by, and Joan felt more and more inhibited. Mar meanwhile pierced him with her steady, unflinching gaze.
“What are you here for, Friar?” she asked him finally.
“I came to talk to you.” Joan had to raise his voice to reach her.
“I’m not interested in anything you might have to say.”
Mar made as though to turn on her heel, but Joan quickly added: “I promised Arnau I would talk to you.”
Contrary to his expectations, the mention of Arnau’s name did not seem to make any impact on her; but she did not go inside either.
“It’s not me who wishes to talk to you.” Joan let a few moments go by. “May I come up?”
Mar turned her back on him and went into the farmhouse. Joan walked to the foot of the staircase. He peered up at the heavens. Was this truly the penitence he deserved?
He cleared his throat to show her he was there. Mar was busy at the hearth, stirring a pot that hung from a hook over the fire.
“Speak,” was all she said.
Joan studied her back as she leaned over. Her hair cascaded down below her waist, almost as far as a pair of firm buttocks whose outline was very clear beneath her smock. She had turned into an ... attractive woman.
“Have you got nothing to say?” asked Mar, turning her head toward him briefly.
“Arnau has been put in jail by the Inquisition,” the Dominican blurted out.
Mar stopped stirring the food in the pot.
Joan said nothing more.
Her voice seemed to quaver and dance as delicately as the flames of the fire itself: “Some of us have been incarcerated for much longer.”
Mar still had her back to him. She straightened up, staring at the beams of the hearth.
“It wasn’t Arnau who put you there.”
Mar turned quickly to face him. “Wasn’t he the one who gave me to the Lord de Ponts?” she cried. “Wasn’t he the one who agreed to my marriage? Wasn’t he the one who decided not to avenge my dishonor? Ponts raped me! He kidnapped me and raped me!”
She had spat out the words. Her whole body was shaking, from her top lip to her hands, which she now raised to her breast. Joan could not bear to see the pain in her eyes.
“It wasn’t Arnau,” the friar repeated in a faint voice. “It was... it was me!” He was speaking loudly now. “Do you understand? It was me. I was the one who convinced him he should marry you off. What future was there for a raped girl? What would have become of you when the whole of Barcelona learned of your misfortune? Eleonor convinced me, and I was the one who arranged your kidnapping. I agreed to your dishonor in order to get Arnau to allow you to be married to someone else. It was I who was guilty of everything. Arnau would never have done it otherwise.”
They stared at each other. Joan could feel the weight of his habit lightening. Mar stopped shaking as tears welled up in her eyes.
“He loved you,” said Joan. “He loved you then and he loves you now. He needs you...”
Mar lifted her hands to her face. She bent her knees to one side, and her body sank until she was prostrate before the friar.
That was it. He had done it. Now Mar would go to Barcelona. She would tell Arnau and ... These were the thoughts racing through Joan’s mind as he bent to help Mar up ...
“Don’t touch me!”
Joan jumped away from her.
“Is something wrong, my lady?”
The friar turned toward the door. On the threshold stood a giant of a man. He was carrying a scythe and stared at him menacingly. Joan could see the little boy’s head poking out from behind his legs. The man was only a couple of feet from the friar, and seemed head and shoulders taller than him.
“Nothing is wrong,” said Joan, but the man came into the room, brushing him aside like a feather. “I’ve told you, there’s nothing wrong,” Joan insisted. “Go about your business.”
The little boy ran and hid behind the doorframe. Joan stopped looking in his direction, and when he turned to the others, he saw that the man with the scythe was kneeling in front of Mar, without touching her.
“Didn’t you hear me?” asked Joan. The man did not answer. “Do as you are told, and get about your business.”
This time the man did turn and look at him. “I take orders only from my mistress,” he said.
How many big, strong, proud men like him had fallen at Joan’s feet? How many had he seen sobbing and begging for forgiveness before he passed sentence? Joan’s eyes narrowed. He clenched his fists and took two steps toward the servant.
“How dare you disobey the Inquisition!” he cried.
Before he could even finish, Mar was on her feet. She was shaking again. The man with the scythe also stood up, but more slowly.
“Friar, how do you dare come into my house and threaten my servant? Inquisitor? Ha! You’re no more than a devil disguised as a friar. You were the one who raped me!” Joan could see the man’s fingers gripping the handle of the scythe. “You’ve admitted it!”
