celebrating?”
Behind the horses, Bernat caught a glimpse of the soldiers, loaded down with their prey: rabbits, hares, some wild cocks. “It’s your visit that demands an explanation,” he would have liked to reply. “Or did the castle baker tell you about the white loaves I had baked?”
Even the horses, with their big round eyes focused on him, seemed to be awaiting his response.
“My marriage, your lordship.”
“And who are you marrying?”
“The daughter of Pere Esteve, my lord.”
Llorenc de Bellera sat silently, looking down at Bernat over his horse’s neck. The other mounts snorted impatiently.
“Well?” barked Llorenc de Bellera.
“My bride and I,” said Bernat, trying to hide his discomfort, “would be very honored if your lordship and his companions would care to join us.”
“We’re thirsty, Estanyol,” was all the lord of Navarcles deigned to reply.
The horses moved on without any need of prodding. Head down, Bernat walked alongside his lord’s horse back to the farmhouse. All the guests had gathered at the entrance to the courtyard to receive him: the women stared down at the ground, and all the men had removed their caps. A low murmur greeted Llorenc de Bellera when he halted before them.
“That’s enough,” he said as he dismounted. “Carry on with your banquet.”
The guests complied, turning round without a word. Several of the soldiers came up and took care of the horses. Bernat went with his new guests to the table where Pere Esteve and he had been seated. Their bowls and cups had disappeared.
The lord of Navarcles and his two companions sat at the table. Bernat withdrew several steps as the newcomers began to talk among themselves. The serving women brought pitchers of wine, loaves of bread, chicken stew, plates of salt pork, and freshly roasted lamb. Bernat looked for Francesca, but she was nowhere to be seen. His gaze met that of his father-in-law, who was standing in a group of the guests. Pere Esteve lifted his chin toward the serving women, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and turned on his heel.
“Go on with your celebration!” Llorenc de Bellera bawled, waving the leg of lamb he was holding. “Come on, enjoy yourselves!”
Silently, the guests began to approach the roasted lambs for their share. Unnoticed by the lord and his friends, one group stood their ground: Pere Esteve and a few others. Bernat caught a glimpse of the white linen smock in the midst of them, and hurried over.
“Get away from here, you idiot,” his father-in-law snapped.
Before Bernat could say a word, Francesca’s mother thrust a platter of lamb in his hands and whispered:
“Wait on the lord, and don’t go anywhere near my daughter.”
The peasants began to devour the lamb, still without saying a word, but from time to time glancing anxiously up at the table where the lord of Navarcles and his two friends were laughing and shouting. The soldiers were resting some way away.
“Before we could hear loud laughter from here,” the lord of Bellera complained. “So loud it drove away all our game. Come on, I want to hear you laugh!”
Nobody obeyed.
“Country bumpkins,” he told his companions, who burst out laughing again.
The three of them sated themselves on lamb and chunks of white bread. The platters of salted pork and chicken stew were pushed to one side of the table. Bernat ate standing up nearby, occasionally glancing anxiously out of the corner of his eye at the gaggle of women surrounding Francesca.
“More wine!” the lord of Bellera demanded, raising his cup. “Estanyol,” he shouted, seeking him out among the guests. “Next time you pay me the taxes on my land, I want you to bring this wine, not the vinegar your father has been fooling me with until now.”
Bernat was facing the other way. Francesca’s mother thrust a pitcher of wine into his hands.
“Estanyol, where are you?” Llorenc de Bellera pounded the table just as a serving woman was about to serve him more wine. A few drops sprinkled his clothes. By now, Bernat was close to him, and his friends were laughing at the accident. Pere Esteve lifted his hands to his face.
“Stupid old crone! How dare you spill the wine?” The woman lowered her head in submission, and when the lord made to buffet her with his hand, she fell to the ground. Llorenc de Bellera turned to his friends, cackling at the way the old woman was crawling away from them. Then he became serious once more, and addressed Bernat. “So there you are, Estanyol. Look what your clumsy old women have done! Are you trying to insult your lord and master? Are you so ignorant you don’t realize that your guests should be served by the lady of the house? Where is the bride?” he asked, looking round at everyone in the courtyard. “Where is the bride?” he repeated, when there was no response.
Pere Esteve took Francesca by the arm and led her to Bernat at the table. She was trembling from head to foot.
“Your lordship,” said Bernat, “I present you my wife, Francesca.”
“That’s better,” said Llorenc, openly staring up and down at her. “Much better. From now on, you are to serve us the wine.”
The lord of Navarcles sat down again, and raised his cup. Searching for a pitcher, Francesca ran to serve him. As she poured out the wine, her hand shook. Llorenc de Bellera grasped her wrist and steadied it. When his cup was full, he pushed her to serve his companions. As she did so, her breasts almost brushed his face.
