Cathedral of the Sea (75 page)

A blasphemous woman, a lecherous man, and a Devil worshipper. “At dawn I shall have you,” he muttered. Could it be true about the Devil worshipper? He had heard similar accusations, but only one had borne fruit. Could it be true this time? How was he going to prove it?

He felt weary, and returned to the pallet to close his eyes. A Devil worshipper...

“Do YOU SWEAR on the four Gospels?” Joan asked as the light of dawn began to filter through the window on the ground floor of the house.

The man nodded.

“I know you have sinned,” said Joan.

Flanked by two tall soldiers, the man who had bought a moment’s pleasure from the young widow turned pale. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“What is your name?”

“Gaspar.”

“I know you have sinned, Gaspar,” said Joan.

The man stammered: “I ... I ...”

“Confess!” said Joan, raising his voice.

“I...”

“Flog him until he confesses!” shouted Joan, thumping the table with both fists.

One of the soldiers moved his hand to his belt, where a leather whip was hanging. The man fell to his knees in front of the table where Joan and the scribe were sitting.

“No. I beg you. Don’t flog me.”

“Confess.”

With the whip still rolled up in his hand, the soldier pushed him in the back.

“Confess!” cried Joan.

“It ... it isn’t my fault. It’s that woman. She has bewitched me,” the man said in a sudden rush. “Her husband no longer possesses her.” Joan did not react. “She seeks me out; she pursues me. We have done it only a few times, but... but I will never do it again. I will never see her again. I swear it.”

“Have you fornicated with her?”

“Ye ... yes.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know ...”

“Four times? Five? Ten?”

“Four. Yes. That’s right. Four times.”

“What is the name of this woman?”

The scribe wrote it down.

“What other sins have you committed?”

“No ... nothing more, I swear.”

“Do not swear oaths in vain,” said Joan with slow emphasis. “Whip him.”

After ten lashes, the man confessed to fornicating with the woman and with several prostitutes when he went to market at Puigcerdà. He also confessed to having blasphemed, lied, and committed an endless number of minor sins. After a further five lashes he remembered the young widow.

“I have your confession,” Joan declared. “Tomorrow you are to be in the square to hear my
sermo generalis,
when I will tell you what your punishment is to be.”

The man did not even have time to protest before he was dragged out of the room on his knees by the soldiers.

Marta, Peregrina’s sister-in-law, confessed without any need to threaten her further. Joan ordered her to appear in the square the next day, then urged the scribe to move on to the next case.

“Bring in Anton Sinom,” the scribe told the captain, reading from his list.

As soon as he saw the Devil worshipper enter the room, Joan sat upright in his hard wooden chair. The man’s hooked nose, his high forehead, those dark eyes of his...

He wanted to hear his voice.

“Do you swear on the four Gospels?”

“I do.”

“What is your name?” asked Joan, even before the man was standing in front of him.

“Anton Sinom.”

The small, slightly stooped man answered his question flanked by two soldiers who towered over him. Joan was quick to catch the note of resignation in his voice.

“Has that always been your name?”

Anton Sinom hesitated. Joan waited.

“People here have always known me by that name,” Sinom said finally.

“And elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere I had another name.”

Joan and Anton stared at each other. The little man did not lower his eyes.

“Was it a Christian one?”

Anton shook his head. Joan suppressed a smile. How should he start? By saying that he knew the man had sinned? This converted Jew would not fall for that. No one in the village had discovered his secret; if they had, there would have been more than one accusation against him. Converted Jews were often a target. This Sinom must be clever. Joan regarded him for a few moments while he thought about it: What could this man be hiding? Why did he keep a light on at night in his house?

Joan stood up and went outside; neither the scribe nor the soldiers made a move to follow him. As he shut the door behind him, the curious onlookers who had gathered outside the building froze. Joan ignored them and spoke to the guard captain: “Is the family of the man inside here?”

The captain pointed to a woman and two children who were staring in their direction. There was something ...

“What does this man do for a living? What is his house like? What did he do when you told him to appear before the tribunal?”

“He’s a baker,” replied the soldier. “He has his shop on the ground floor of his house. What’s that like? It’s normal enough, it’s clean. But we didn’t see him to tell him to appear. We talked to his wife.”

“Wasn’t he in the bakery?”

“No.”

“Did you go at first light as I ordered?”

“Yes, Brother Joan.”

“Some nights he wakes me up ... ,” his neighbor had said. “He wakes me up.” A baker ... a baker has to get up before dawn. “Don’t you sleep, Sinom? If you have to get up before dawn ...” Joan thought. Joan looked across again at the convert’s family, who were standing slightly apart from the others. He walked round in circles for a moment or two, then plunged back inside the house. The scribe, soldiers, and Sinom had not moved from where he had left them.

“Take his clothes off,” he ordered the soldiers.

“I am circumcised. I’ve already admitted—”

“Take his clothes off!”

The soldiers turned to Sinom, but before they even laid their hands on him, the look the converted Jew gave Joan convinced him he was right.

“Now,” said Joan once Sinom was completely naked, “what do you have to say to me?”

The convert tried as best he could to maintain his composure.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“I mean,” said Joan, lowering his voice and emphasizing each word as he said it, “that your face and neck are dirty, but from the chest down, your skin is white. I mean that your hands and wrists are dirty, but your forearms are spotless. I mean that your feet and ankles are dirty, but your legs are clean.”

“Dirty where I wear no clothes, clean where I do,” Sinom countered.

“Not even flour, and you a baker? Would you have me believe that the clothes a baker wears protect him completely from flour? Would you have me believe that you work in the same clothes you wear to protect yourself from the winter cold? Where is the flour on your arms? Today is Monday, Sinom. Did you keep God’s day holy?”

“Yes.”

Joan thumped the table and rose from his chair.

“But you also purified yourself according to your heretic rites!” he shouted, pointing straight at him.

“No!” groaned Sinom.

“We shall see, Sinom, we shall see. Lock him up and bring me his wife and children.”

“No!” begged Sinom as the soldiers dragged him out toward the cellar. “They have nothing to do with this.”

“Stop!” Joan ordered. The soldiers halted, and turned their prisoner to face the inquisitor once more. “What do they have nothing to do with, Sinom? What do they have nothing to do with?”

Trying to save his family, Sinom confessed. When he had finished, Joan ordered his arrest... and that of his family. Then he ordered the others brought in.

JOAN WENT OUT into the square before first light.

“Does he never sleep?” asked one of the soldiers between yawns.

“No,” another one answered. “He’s often heard pacing up and down his room all night.”

The two soldiers looked at Joan, who was busy preparing everything for his final sermon. His threadbare black habit was so stiff with dirt it seemed unwilling to follow his movements.

“But if he doesn’t sleep and doesn’t eat... ,” said the first soldier.

“He lives on hatred,” said the captain, who had overheard them talking.

At first light, the villagers began to file into the square. The accused were led to the front by the soldiers: among them was Alfons, the nine-year-old boy.

Joan began the auto-de-fé. The village authorities came to pledge their oath of obedience to the Inquisition, and to swear they would see that the sentences were carried out. Those who had appeared before Joan during the period of grace were given lesser punishments: to make a pilgrimage to Girona cathedral. Alfons was sentenced to help the neighbor he had stolen from for free one day a week for a month. When the scribe read Gaspar’s testimony, he was interrupted by a man shouting:

“Whore!” A man in the crowd threw himself on the woman who had fornicated with Gaspar. The soldiers moved in to protect her. “So that was the sin you would not tell me?” he went on shouting behind the line of soldiers.

As soon as the wronged husband had fallen silent, Joan read out the sentence:

“Every Sunday for the next three years, wearing the cloak of repentance, you will kneel outside the church from sunup to sunset. As for you... ,” he began, turning to the woman.

“I claim the right to punish her,” cried the husband.

Joan looked at her. “Do you have any children?” he almost asked her. What had they done wrong to have to talk to her from on top of a crate outside a tiny window, their only consolation that of feeling a hand stroke their hair? But the man had a right to ...

“As for you,” he repeated, “I hand you over to the lay authorities, who will see to it that the laws of Catalonia are respected, as your husband requests.”

Joan continued to pass sentence and hand out punishments.

“Anton Sinom. You and your family are to be put at the disposition of the inquisitor general.”

“LET’S GO,” JOAN ordered after loading all his scant belongings on a mule.

Joan took one last look at the village. He could hear his own words still echoing around the small square; later that day they would arrive at another one, and then another, and still another. “And in each of them,” thought Joan, “the people will stare at me and listen fearfully to my sermon. Then they will accuse one another, and their sins will come out. And I shall have to investigate everything. I shall have to interpret the way they move, their expressions, their silences, their feelings, in order to uncover sin.”

“Hurry up, Captain. I want to arrive before noon.”