Ildefonso Falcones - Cathedral of the Sea

“Francesca Esteve,” said Nicolau, “do you swear on the four gospels?”

The old woman’s strong, firm voice took everyone by surprise. “I swear,” she said, “but you are wrong; my name is not Francesca Esteve.”

“What is it then?” asked Nicolau.

“My name is Francesca, but not Esteve. It’s Ribes. Francesca Ribes,” she said, raising her voice.

“Do we have to remind you that you are under oath?” the bishop said.

“No. On my oath, I am telling the truth. My name is Francesca Ribes.”

“Are you not the daughter of Pere and Francesca Esteve?” Nicolau insisted.

“I never knew who my parents were.”

“Did you contract marriage with Bernat Estanyol in the lands of the lord of Navarcles?”

Arnau stiffened. Bernat Estanyol?

“No. I have never been in such a place and have never been married.”

“And did you not bear a son by the name of Arnau Estanyol?”

“No. I know of no such Arnau Estanyol.”

Arnau turned to her again.

Nicolau Eimerich and Berenguer d’Eril whispered together. Then the inquisitor addressed the clerk.

“Listen,” he told Francesca.

“Declaration by Jaume de Bellera, lord of Navarcles,” the clerk began to read.

When he heard the name Bellera, Arnau’s eyes narrowed. His father had told him about that family. He listened closely to the supposed story of his life, the story cut short by his father’s death. The way his mother had been called to the castle to suckle Llorenç de Bellera’s new son. A witch? He heard Jaume de Bellera’s version of how his mother had run away when soon afterward he had begun to suffer from the Devil’s sickness.

“Arnau Estanyol’s father, Bernat,” the clerk went on, “succeeded in eluding the guard after he had killed an innocent youth, and then abandoned his lands and fled to Barcelona with his son. Once in the city, they were taken in by the family of Grau Puig, the merchant. The witness is aware that the witch became a common whore. Arnau Estanyol is the son of a witch and a murderer.”

“What do you have to say to that?” Nicolau asked Francesca.

“That you’ve got the wrong whore,” the old woman said coldly.

“You!” shouted the bishop, pointing an accusing finger at her. “How dare you challenge the Inquisition’s evidence?”

“I’m not here for being a whore,” Francesca said, “and that’s not what I’m being tried for. Saint Augustine wrote that only God can judge fallen women.”

The bishop went bright red with rage. “How dare you quote Saint Augustine? How ... ?”

Berenguer d’Eril went on ranting and raving, but Arnau was no longer listening. Saint Augustine wrote that God would judge fallen women. Saint Augustine said ... Years ago ... in an inn at Figueres, he had heard those words from a common whore ... Hadn’t she been called Francesca? Saint Augustine wrote ... Could it be?

Arnau turned to look at Francesca: he had seen her only twice in his life, but both were crucial moments. Everyone in the tribunal saw how he reacted to her.

“Look at your son!” shouted Eimerich. “Do you deny you are his mother?”

Arnau and Francesca heard his accusation reverberate from the chamber walls. He was on his knees, staring at her; she was looking ahead of her, straight at the grand inquisitor.

“Look at him!” Nicolau raged, pointing at Arnau.

Faced with all the hatred of that accusatory finger, Francesca’s entire body quivered. Only Arnau noticed how the skin of her neck pulled back almost imperceptibly. She did not take her eyes off the inquisitor.

“You will confess,” Nicolau assured her, rolling his tongue round the word. “I can assure you, you will confess.”

“VIA FORA!”

The cry disturbed the peace and quiet of Plaza Nova. A boy ran across the square, shouting the call to arms: “Via fora! Via fora!” Aledis and Mar looked at each other, and then at Joan.

“The bells aren’t ringing,” he replied with a shrug.

Yet the cry of “Via fora!” echoed around the city. Curious citizens came out into Plaza del Blat, expecting to see the Sant Jordi banner next to the stone in the center. Instead of that, they found two bastaixos armed with crossbows, who led them to Santa Maria.

In the square outside the church, the Virgin of the Sea had been hoisted on her dais onto the shoulders of more bastaixos, who were waiting for the people of the city to gather round. Beside her, the guild aldermen had hoisted their banner and were receiving the steady stream of people coming down Calle de la Mar. One of them had the key to the Sacred Urn round his neck. The crowd round the Virgin grew and grew. To one side, outside Arnau’s countinghouse, Guillem was watching and listening closely.

“The Inquisition has seized a citizen of Barcelona, the consul of the sea,” one of the guild aldermen explained.

“But the Inquisition ...,” someone said.

“The Inquisition is not part of our city.” One of the aldermen interrupted him. “It is not subject to the king either. It does not take orders from the Council of a Hundred, or the city magistrate, or the bailiff. None of them chooses its members—that is done by the pope, who is a foreigner and is interested only in our money. How can they accuse someone who has devoted his life to the Virgin of the Sea of heresy?”

“They only want our consul’s money!” shouted someone in the crowd.

“They’re lying so they can get their hands on our money!”

“They hate the Catalan people,” another alderman said.

The news spread like wildfire among all those gathered in the square. Angry shouts could soon be heard along Calle de la Mar.

Guillem saw the aldermen explaining what was going on to the leaders of the other guilds. Who wasn’t fearful about what might happen to their money? Although of course the Inquisition was to be feared as well. It was an absurd accusation ...

“We have to defend our privileges,” shouted one of those who had been talking to the bastaixos.

The crowd grew agitated. Soon swords, crossbows, and fists were being waved in the air, to more cries of, “Via fora!”

The noise grew louder and louder. Guillem saw some city councillors arrive. He immediately went over to the group talking together round the statue.

“What about the king’s soldiers?” he heard one of the newcomers ask.

The alderman repeated the exact words that Guillem had suggested to him: “Let’s go to Plaza del Blat and see what the magistrate does.”

Guillem left them. For a brief moment, he stared at the small stone image the bastaixos were carrying. “Help him!” he said in silent prayer.

The group set off. “To Plaza del Blat!” was the cry.

Guillem joined the stream of people flocking back up Calle de la Mar to the square where the magistrate’s palace stood. Few among them knew that the aim of the host was to determine what attitude the magistrate would adopt, so that while the Virgin on her dais was placed in the center of the square where usually the banner of Sant Jordi and the other guild banners would hang, Guillem had no difficulty in getting close to the palace itself.

In the center of the square, the councillors and guild aldermen gathered round the Virgin and the pennant; all had their eyes fixed on the palace. When the rest of the crowd realized what was happening, they all fell silent and turned toward the palace as well. Guillem could feel the tension rising. Had the infante kept his side of the bargain? The king’s soldiers were lined up, swords drawn, between the crowd and the palace. The magistrate appeared at one of the windows, squinted down at the people gathered below him, and disappeared again. A few moments later, a captain appeared in the square. Thousands of pairs of eyes, Guillem’s included, turned to him.