“Jews! Jews!” Arnau faced them defiantly. “What does the world have against them?”
“Do you not know?” asked the inquisitor, anger in his voice. “They crucified Jesus Christ!”
“Haven’t they paid enough for that?”
Arnau stared at the men ranged in front of him. They were all sitting up attentively.
“Are you saying they should be pardoned?” asked Berenguer d’Eril.
“Isn’t that what our Lord teaches us?”
“Their only salvation is through conversion! There can be no pardon for those who do not repent,” shouted Nicolau.
“You’re talking about something that happened more than thirteen hundred years ago. What do the Jews born in our time have to repent for? They are not to blame for what might have happened all those years ago.”
“Anyone who accepts the Jewish doctrine is making himself responsible for what his forebears did; he is taking on their guilt.”
“They only adopt ideas, beliefs, just like ...” At this, Nicolau and Berenguer gave a start. Why not? Was it not true? Didn’t that poor man who had died under a hail of insults and given his life for his community deserve the truth? “Just like us,” Arnau said in a loud, firm voice.
“You dare equate the Catholic faith with heresy?” roared the bishop.
“It is not for me to compare anything: I leave that to you, the men of God. All I said was—”
“We are well aware of what you said!” Nicolau Eimerich shouted. “You compared the one, true Christian faith with the heretical doctrines of the Jews.”
Arnau faced the tribunal. The clerk was still writing on his papers. Even the soldiers, standing stiffly to attention by the doors behind him, appeared to be listening to the scrape of his quill on the parchment. Nicolau smiled. The scratching pierced Arnau to the backbone, and a shudder ran through his entire body. The inquisitor saw it, and smiled even more broadly. “Yes,” he seemed to be saying, “that is what you said.”
“They are just like us,” Arnau repeated.
Nicolau silenced him with a wave of his hand.
The clerk continued writing for a few more moments. “Everything you said is recorded there,” the inquisitor’s look told Arnau. When the clerk raised his quill, Nicolau gave a satisfied smile.
“The session is suspended until tomorrow,” he cried, getting up from his seat.
MAR WAS TIRED of listening to Joan.
“Where are you going?” Aledis asked her. Mar merely looked at her. “There again? You’ve been every day, and you haven’t succeeded ...”
“I’ve succeeded in letting her know I’m here, and that I won’t forget what she did to me.” Joan hid his face. “I succeeded in catching sight of her through the window, and in letting her know that Arnau is mine. I saw it in her eyes, and I intend to remind her of it every day of her life. I intend to succeed by making her think every moment of the day that I was the one who won.”
Aledis watched her leave the inn. Mar took the same route as she had done every day since her arrival in Barcelona, and ended up outside the gates of the palace in Calle de Montcada. She pounded on the door knocker as hard as she could. Eleonor might refuse to see her, but she wanted her to know she was there.
As on every other day, the ancient servant peered at her through the peephole.
“My lady,” he said, “you know that Dona Eleonor ...”
“Open the door. I just want to see her, even if it is only through the window she hides behind.”
“But she does not want that.”
“Does she know who I am?”
Mar saw Pere turn toward the palace windows.
“Yes.”
Mar banged again on the knocker.
“My lady, do not insist, or Dona Eleonor will call the soldiers,” the old man advised her.
“Open up, Pere.”
“She won’t see you, my lady.”
Mar felt a hand on her shoulder, pulling her away from the door.
“Perhaps she will see me,” she heard, before she saw someone stepping in front of her.
“Guillem!” cried Mar, flinging herself on him.
“Do you remember me, Pere?” asked the Moor, with Mar clinging to him.
“How could I not remember?”
“Well, then, tell your mistress I want to see her.”
When the old man shut the peephole, Guillem took Mar by the waist and lifted her into the air. Laughing, Mar let him whirl her round. Then Guillem put her down, took a step back, and lifted her arms so that he could get a good look at her.
“My little girl,” he said, his voice choking with emotion. “How often I’ve dreamed of holding you in my arms
