“I don’t give you the authority. I beg you to do it, Guillem.”
Discreetly, Guillem began to use his knowledge and all the contacts he had acquired over years of doing business in Barcelona. The fact that the son, Don Genis, had been forced to take up one of the special loans reserved for the nobility meant that his father could no longer meet the costs of going to war. Those soft loans, thought Guillem, still meant a high rate of interest had to be paid: they were the only ones where Christians could lend money with interest. Why would a father accept that his son paid interest unless he himself did not have the capital? And what about Isabel? That harpy who had destroyed Arnau’s father and Arnau himself, who had forced Arnau to crawl on his knees to kiss her feet, how could she accept something like that?
Over the next few months, Guillem cast his nets wide. He talked to friends, to anyone who owed him favors, and sent messages to all his agents: What kind of situation was Grau Puig, the Catalan baron and merchant, really in? What did they know about him, his business affairs, his finances... his solvency?
As the seagoing season was coming to an end, and ships were heading back to the port of Barcelona, Guillem started to receive replies to his inquiries. Invaluable information! One night, after they had closed the countinghouse, Guillem remained seated at the table.
“I have things to do,” he told Arnau.
“What things?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
The next morning as the two men sat at the counting table before breakfast, the Moor said to Arnau: “Grau Puig is in desperate straits.” Was that another gleam in Arnau’s eye? “All the money changers and merchants I’ve talked to are agreed: his fortune has been swallowed up—”
“Perhaps it’s only malicious gossip,” Arnau said, interrupting him.
“Wait, look at this.” Guillem handed him his agents’ letters. “Here’s the proof. Grau Puig is in the hands of the Lombards.”
Arnau thought about what that meant: the Lombards were money changers and merchants, agents of the big banking concerns in Florence and Pisa. They were a tight-knit group who always looked after their own interests; their members dealt with one another or with their headquarters. They had a monopoly on the trade in luxury cloths: woolen fleeces, silks, brocades, Florentine taffeta, Pisan veils, and many other goods. The Lombards helped no one, and allowed others to have a part of their trade only so as not to be expelled from Catalonia. It was never a good idea to be in their hands. Arnau glanced at the letters, then dropped them on the table.
“What are you suggesting?”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want: his ruin!”
“They say that Grau Puig is an old man now, and it is his wife and children who run his business affairs. Just imagine! His finances are precarious: if any venture failed, everything would come crashing down, and he would not be able to pay his debts. He would lose everything.”
“Buy up their debts,” said Arnau coldly, without moving a muscle. “Do it discreetly. I want to be their chief creditor, but I don’t want anyone to know. Make sure one of his ventures does fail... No, not one,” said Arnau, correcting himself, “all of them!” he said, thumping the table so hard even the heavy ledgers shook. “As many as you can,” he said more calmly. “I don’t want them to escape me.”
AT THE HEAD of his fleet, King Pedro the Third returned victorious to Barcelona after conquering Sardinia. The whole of the city rushed down to the beach to receive him. As everyone cheered, the king disembarked on a special wooden bridge built in front of Framenors convent. His retinue of nobles and soldiers also came ashore to a Barcelona willing and ready to celebrate his victory over the Sardinians.
Arnau and Guillem shut the countinghouse and went down to the beach along with all the others. Then Mar joined them to help celebrate in honor of the king: they sang and danced, listened to troubadours, ate sweetmeats, and then, as the sun was setting and the September night air began to grow cool, they returned home.
“Donaha!” shouted Mar as soon as Arnau opened the front door.
Still bubbling with emotion from the celebrations, the girl ran into the house, still shouting for Donaha. But when she reached the kitchen doorway, she suddenly came to a halt. Arnau and Guillem looked at each other. What was going on? Had something happened to Donaha?
They ran to Mar’s side.
“What is... ?” Arnau started to ask.
“Arnau, I don’t think all this shouting is the proper way to receive someone you haven’t seen in such a long time.” He heard a male voice that sounded familiar to him.
Arnau had been pushing Mar out of the way, but stood rooted to the spot when he heard these words.
“Joan!” he cried after a few moments’ pause.
Mar watched as he went into the kitchen, arms open wide, to greet the figure in black who had so frightened her. Guillem put his arm round her.
“It’s his brother,” he whispered in her ear.
Donaha was crouched in a corner of the kitchen, trying to hide.
“My God!” exclaimed Arnau, clasping Joan round the waist. “My God!” he went on repeating, as he lifted him clean into the air not once but several times.
Smiling broadly, Joan managed to struggle free from his grasp.
“You’ll break me in two!”
