Arnau’s heart started to pound. What was going on? The watchman was meant to look after Santa Maria. Why would anyone ... ? The Virgin! The Jesus chapel! The bastaixos’ collection box!
Arnau did not think twice. His father had been executed; he could not allow anyone to bring dishonor to his mother. He crept into Santa Maria through the boarded-up doorway and headed for the ambulatory. The Jesus chapel was on his left between two buttresses. He walked round the church and hid behind one of the columns near the main altar. He could hear sounds coming from the Jesus chapel, but as yet could not see anything. He slid to the next column. From there he could see into the chapel, which as usual was lit by dozens of candles.
A man was climbing out over the chapel railings. Arnau looked at the Virgin: everything seemed to be all right. What was going on? He scanned the interior of the chapel: the collection box had been forced open. As the thief continued to climb over the iron grille, Arnau could almost hear the clink of coins the bastaixos dropped into the box in aid of their orphans and widows.
“Thief!” he shouted, lunging at the iron railings and striking the man on the chest. Taken by surprise, the thief fell to the floor. He had no time to think. The man leapt to his feet and delivered a tremendous punch to Arnau’s face. Arnau crashed to the floor of Santa Maria.
17
“HE MUST HAVE fallen trying to escape after he had robbed the bastaixos’ collection box,” said one of the king’s guards standing next to Arnau, who was still unconscious. Father Albert shook his head. How could Arnau have done such a terrible thing? The bastaixos’ collection box, in the Jesus chapel, underneath the statue of his Virgin! The soldiers had come to tell him a couple of hours before dawn.
“That cannot be true,” he told himself.
“Yes, Father,” the captain insisted. “The boy was carrying this purse,” he added, showing him the bag with the money Grau had given Bernat to pay for his prisoners. “What’s a young lad like him doing with so much money?”
“And look at his face,” another soldier said. “Why would he smear his face with mud if he wasn’t planning to steal something?”
Staring at the purse the officer was holding up, Father Albert shook his head again. What could Arnau have been doing there at this time of night? Where had he got the money?
“What are you doing?” he asked the soldiers, who were busy lifting Arnau from the floor.
“Taking him to prison.”
“No, you aren’t,” he heard himself say.
Perhaps... perhaps there was an explanation for all this. It was impossible that Arnau had tried to steal from the bastaixos’ collection box. Not Arnau.
“He’s a thief, Father.”
“That’s for a court to decide.”
“And that’s what will happen,” said the captain as his men supported Arnau under the arms. “But he can wait for the judgment in jail.”
“If he goes to any jail, it will be the bishop’s,” said the priest. “The crime was committed on holy ground. Therefore it is under ecclesiastical jurisdiction, not that of the city magistrate.”
The captain looked at his soldiers and Arnau. Shrugging his shoulders, he ordered them to release him, which they did by simply letting him go and allowing him to fall to the ground again. A cynical smile spread across the captain’s face when he saw how the youngster’s face struck the paving stones.
Father Albert glared at them.
“Bring him round,” he ordered, taking out the keys to the chapel. He opened the grille and stepped inside. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
He went over to the collection box. He saw that the three clasps had been broken. It was empty. There was nothing else missing in the chapel, and nothing had been destroyed. “What happened, Our Lady?” he asked the Virgin silently. “How could you allow Arnau to do something like this?” He heard the soldiers splashing water on the boy’s face, and reappeared outside the chapel just as several bastaixos who had heard about the robbery came rushing into the church.
The freezing water brought Arnau round. He looked up and saw he was surrounded by soldiers. In his mind, he heard the spear whistling past his head in Calle Boria once again. He was running in front of them: how had they managed to catch him? Had he stumbled? The soldiers’ faces bent toward him. His father! His body was burning! He had to escape! Arnau struggled to his feet and tried to push one of them off, but they easily succeeded in pinioning him.
Dejected, Father Albert saw how Arnau was trying to wriggle free from the soldiers.
“Do you need to hear any more, Father?” the officer growled. “Isn’t this confession enough?” he insisted, pointing at Arnau.
Father Albert raised his hands to his face and sighed. He walked slowly over to where the soldiers were holding Arnau.
“Why did you do it?” he asked when he came up to them. “You know that box belongs to your friends the bastaixos. They use the money to help the widows and orphans of their guilds, or to pay for the burial of any member who dies. It’s also for works of charity, and to decorate the Virgin, your mother, with candles that are always alight. So why did you do it, Arnau?”
Seeing the priest reassured Arnau: but what was he doing there? The bastaixos’ collection box! The thief! He remembered being punched, but then what? Wide-eyed, he looked around him. Beyond the soldiers, countless faces that he knew were waiting for his answer. He recognized Ramon and little Ramon, Pere, Jaume, Joan—who was trying to see more by standing on tiptoe—Sebastia and his son Bastianet, and many more he had given water to and with whom he had shared unforgettable moments when the Barcelona host had marched on Creixell. So that was it! He was being accused of the robbery!
“It wasn’t me ... ,” he muttered.
The king’s captain held up Grau’s purse. Arnau felt on his belt for where it should have been. He had not wanted to leave it under his mattress in case the baroness reported them to the authorities and accused Joan, and now ... Damn Grau! Damn the purse!
“Is this what you’re looking for?” the captain said.
Arnau defended himself. “It wasn’t me, Father.”
The captain guffawed, and the soldiers joined in the laughter.
“Ramon, it wasn’t me. I swear it,” Arnau insisted, staring directly at the bastaix.
“What were you doing here so late at night then? Where did you get that money? Why did you try to run away? Why is your face covered in mud?”
Arnau felt his face: it was caked with mud.
The purse! The king’s officer was continually waving it in front of his eyes. More and more bastaixos kept arriving, and remarking on what had happened. Arnau watched the purse swinging. That damned purse! He spoke imploringly to Father Albert.
“There was a man,” he said. “I tried to stop him but couldn’t. He was very big and strong.”
The captain’s incredulous laugh echoed once more round the ambulatory.
“Arnau,” the priest said, “just answer the captain’s questions.”
“No ... I can’t,” Arnau admitted, producing more hilarity among the soldiers, and consternation among the bastaixos.
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 n
odded 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 announce
d 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.