Cathedral of the Sea

smiled when they saw Arnau apparently fascinated by his mother’s feet. He turned to look at her properly. Although he was on his knees and she was standing, she was so shrunken that she was only a hand taller than he. The time she had spent in the dungeons had left its mark: her sparse gray hair was matted and stiff; her profile as she stared at the tribunal bench was a mass of slack skin. The eye in the side of her face he could see was sunken so deep into what looked like purple, mottled flesh that Arnau could scarcely make it out.

“Francesca Esteve,” said Nicolau, “do you swear on the four gospels?”

The old woman’s strong, firm voice took everyone by surprise. “I swear,” she said, “but you are wrong; my name is not Francesca Esteve.”

“What is it then?” asked Nicolau.

“My name is Francesca, but not Esteve. It’s Ribes. Francesca Ribes,” she said, raising her voice.

“Do we have to remind you that you are under oath?” the bishop said.

“No. On my oath, I am telling the truth. My name is Francesca Ribes.”

“Are you not the daughter of Pere and Francesca Esteve?” Nicolau insisted.

“I never knew who my parents were.”

“Did you contract marriage with Bernat Estanyol in the lands of the lord of Navarcles?”

Arnau stiffened. Bernat Estanyol?

“No. I have never been in such a place and have never been married.”

“And did you not bear a son by the name of Arnau Estanyol?”

“No. I know of no such Arnau Estanyol.”

Arnau turned to her again.

Nicolau Eimerich and Berenguer d’Eril whispered together. Then the inquisitor addressed the clerk.

“Listen,” he told Francesca.

“Declaration by Jaume de Bellera, lord of Navarcles,” the clerk began to read.

When he heard the name Bellera, Arnau’s eyes narrowed. His father had told him about that family. He listened closely to the supposed story of his life, the story cut short by his father’s death. The way his mother had been called to the castle to suckle Llorenc de Bellera’s new son. A witch? He heard Jaume de Bellera’s version of how his mother had run away when soon afterward he had begun to suffer from the Devil’s sickness.

“Arnau Estanyol’s father, Bernat,” the clerk went on, “succeeded in eluding the guard after he had killed an innocent youth, and then abandoned his lands and fled to Barcelona with his son. Once in the city, they were taken in by the family of Grau Puig, the merchant. The witness is aware that the witch became a common whore. Arnau Estanyol is the son of a witch and a murderer.”

“What do you have to say to that?” Nicolau asked Francesca.

“That you’ve got the wrong whore,” the old woman said coldly.

“You!” shouted the bishop, pointing an accusing finger at her. “How dare you challenge the Inquisition’s evidence?”

“I’m not here for being a whore,” Francesca said, “and that’s not what I’m being tried for. Saint Augustine wrote that only God can judge fallen women.”

The bishop went bright red with rage. “How dare you quote Saint Augustine? How ... ?”

Berenguer d’Eril went on ranting and raving, but Arnau was no longer listening. Saint Augustine wrote that God would judge fallen women. Saint Augustine said ... Years ago ... in an inn at Figueres, he had heard those words from a common whore ... Hadn’t she been called Francesca? Saint Augustine wrote ... Could it be?

Arnau turned to look at Francesca: he had seen her only twice in his life, but both were crucial moments. Everyone in the tribunal saw how he reacted to her.

“Look at your son!” shouted Eimerich. “Do you deny you are his mother?”

Arnau and Francesca heard his accusation reverberate from the chamber walls. He was on his knees, staring at her; she was looking ahead of her, straight at the grand inquisitor.

“Look at him!” Nicolau raged, pointing at Arnau.

Faced with all the hatred of that accusatory finger, Francesca’s entire body quivered. Only Arnau noticed how the skin of her neck pulled back almost imperceptibly. She did not take her eyes off the inquisitor.

“You will confess,” Nicolau assured her, rolling his tongue round the word. “I can assure you, you will confess.”

“VIA FORA!”

The cry disturbed the peace and quiet of Plaza Nova. A boy ran across the square, shouting the call to arms: “Via fora! Via fora!” Aledis and Mar looked at each other, and then at Joan.

“The bells aren’t ringing,” he replied with a shrug.

Yet the cry of “Via fora!” echoed around the city. Curious citizens came out into Plaza del Blat, expecting to see the Sant Jordi banner next to the stone in the center. Instead of that, they found two bastaixos armed with crossbows, who led them to Santa Maria.

In the square outside the church, the Virgin of the Sea had been hoisted on her dais onto the shoulders of more bastaixos, who were waiting for the people of the city to gather round. Beside her, the guild aldermen had hoisted their banner and were receiving the steady stream of people coming down Calle de la Mar. One of them had the key to the Sacred Urn round his neck. The crowd round the Virgin grew and grew. To one side, outside Arnau’s countinghouse, Guillem was watching and listening closely.

“The Inquisition has seized a citizen of Barcelona, the consul of the sea,” one of the guild aldermen