Cathedral of the Sea

“Was this part of your plans?” the friar asked again. Both of them watched Arnau striding away into the crowd. Eleonor made no reply. “They’ll eat your knight alive. They will destroy his lands, raze his farmhouse, and then ...”

“Then what?” grunted Eleonor, still staring straight ahead of her.

“Then I’ll lose my brother. Perhaps we’re still in time to do something. This is going to end badly ...,” thought Joan.

“Speak to him ...,” he insisted.

“Are you mad, Friar?”

“What if he won’t accept the marriage? What if Felip de Ponts tells him everything? Talk to him before the host sets off. For the love of God, do it, Eleonor!”

“For the love of God?” As she spat out the words, she turned to face him. “You speak to your God. Do it, Friar.”

They followed Arnau toward the bastaix pennant. They met Guillem, who as a slave was not allowed to bear arms.

When he saw her arriving, Arnau frowned.

“She’s a ward of mine as well,” she said.

The city councillors gave the order. The army of the people of Barcelona began to march out of the square. The pennants of Sant Jordi and the city were at the head, followed by that of the bastaixos and then all the other guilds. Three thousand men against a single knight. Eleonor and Joan fell in beside them.

Outside the city, the host was joined by more than a hundred peasants from Arnau’s lands. They were happy to come to the defense of someone who had treated them so generously. Arnau noticed that no other nobles or knights were among them.

Grim-faced, Arnau walked alongside the pennant with the bastaix column. Joan tried to pray, but the words that usually came so readily to him now stubbornly refused to appear in his mind. Neither he nor Eleonor had ever imagined that Arnau would call out the host. Joan was still deafened by the noise of the three thousand men clamoring for justice and vengeance for a citizen of Barcelona. Many of them had kissed their daughters before they left; more than one, already strapped into their armor, had cupped their wives’ chins in their hands and told them: “Barcelona defends its own ... especially its women.”

“They will lay waste to poor Felip de Ponts’s lands as if it were their own daughter who had been abducted,” thought Joan. “They will try him and execute him, but first they will give him the chance to talk ...” Joan looked at Arnau, who was still marching along in silence.

By evening, the host had reached Felip de Ponts’s lands. It came to a halt at the foot of a small hill atop of which the knight’s fortress was perched. It was nothing more than a peasant farmhouse; its only defenses consisted of a small tower rising on one side. Joan studied the farmhouse, then surveyed the army awaiting its orders from the city councillors. He looked at Eleonor, who avoided his gaze. Three thousand men to take one simple farmhouse!

Joan shook himself and ran to where Arnau and Guillem were standing, next to the councillors and other prominent citizens of Barcelona, beneath the Sant Jordi pennant. As he drew near, he could hear them discussing what to do next. His stomach wrenched when he realized most of them were in favor of attacking the farmhouse without warning or offering de Ponts the chance to surrender.

The councillors began to give orders to the guild aldermen. Joan looked at Eleonor, but she was staring straight ahead at the farmhouse. Joan went up to Arnau: he wanted to speak to him, but found it impossible. Guillem was standing proudly beside him; he glanced at the friar with a look of scorn. The guild aldermen passed on the orders to their columns. Sounds of preparation for battle could be heard. Torches were lit; the sound of swords being drawn and crossbows tightened rose through the evening air. Joan turned to look at the farmhouse, and then again at the host. The men began to march on the building. There would be no concessions: Barcelona would show no mercy. Arnau drew his dagger and set off with all the rest, leaving the friar behind as he advanced on the house. Joan glanced despairingly toward Eleonor; still she showed no reaction.

“No ... !” shouted Joan as his brother strode away from him.

His cry was swallowed up in a murmur that spread through the ranks of the entire host. A man on horseback had emerged from the farmhouse. It was Felip de Ponts, slowly riding his horse down toward them.

“Seize him!” shouted one of the councillors.

“No!” shouted Joan again. Everyone turned in his direction. Arnau looked inquiringly at him. “A man who surrenders should not be seized and made captive.”

“What’s this, Friar?” one of the councillors asked. “Do you think you can give orders to the Barcelona host?”

Joan looked at Arnau.

“A man who surrenders should not be taken captive,” he implored his brother.

“Let him give himself up,” Arnau conceded.

Felip de Ponts looked first for his accomplices, then turned to face the men gathered beneath the pennant of Sant Jordi, among them Arnau and the city councillors.