Cathedral of the Sea

Arnau took it out, the officer burst into laughter. “That blunt thing wouldn’t even be able to tear a virgin’s hymen. I’ll show you how to use a real dagger, in hand-to-hand combat.”

He reached inside a big chest and handed him a hunting knife that was much longer and broader than the bastaix dagger. Arnau drew his finger along its sharp blade. From that moment on, day after day, he joined Eiximen’s guard to train in hand-to-hand combat with this new knife. He was also given a colored uniform, with a coat of mail, a helm—which he polished until it shone—and strong leather shoes that were tied up round his ankles. The tough training alternated with real hand-to-hand combats, without weapons, that were organized by the nobles in the camp. Arnau soon became the champion of the shield bearer’s guard, and not a day went by without him fighting once or twice in front of a noisy crowd that wagered on the winner.

It took only a few of these fights for Arnau to become famous among all the troops. Whenever he walked around the camp, in the few free moments left to him, he could sense he was being watched and talked about. How strange it felt to have people fall silent when you went by!

Eiximen d’Esparca’s captain smiled when the soldier told him who was looking for Arnau.

“Do you think I could pay a visit to one of her girls too?” he asked.

“I’m sure you could. The old woman is crazy for your man. You can’t imagine how her eyes shine at the mention of him.”

The two of them laughed out loud.

“Where do I have to take him?”

FRANCESCA CHOSE A small tavern on the outskirts of Figueres for their meeting.

“Don’t ask questions, and do as you’re told,” the captain warned Arnau. “There’s somebody who wants to see you.”

The two soldiers led him to the tavern. When they were there, they showed him up to the wretched little room where Francesca was waiting for him. As soon as Arnau was inside, they shut the door and barred it from the outside. Arnau turned and tried to open it; when he failed, he began banging on it with his fists.

“What’s going on?” he cried. “What is this?”

All he got by way of response was the two men’s cackles.

Arnau listened to them for a few moments. What was happening? Then he suddenly realized he was not alone. He turned round again: Francesca was watching him. She was leaning against the window, her figure dimly lit by a candle on one of the walls. In spite of the gloom, he could see her bright green robe. A prostitute! How many stories about women had he heard in the warmth of the campfires? How many soldiers had boasted of spending all their pay on a girl who was always so much better, more beautiful, and more voluptuous than the one talked about before? Arnau said nothing, and looked down at the floor of the room. He was in the army because he was running away from two women! Perhaps ... perhaps this trick was because he never said anything, because he never showed any interest in women ... He had often been scoffed at for it round the campfire.

“What kind of joke is this?” he asked Francesca. “What do you want from me?”

The candlelight was so dim she still could not make him out properly, but that voice ... His voice was already that of a man, and she could see that he was big and tall, as the girl had said. She could feel her legs trembling and felt weak at the knees. Her son!

Francesca had to clear her throat several times before she could speak.

“Don’t worry. I don’t intend to do anything that could bring you dishonor. Besides,” she went on, “we are on our own. What could a weak old woman like me do to a strong young man like you?”

“So why are those two outside laughing?” asked Arnau, still standing close to the door.

“Let them laugh if they like. Men have twisted minds: they like to think the worst. Perhaps if I had told them the truth, if I had told them why I was so anxious to see you, they wouldn’t have been as keen as they were to bring you when they imagined it was for a baser reason.”

“What were they to think of a prostitute and a man shut in a room in a tavern? What else can one expect from a whore?”

Arnau spoke harshly, woundingly. It took Francesca some time to recover.

“We are people too,” she said, raising her voice. “Saint Augustine wrote that it was for God to judge fallen women.”

“So you brought me here to talk about God?”

“No.” Francesca went over to him; she had to see his face. “I brought you here to talk about your wife.”

Arnau staggered as though he had been hit. She could see he truly was handsome.

“What’s wrong? How do you ...”

“She is pregnant.”

“Maria?”

“Aledis ... ,” said Francesca without thinking. Had he said Maria?

“Aledis?”

Francesca could see he was dazed. What did that mean?

“What are you two doing talking all the time?” the soldiers shouted outside, and they banged on the door, laughing. “What’s wrong? Is he too much of a man for you?”

Arnau and Francesca looked at each other. She signaled for him to move away from the door, and Arnau followed her. They began to talk in a whisper.

“Did you say Maria?” asked Francesca when they were on the far side of the room by the window.

“Yes. My wife’s name is Maria.”