, by the kitchen fire, preparing his breakfast.

Throughout the three days that it took to build the bridge down from the convent, no member of the king of Mallorca’s court left their galleys, nor did anyone from the Valencian fleet. When the construction from the convent reached the water’s edge, the
bastaixos
formed into groups to transport the material for the rest of the bridge. Arnau worked ceaselessly: if he stopped, he knew he would only feel Maria’s hands caressing him, and that would bring back memories of how a few days earlier Aledis had bitten and scratched the same body.

Now their task was to lower piles into the water from small boats between the shore and the galleys. Berenguer de Montagut again took personal charge of the operation. He stood in the prow of a catboat, peering down over the side to make sure the wooden piles were set firmly in the sea bottom before any weight was put on them.

On the third day, a new wooden bridge more than fifty yards long filled the horizon of the port of Barcelona. The royal galley came alongside it, and a short while later, Arnau and all the others who had built the bridge heard the king and his court walking along the wooden boards; many of them looked up.

When they were safely installed in Framenors, Jaime sent a messenger to King Pedro to tell him that the rigors of the sea crossing had affected both him and Queen Constanza, and that in consequence his sister begged King Pedro to come and visit her in the convent. As King Pedro was preparing to do so, the infante Don Pedro appeared before him, accompanied by a young Franciscan friar.

“What do you have to tell me, Friar?” said the king, visibly annoyed at this delay of the visit to his sister.

Joan bent over until the fact that he was almost a head taller than the monarch lost all importance. “The king is very short,” he had been told, “and he never receives his subjects standing up.” The two men were on their feet now, however, and the king’s gaze was piercing.

Joan was lost for words.

“Tell him,” the infante urged him.

Joan broke into a sweat, and could feel the rough cloth of his habit sticking to his body. What if it were not true? The thought occurred to him for the first time. He had heard it from an old friar who had disembarked with the king of Mallorca, and had not hesitated a moment. He had come running to the royal palace, struggled with the guard because Joan had refused to give the message to anyone but the king himself, had relented when he saw the infante Don Pedro, but now ... What if it were not true? What if it were just another of the king of Mallorca’s ruses?

“Well, come on, out with it!” the king shouted.

“Your Majesty, you should not go and visit your sister Queen Constanza. It’s a trap laid by King Jaime of Mallorca. With the excuse that his wife is so ill and weak, he has instructed the usher at the door to her apartment not to let anyone but you and the infantes Don Pedro and Don Jaime in. Nobody else is to have access to the queen’s chamber; but inside twelve armed men will be waiting to seize you, take you down the covered bridge, and onto the king’s galley. Then you will be taken to the island of Mallorca and the castle of Alaró. The plan is to keep you prisoner until you set King Jaime free from his vassalage and grant him fresh lands in Catalonia.”

He had done it!

The king narrowed his eyes, and asked: “And how does a young friar like you come to know all this?”

“I heard it from Brother Berenguer, a relative of yours.”

“Brother Berenguer?”