Cathedral of the Sea

“They’ll attack the palace,” Berenguer said.

“They would not dare,” Nicolau whispered. “He’s a heretic!” he shouted.

“Should you not try him before you decide that?” one of the councillors said.

Nicolau’s eyes narrowed. “He is a heretic,” he insisted.

“For the third and last time, hand over the consul of the sea to us.”

“What do you mean, ‘for the last time’?” asked Berenguer d’Eril.

“Look outside if you really wish to know.”

“Arrest them!” shouted the grand inquisitor, waving his arms at the soldiers guarding the door.

Guillem took a few steps away from them. None of the councillors moved. Some of the soldiers put their hands to their swords, but the captain in charge signaled them to do nothing.

“Arrest them!” shrieked Nicolau.

“They’ve come to negotiate,” argued the captain.

“How dare you—” Nicolau shouted, rising to his feet.

The captain interrupted him: “Tell me how you expect me to defend this palace, and then I will arrest them; the king is not going to come to our aid.” The captain gestured toward the square outside, from where the sounds of the crowd were growing louder every minute. He turned to the bishop for help.

“You can take your consul of the sea,” said the bishop. “He’s free to go.”

Nicolau’s face flushed. “What are you saying ... ?” he cried, grasping the bishop by the arm.

Berenguer d’Eril shook himself free.

“You don’t have the authority to hand over Arnau Estanyol,” the councillor told the bishop. “Nicolau Eimerich,” he went on, “the Barcelona host has given you three chances: now hand over the consul of the sea to us or face the consequences.”

As he was saying this, a stone flew into the chamber and smashed against the front of the long table where the members of the tribunal were placed; even the Dominican friars jumped in their seats. The shouts from Plaza Nova were even louder and more insistent. Another stone came flying in; the clerk gathered up his papers and sought refuge at the far end of the chamber. The black friars who were closest to the window tried to do the same, but the inquisitor gestured for them to remain where they were.

“Are you mad?” whispered the bishop.

Nicolau gazed at everyone in the tribunal one by one, until finally he looked at Arnau. He was smiling.

“Heretic!” he bellowed.

“That is enough,” said the councillor, turning on his heel.

“Take him with you!” pleaded the bishop.

“We only came here to negotiate,” said the councillor, halting as he raised his voice above the noise from outside. “If the Inquisition does not accept the city’s demands and free the prisoner, the host will do so. That is the law.”

Nicolau stood facing them all. He was shaking with rage; his bloodshot eyes bulged. Two more stones crashed into the chamber.

“They will attack the palace,” said the bishop, not caring whether he was heard or not. “What do you care? You have his declaration and his possessions. Declare him a heretic anyway; he will be an outlaw forever.”

By now, the councillors and the bastaix alderman had reached the doors of the chamber. The soldiers, all of whom looked terrified, stepped to one side. Guillem was more interested in the conversation between the bishop and the grand inquisitor. All this time, Arnau still stood in the center of the room with Francesca, defying Nicolau, who could not look at him.

“Take him with you!” The inquisitor finally yielded.

As SOON AS Arnau appeared with the councillors in the palace doorway, the roars of jubilation spread from the square to the crowded streets nearby. Francesca limped behind them; nobody had noticed when Arnau took her by the arm and led her out of the chamber. As they left the building, though, he had to let go of her, and she stayed in the background. Inside the tribunal chamber, Nicolau stood behind the bench watching them leave, oblivious to the hail of stones coming in through the window. One of them hit him full on his left arm, but the inquisitor did not even move. All the other members of the tribunal had sought refuge on the far side of the room, as far away as possible from the host’s anger.

Arnau had come to a halt behind the soldiers, although the councillors were urging him to go on out into the square.

“Guillem ...”

The Moor came over to him, put his arms round his shoulders, and kissed him on the mouth.

“Go with them, Arnau,” he told him. “Mar and your brother are waiting outside. I still have things to do here. I’ll come and see you later.”

In spite of the councillors’ efforts to protect him, the crowd rushed toward Arnau as soon as he was out in the square. They embraced him, patted him on the back, congratulated him. Row upon row of beaming faces confronted him. None of them wanted to move away to allow the councillors through; all the faces seemed to be calling to him.

The commotion was so great that the group of five councillors and the bastaix alderman were jostled from one side to another. The uproar and the endless sea of faces shook Arnau to the core. His legs began to weaken. He raised his eyes above the crowd, but all he could see was a forest of crossbows, swords, and fists waving to the shouts of the host, over and over again ... He leaned back on the councillors for support, but just as he was