“What do you have to say now, Joan?” he heard Guillem asking him.
“They will put him to death,” he managed to say before he ran out of the inn, still covering his mouth with his hand.
Joan’s verdict floated in the air around them. None of them dared look at one another.
“What has happened between you and Joan?” Guillem whispered to Mar after a while, when the friar had still not reappeared.
He was only a slave ... What could a mere slave do? Guillem’s words rattled round Mar’s brain. If she told him ... They needed to be united! Arnau needed them all to fight for him ... including Joan.
“Nothing,” she said. “You know we never got on very well.” She avoided looking at him.
“Will you tell me someday?” insisted Guillem.
Mar looked down at the table.
54
THE MEMBERS OF the tribunal were already assembled: the four Dominicans and the clerk sitting behind the desk, the soldiers on guard at the door, and Arnau, as filthy as he had been the previous day, standing at the center of the chamber. All eyes were on him.
A short while later Nicolau Eimerich and Berenguer d’Eril came in. Everything about them spoke of luxury and arrogance. The soldiers snapped alert, and the others stood until the two men had taken their seats.
“The session is open,” declared Nicolau. “May I remind you,” he added, addressing Arnau, “that you are still under oath.”
“That man,” the bishop had warned him on their way into the tribunal, “will give away more because of the oath he has taken than from any fear of being tortured.”
“Please read the prisoner’s last declaration,” said Nicolau to the clerk.
“‘They only adopt ideas and beliefs just like us.’” Arnau was struck by his own words. All night he had been unable to get the images of Mar and Aledis out of his mind, and had gone over what he had said time and again. Nicolau had not allowed him to explain what he meant, but then again, what could he say? What could he tell those hunters of heretics about his relations with Raquel and her family? The clerk was still reading out his declaration. He must not allow the questions to focus on Raquel: she and her family had suffered more than enough with the death of Hasdai. The last thing they needed was to have the Inquisition on their heels again ...
“So you think that the Christian faith is no more than a few ideas and beliefs, which men are free to accept or not as they see fit?” Berenguer d’Eril asked him. “How dare a mere mortal judge God’s designs?”
Why shouldn’t he? Arnau looked steadily at Nicolau. “Aren’t you two mere mortals as well?” he thought. They would burn him. They would burn him just as they had burned Hasdai and so many others. He shuddered.
“I expressed myself badly,” he said finally.
“How would you care to express yourself then?” asked Nicolau.
“I’m not sure. I do not have your learning. All I can say is that I believe in God, that I am a good Christian, and that I have always followed His commandments.”
“Do you think that burning your father’s body is following God’s commandments?” shouted the inquisitor, rising to his feet and thumping the table with both hands.
HURRYING ALONG IN the shadows, Raquel ran to her brother’s house as they had agreed.
“Sahat,” was all she said when she stood on the threshold.
Guillem got up from the table he was sharing with Jucef.
“I’m sorry, Raquel.”
Her only reply was a twist of the mouth. Guillem was a few steps away from her, but when she raised her arms in a helpless gesture, he strode over and embraced her. Guillem pressed her to him and tried to comfort her, but words failed him. “Let the tears flow, Raquel,” he thought. “Let them put out the fire still burning in your eyes.”
After a few moments, Raquel pulled away from Guillem and dried her tears.
“You’ve come for Arnau, haven’t you?” she asked once she had regained her composure. “You must help him,” she added when Guillem nodded. “We can’t do much without making things even more difficult for him.”
“I was just telling your brother that I need a letter of introduction to the royal court.”
Raquel looked inquiringly at her brother, who was still seated at the table.
“We’ll get one,” said Jucef. “The infante Don Juan, his retinue, the other members of the court, and prominent men from all over the kingdom are meeting in Barcelona to discuss Sardinia. It’s an excellent opportunity.”
“What are you planning, Sahat?” asked Raquel.
“I don’t know yet. You wrote to me,” he said, turning to Jucef, “that the king is at loggerheads with the grand inquisitor.” Jucef nodded. “What about his son?”
“He’s even angrier with him,” said Jucef. “The infante is a patron of art and culture. He loves music and poetry. He invited many writers and philosophers to his court in Girona. None of them can accept the way Eimerich has attacked Ramon Llull. Catalan thinkers have little regard for the Inquisition: early this century fourteen works by the doctor Arnau de Vilanova were condemned; more recently the work of Nicolas de Calabria was declared heresy by Eimerich himself, and now they are attacking someone as important as Ramon Llull. It’s as though they despise anything Catalan. Nowadays, only a few people dare write, out of fear of the interpretation Eimerich might put on their words; Nicolas de Calabria ended up at the stake. In addition, if anyone could put a stop to the grand inquisitor’s plan to extend his jurisdiction to the Catalan Jewries, that person is the infante. Don’t forget, he lives on the taxes we pay him. He will listen to you,” said Jucef, “but make no mistake, he will not want to confront the Inquisition openly.”
