Cathedral of the Sea

employed the threat of plunging a suspect’s limbs into a cauldron of boiling water to obtain a confession.

Father Albert narrowed his eyes and studied the Mallorcan.

“If the boy and I are lying, I’m sure you will withstand the boiling water on your arms and legs without having to confess to any crime.”

“I’m innocent,” the Mallorcan protested.

“As I’ve told you, you’ll have the chance to prove it,” said the priest.

“And if you’re innocent,” Ramon butted in, “explain to us what your dagger was doing inside the chapel.”

The Mallorcan turned on him.

“It’s a trap!” he said quickly. “Somebody must have put it there to make me look guilty! The boy! It must have been him!”

Father Albert opened the chapel grille again, and came out carrying the dagger.

“Is this yours?” he asked, thrusting it in his face.

“No ... no.”

The guild aldermen and several bastaixos came over to the priest and asked to examine the knife.

“It is yours,” one of the aldermen said, weighing it in his hand.

Six years earlier, as a consequence of all the fights that had broken out in the port, King Alfonso banned the stone carriers and other free workmen from carrying hunting knives or other similar weapons. The only knives they could carry were blunt ones. The Mallorcan had refused to obey the order, and had often shown off his magnificent dagger to the others. It was only when he was threatened with expulsion from the guild that he had agreed to go to a blacksmith’s to have the point filed smooth.

“Liar!” one of the bastaixos cried.

“Thief!” shouted another.

“Someone must have stolen it to incriminate me!” the Mallorcan protested, trying to break free from the two men holding him.

It was then that the third bastaix who had gone with Ramon to find the Mallorcan came back. He had been to search the man’s house.

“Here it is,” he called out, waving a purse. He handed it to the priest, who passed it on to the captain.

“Seventy-four pounds and five shillings,” the captain announced after counting the coins.

As the captain was counting, the bastaixos had encircled the Mallorcan. They knew none among them could ever hope to have so much money! When the count was finished, they flung themselves on the thief. Insults, kicks, punches—all rained down on him. The soldiers did not intervene. The captain looked across at Father Albert and shrugged.

“This is the house of God!” shouted the priest, pushing the stone carriers away. “We’re in the house of God!” he repeated, until he was next to the Mallorcan, who was rolled up into a ball on the floor of the church. “This man is a thief, and a coward too, but he deserves a fair trial. You cannot take the law into your own hands. Take him to the bishop’s palace,” he ordered the captain.

Someone took advantage of his talking to the captain to aim one last kick at the Mallorcan. When the soldiers dragged him to his feet, others spat on him. The soldiers led him out.

AFTER THE SOLDIERS had left Santa Maria with their prisoner, the bastaixos came up to Arnau, smiling and apologizing. Then they gradually drifted away. Eventually, the only people left outside the Jesus chapel were Father Albert, Arnau, the three guild aldermen, and the ten witnesses called for whenever the guild’s collection box was involved.

The priest put the money back in the box. He noted what had happened that night in the account book. Day had dawned, and someone had gone to ask a locksmith to come and repair the three clasps. All of them had to wait until the box could be locked again.

Father Albert rested his hand on Arnau’s shoulder. It was only then that he remembered how he had seen him sitting beneath Bernat’s body as it dangled from a rope. He tried not to think about the fire. He was only a boy! He looked up at the Virgin. “He would have been left to rot at the city gate,” he explained to himself silently. “What does it matter? He’s only a boy, and now he has nothing: no father, no job to help feed himself ...”

“I think,” he said all of a sudden, “that you should make Arnau a member of your guild.”

Ramon smiled. He too, once things had calmed down, had been thinking about all Arnau had confessed to them. The others, including Arnau, gave the priest puzzled looks.

“But he’s only a boy,” one of the guild aldermen said.

“He’s not strong enough. How will he be able to carry sacks or stones on his back?” asked another.

“He’s very young,” insisted a third.

Arnau gazed at them all, eyes open wide.

“Everything you say is true,” the priest admitted, “but neither his size, his strength, nor his youth prevented him from defending money that was rightfully yours. But for him, your collection box would be empty.”

The bastaixos studied Arnau awhile longer.

“I think we could try him out,” Ramon said finally, “and if he is not up to it...”

Someone in the group agreed.

“All right,” one of the aldermen said eventually, looking across at his two companions. Neither of them demurred. “We’ll take him on trial. If he shows his worth over the next three months, we’ll accept him fully into the guild. He will be paid in proportion to the work he does. Here,” he said, handing Arnau the Mallorcan’s dagger,