Cathedral of the Sea

Father Albert glared at them.

“Bring him round,” he ordered, taking out the keys to the chapel. He opened the grille and stepped inside. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

He went over to the collection box. He saw that the three clasps had been broken. It was empty. There was nothing else missing in the chapel, and nothing had been destroyed. “What happened, Our Lady?” he asked the Virgin silently. “How could you allow Arnau to do something like this?” He heard the soldiers splashing water on the boy’s face, and reappeared outside the chapel just as several bastaixos who had heard about the robbery came rushing into the church.

The freezing water brought Arnau round. He looked up and saw he was surrounded by soldiers. In his mind, he heard the spear whistling past his head in Calle Boria once again. He was running in front of them: how had they managed to catch him? Had he stumbled? The soldiers’ faces bent toward him. His father! His body was burning! He had to escape! Arnau struggled to his feet and tried to push one of them off, but they easily succeeded in pinioning him.

Dejected, Father Albert saw how Arnau was trying to wriggle free from the soldiers.

“Do you need to hear any more, Father?” the officer growled. “Isn’t this confession enough?” he insisted, pointing at Arnau.

Father Albert raised his hands to his face and sighed. He walked slowly over to where the soldiers were holding Arnau.

“Why did you do it?” he asked when he came up to them. “You know that box belongs to your friends the bastaixos. They use the money to help the widows and orphans of their guilds, or to pay for the burial of any member who dies. It’s also for works of charity, and to decorate the Virgin, your mother, with candles that are always alight. So why did you do it, Arnau?”

Seeing the priest reassured Arnau: but what was he doing there? The bastaixos’ collection box! The thief! He remembered being punched, but then what? Wide-eyed, he looked around him. Beyond the soldiers, countless faces that he knew were waiting for his answer. He recognized Ramon and little Ramon, Pere, Jaume, Joan—who was trying to see more by standing on tiptoe—Sebastia and his son Bastianet, and many more he had given water to and with whom he had shared unforgettable moments when the Barcelona host had marched on Creixell. So that was it! He was being accused of the robbery!

“It wasn’t me ... ,” he muttered.

The king’s captain held up Grau’s purse. Arnau felt on his belt for where it should have been. He had not wanted to leave it under his mattress in case the baroness reported them to the authorities and accused Joan, and now ... Damn Grau! Damn the purse!

“Is this what you’re looking for?” the captain said.

Arnau defended himself. “It wasn’t me, Father.”

The captain guffawed, and the soldiers joined in the laughter.

“Ramon, it wasn’t me. I swear it,” Arnau insisted, staring directly at the bastaix.

“What were you doing here so late at night then? Where did you get that money? Why did you try to run away? Why is your face covered in mud?”

Arnau felt his face: it was caked with mud.

The purse! The king’s officer was continually waving it in front of his eyes. More and more bastaixos kept arriving, and remarking on what had happened. Arnau watched the purse swinging. That damned purse! He spoke imploringly to Father Albert.

“There was a man,” he said. “I tried to stop him but couldn’t. He was very big and strong.”

The captain’s incredulous laugh echoed once more round the ambulatory.

“Arnau,” the priest said, “just answer the captain’s questions.”

“No ... I can’t,” Arnau admitted, producing more hilarity among the soldiers, and consternation among the bastaixos.

Father Albert said nothing. He stared at Arnau. How often had he heard those words? “I can’t,” someone would say to him, a terrified look on their face. “If it got out ...” Of course, the priest always thought on those occasions, “If it got out that I had stolen, or committed adultery, or blasphemed, then I would be arrested.” And so he had to insist, swearing that he would never tell, until they opened their conscience to God and to forgiveness.

“Would you tell me in private?” he asked.

Arnau nodded. The priest pointed to the Jesus chapel.

“The rest of you wait here,” he told them.

“It was our box that was robbed,” came a voice from behind the group of soldiers. “A bastaix should be present too.”

Father Albert agreed, and glanced down at Arnau.

“Ramon?” he suggested.

The boy nodded again. The three of them walked inside the chapel. Arnau immediately told them everything. He told them about Tomas the groom, his father, Grau’s purse, the baroness’s orders, the riots, the execution, the fire ... He told them about being chased, about stumbling upon the man stealing from the box, his fruitless attempt to stop him. He told them of his fear that the soldiers would find out he had Grau’s purse, or that he would be arrested for setting fire to his father’s body.

His explanations went on and on. Arnau could not give a proper description of the man who had hit him: it was too dark, he said in answer to their questions. All he remembered was that he was big and strong. Finally, the priest and the bastaix exchanged glances: they believed him, but how could they prove to all the people congregated outside the chapel that it had not been him? The priest looked at the Virgin, then at