That night, before he finally succeeded in finding sleep, he thought he could detect a strange smell, the smell of death seeping into his room and threatening to choke him.
ON SAINT MARK’s Day, the members of the Council of a Hundred, together with the city aldermen, elected Arnau Estanyol, baron of Granollers, San Vicenc, and Caldes de Montbui, as consul of the sea of Barcelona. Then, as laid down in the Llibre de Consolat de Mar, to popular acclaim Arnau and the other newly chosen consul led a procession of councillors and prominent citizens down to the exchange, where the Consulate of the Sea was housed. The exchange was also being rebuilt, on the shore close to Santa Maria church and Arnau’s countinghouse.
The missatges, as the soldiers belonging to the consulate were known, were drawn up to greet them as the party entered the palace, and the councillors of Barcelona handed possession of the building over to the newly elected consuls. As soon as the others had left the exchange, Arnau immediately set to work: a merchant was claiming the value of a shipment of pepper that had fallen into the sea while a young boatman was unloading it. The pepper was brought to the courtroom for Arnau to verify that it had been damaged as claimed.
Arnau listened to the different versions from the merchant, the boatman, and the witnesses both sides had brought. He knew the merchant personally, as he did the boatman. The latter had recently asked him for a loan. He was newly married, in Santa Maria as befitted all men of the sea. On that occasion, Arnau had congratulated him and wished him well.
“I rule,” he said, his voice trembling, “that the boatman must pay the price of the pepper. This is as laid down in”—Arnau consulted the heavy tome the clerk passed him—“article sixty-two of our Customs of the Sea.” Was his wife pregnant already? Arnau recalled the gleam of excitement in the young bride’s eyes the day he had congratulated them. He cleared his throat. “Do you have... ?” He coughed again. “Do you have the money to pay”
Arnau could not look at him. He had just given him a loan. Could it have been for his house? For linen? For furnishings, or perhaps for the boat itself? The young man’s negative reply rang in his ears.
“I therefore sentence you to ...” The lump rising in his throat almost prevented him from going on. “I sentence you to prison until you pay off the entire amount of your debt.”
How could he pay it if he were not able to work? Was his wife pregnant? Arnau forgot to rap the bench with his gavel. The missatges stared at him. He remembered, and hit the wooden bench in front of him. The young boatman was led away to the consulate’s cells. Arnau lowered his head.
“It’s something you have to do,” the clerk said when all the others had left the courtroom.
Seated to the right of the clerk in the center of the immense judge’s bench, Arnau said nothing.
“Look,” the clerk insisted, showing him another thick book that contained the consulate’s rules and regulations. “Here’s what it says concerning prison sentences: ‘This is how the consul shall demonstrate his power, from greater to less.’ You are the consul of the sea and have to demonstrate your power. Our prosperity, the prosperity of this city, depends on it.”
He did not have to send anyone else to prison that day, but on many others he found himself forced to do so. The consul of the sea’s jurisdiction included everything that had to do with commerce: prices, the crews’ wages, the security of ships and goods... and anything else related to the sea. After taking up his post, Arnau quickly established himself as an authority independent of the city bailiff and magistrate; he passed sentence, embargoed ships, seized debtors’ goods, sent others to jail, backed up by the army of missatges.
While Arnau was busy at the Consulate, obliged to send young boatmen and others to prison, Eleonor summoned Felip de Ponts. He was a knight she had known since her first marriage. He had been to see her on several occasions for her to intercede on his behalf with Arnau, whom he owed a considerable amount of money he could not repay.
“I’ve tried everything I could, Don Felip,” Eleonor lied when he appeared before her, “but it is impossible. He is going to call in your debt soon.”
When he heard this, Felip de Ponts, a tall, strong-looking man with a bushy blond beard and small eyes, turned pale. If his debts were reclaimed, he would lose what little land he possessed ... and even his warhorse. A knight without land to provide him with income and without a horse to go to war on was no knight at all.
Felip de Ponts bent on one knee.
“I beg you, my lady,” he pleaded. “I’m sure that if you so desired, your husband would postpone his decision. If he recovers his debt, my life will not be worth living. Do it for me! For old times’ sake!”
Eleonor stood in front of the kneeling knight for some time, giving the impression she was thinking the matter over.
“Stand up,” she ordered him. “There might be a possibility ...”
“I beg you!” Felip de Ponts begged, before rising.
“It is very hazardous.”
“That does not matter! I’m not afraid of anything. I’ve fought with the king in all—”
“It would involve abducting a young girl,” Eleonor blurted out.
“I don’t ... I don’t understand,” the knight stuttered after a few moments.
“You understood perfectly,” Eleonor replied. “It involves abducting a young girl and then ... deflowering her.”
“That is punishable by death!”
“Not always.”
THIS WAS WHAT Eleonor had heard. She had never dared ask, especially with this plan of hers in mind, but she turned to Joan to confirm it.
“We need to find someone who will abduct her,” she told him, “and then rape her.” Joan buried his face in his hands. “As I understand it,” she went on, “the Customs of Catalonia state that if the girl or her parents agree to the marriage, then the rapist will not face punishment.” Joan’s hand was still in front of his face. “Is that true, Brother Joan?” she insisted, when he made no reply.
“Yes, bur ...”
“Is it true or not?”
“It is true,” Joan concurred. “Rape is punishable by lifelong exile if no violence is involved, and with death if there is. But if the two agree to marry, or the rapist proposes a husband of similar social rank whom the girl accepts, then there is no punishment.”
A smile stole across Eleonor’s face, which she quickly tried to stifle when Joan again tried to get her to change her mind. She adopted the position of the wronged wife.
“I don’t know, but I can tell you there is nothing I would not try in order to win my husband back. Let’s find someone who will abduct her,” she insisted, “then rape her, and then we will consent to his marrying the girl.” Joan shook his head. “What’s the difference?” Eleonor stressed. “We could force Mar to marry, even against her will, if Arnau were not so blind ... so bewitched by that girl. You yourself have said you wanted to see her marry, but Arnau will not hear of it. All we would be doing is to remove that woman’s pernicious influence on my husband. We would be the ones who chose Mar’s future husband, just as if she were being married in an ordinary way. The only difference is we do not need Arnau’s agreement. We cannot count on that, because he has lost his reason over that girl. Do you know any other father who would allow his daughter to grow old without marrying? However much money they may have, or however noble they are. Do you know anyone? Even the king gave me away against ... without asking my opinion.”