they ran after the fleeing Arnau. The lamp fell onto the floor of the cart, where a pool of oil also caught fire.
“Hey, you!” he heard the soldiers shouting.
Arnau was about to run out of the square when he spied Joan still sitting in front of the cart. He was completely covered by the blanket, and seemed paralyzed with fear. Immersed in their grief, other mourners looked on in silence.
“Stop! Stop in the king’s name!”
“Move, Joan!” Arnau looked back at the soldiers, who were almost upon him. “Move, or you’ll be burned!”
He could not leave Joan where he was. The burning oil was snaking across the ground toward his brother’s trembling figure. Arnau was about to pull him away, when the woman who had seen him earlier stepped in between them.
“Run. Run for it,” she urged him.
Arnau ducked under the first soldier’s hand and sprinted off. He ran down Calle Boria to Nou gate, the soldiers’ shouts echoing in his ears. “The longer they chase me, the longer it will take them to get back to Father and put the fire out,” he thought as he darted along. The soldiers, none of them young and all of them laden with weapons, would never catch a lad like him, running with the speed of fire.
“In the king’s name, halt!” he heard behind him.
Something whistled past his right ear. Arnau heard the spear clatter to the ground in front of him. He sped across Plaza de la Llana as more spears fell around him. He went past the Bernat Marcus Chapel and reached Calle Carders. The soldiers’ cries were fading in the distance. He could not carry on running to the Nou gateway, because there were bound to be more soldiers guarding it. If he headed down toward the sea, he would reach Santa Maria; if instead he went up toward the mountains, he could reach as far as Sant Pere de les Puelles, but then he would come up against the city walls again.
He chose to aim for the sea. He skirted the San Agustin convent, then lost himself in the maze of streets of the Mercadal neighborhood. He climbed walls, ran through gardens, wherever looked darkest. As soon as he was convinced there was no sound behind him apart from the echo of his own footsteps, he slowed to a walk. He followed the Rec Comtal down to Pla de’n Llull, beside the Santa Clara convent. From there it was an easy matter to reach Plaza del Born, then the street of the same name, and finally Santa Maria, his refuge. But just as he was about to squeeze in through the boards of the doorway, something caught his attention: there was a guttering lantern on the floor of the church. He peered into the shadows beyond its feeble light, and soon saw the figure of the watchman stretched out on the ground, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Arnau’s heart started to pound. What was going on? The watchman was meant to look after Santa Maria. Why would anyone ... ? The Virgin! The Jesus chapel! The bastaixos’ collection box!
Arnau did not think twice. His father had been executed; he could not allow anyone to bring dishonor to his mother. He crept into Santa Maria through the boarded-up doorway and headed for the ambulatory. The Jesus chapel was on his left between two buttresses. He walked round the church and hid behind one of the columns near the main altar. He could hear sounds coming from the Jesus chapel, but as yet could not see anything. He slid to the next column. From there he could see into the chapel, which as usual was lit by dozens of candles.
A man was climbing out over the chapel railings. Arnau looked at the Virgin: everything seemed to be all right. What was going on? He scanned the interior of the chapel: the collection box had been forced open. As the thief continued to climb over the iron grille, Arnau could almost hear the clink of coins the
“Thief!” he shouted, lunging at the iron railings and striking the man on the chest. Taken by surprise, the thief fell to the floor. He had no time to think. The man leapt to his feet and delivered a tremendous punch to Arnau’s face. Arnau crashed to the floor of Santa Maria.
17
“HE MUST HAVE fallen trying to escape after he had robbed the
“That cannot be true,” he told himself.
“Yes, Father,” the captain insisted. “The boy was carrying this purse,” he added, showing him the bag with the money Grau had given Bernat to pay for his prisoners. “What’s a young lad like him doing with so much money?”
“And look at his face,” another soldier said. “Why would he smear his face with mud if he wasn’t planning to steal something?”
Staring at the purse the officer was holding up, Father Albert shook his head again. What could Arnau have been doing there at this time of night? Where had he got the money?
“What are you doing?” he asked the soldiers, who were busy lifting Arnau from the floor.
“Taking him to prison.”
“No, you aren’t,” he heard himself say.
Perhaps... perhaps there was an explanation for all this. It was impossible that Arnau had tried to steal from the
“He’s a thief, Father.”
“That’s for a court to decide.”
“And that’s what will happen,” said the captain as his men supported Arnau under the arms. “But he can wait for the judgment in jail.”
“If he goes to any jail, it will be the bishop’s,” said the priest. “The crime was committed on holy ground. Therefore it is under ecclesiastical jurisdiction, not that of the city magistrate.”
The captain looked at his soldiers and Arnau. Shrugging his shoulders, he ordered them to release him, which they did by simply letting him go and allowing him to fall to the ground again. A cynical smile spread across the captain’s face when he saw how the youngster’s face struck the paving stones.
