Cathedral of the Sea

“As soon as I die,” the old man had repeated time and again to him in his brief moments of lucidity, “they’ll be here. You must show them my will.” With that, he pointed to the stone beneath which, carefully wrapped in leather, he had left the document containing the last will and testament of Madcap Estanyol.

“Why is that, Father?” Bernat had asked the first time he heard him.

“As you know,” the old man replied, “we lease these lands from our lord, but I am a widower, and if I had not drawn up my will, he would have the right to claim half of all our goods and livestock. That is known as the intestate right; there are many others that benefit the lords of Catalonia, and you must make sure you are aware of them all. They will be here, Bernat; they will come to take what is rightfully ours. It’s only by showing them my will that you can get rid of them.”

“What if they take it from me?” asked Bernat. “You know what they are like ...”

“Even if they did, it is registered in the official account books.”

The steward and his lord’s anger soon became common knowledge in the region. It served only to make the only son’s position look all the more attractive, as he had inherited all his father’s possessions.

Bernat could clearly recall the visit the man who was now his father-in-law had paid him before the grape harvest. Five shillings, a pallet, and a white linen smock—that was the dowry he was offering for his daughter Francesca.

“Why would I want a white linen smock?” Bernat asked, not even pausing as he forked the hay on the ground floor of his farmhouse.

“Look,” was Pere Esteve’s only reply.

Leaning on his pitchfork, Bernat looked in the direction Pere Esteve was pointing: the doorway of the stable. He let the pitchfork fall from his hands. Francesca was silhouetted against the light, dressed in the white linen smock ... Her whole body shone through, just waiting for him!

A shudder ran down Bernat’s spine. Pere Esteve smiled.

Bernat accepted his offer. There and then, in the stable, without even going up to the young girl, but never once taking his eyes off her. He realized it was a hasty decision, but so far he had not regretted it: there Francesca was in front of him now, young, beautiful, strong. His breathing quickened. That very night ... What might she be thinking? Did she feel as he did? Francesca was not sharing in the other women’s animated chatter: she sat quietly beside her mother, answering their jokes and laughter with forced smiles. Their looks met for a moment. She flushed and looked down, but Bernat could tell from the way her breast heaved that she was nervous too. Her white linen smock thrust itself once more into Bernat’s fantasies and desire.

“I congratulate you!” he heard a voice say behind him, and felt a hand clapping him on the shoulder. It was his father-in-law. “Look after her for me,” he added, following Bernat’s gaze and pointing to the girl, who did not know where to put herself. “If the life you have in store for her is as magnificent as this feast ... This is the most marvelous banquet I have ever seen. Not even the lord of Navarcles could lay on such a treat.”

In order to please his guests, Bernat had prepared forty-seven loaves of wheat bread: the peasants’ usual fare of barley, rye, or spelt was not good enough for him. Only the whitest bread, as white as his bride’s smock, was good enough for him! He had carried all the loaves to be baked at the Navarcles castle, calculating that, as usual, two loaves would be enough to pay for the privilege. When he saw this display of wheaten bread, the baker’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed to inscrutable slits. He demanded seven loaves in payment, and Bernat left the castle cursing the laws that prevented peasants like him from having their own bread ovens at home, or forges, or bridle and harness workshops ...

“You’re right there,” he told his father-in-law, banishing the unpleasant memory from his mind.

They both stared down the courtyard. Some of his bread might have been stolen, but there was still the wine his guests were drinking—the best, stored away by his father and left to age for several years—and the salt-roasted pig, the vegetable stew seasoned with chickens, and above all the four lambs, split down the middle and roasting slowly on the embers on their spits, oozing fat and giving off an irresistible smell.

All of a sudden the women started bustling about. The stew was ready, and the bowls the guests had brought were soon filled. Pere and Bernat sat at the only table laid in the courtyard. The women rushed to serve them, ignoring the four empty seats. The rest stood or sat on wooden benches and began to eat, still casting glances at the lambs roasting under the watchful eye of some of the cooks. Everyone was drinking wine, conversing, shouting, and laughing.

“Yes, a real feast,” Pere Esteve concluded, between mouthfuls.

Somebody proposed a toast to the bride and groom. Everybody joined in.