The castle, the king, the royal court... had they ever been there? The war ... squeals of terror when Genis Puig, who had no castle, no king, and had never been to court, tried to capture their attention by playing up all the battles he had fought in. And wine, lots and lots of wine ...
“What is a nobleman like you doing in the city, in this inn? Are you waiting to see someone important?” Aledis heard Teresa asking.
“We’ve brought in a witch,” Genis Puig boasted.
The girls had been talking to Lord de Bellera. Teresa saw him cast a disapproving look at his companion. Now was the time.
“A witch!” gushed Teresa, throwing herself on Jaume de Bellera and clasping both his hands in hers. “In Tarragona we saw one being burned. She shrieked as the flames leapt up her legs to her body, then her breasts, and...”
Teresa looked up at the ceiling as though following the path of the flames. She raised her hands to her own breast, but soon came back to reality, and looked with embarrassment at the nobleman, whose face was already flushed with desire.
Still holding her hands, Jaume de Bellera stood up.
“Come with me.” It sounded more like an order than a request. Teresa let herself be dragged away.
Genis Puig watched them leave.
“What about us?” he said to Eulàlia, suddenly dropping his hand onto her calf.
Eulàlia made no move to lift it off.
“First I want to hear everything about the witch. It excites me ...”
The knight slid his hand up her thigh. He began to tell her the story. When she heard the name “Arnau,” Aledis almost gave the game away by raising her head. “The witch is his mother,” she heard Genis Puig say. Revenge, revenge, revenge ...
“Now can we go?” Genis Puig pleaded when he had finished his account.
Aledis heard Eulàlia hesitate.
“I’m not sure...,” said the girl.
Genis Puig stood up, swaying. He slapped Eulàlia on the face.
“That’s enough nonsense. Come with me!”
“All right, let’s go.” She yielded.
ONCE SHE REALIZED she was alone in the dining room, Aledis found it hard to stand up. She put her hands to the back of her head and rubbed her neck. So they were going to try Arnau and Francesca—the Devil and the witch, according to Genis Puig.
“I’d take my own life before letting Arnau know I’m his mother,” Francesca had told her during one of their few conversations after Arnau’s speech on the plains of Montbui. “He’s a well-respected man,” Francesca went on before Aledis could say anything, “and I’m nothing more than the mistress of a bawdy house. Besides... there are many things I could never explain to him: why I didn’t follow his father and him, why I left him to die...”
Aledis had looked down.
“I’ve no idea what his father told him about me,” Francesca continued, “but whatever it was, there’s nothing I can do about it now. Time leads one to forget even a mother’s love. Whenever I think of him, I like to picture him on that platform defying the nobles; I have no wish to see him brought down from on high. Best leave things as they are, Aledis. You’re the only person in the world who knows my secret; I’m trusting you not to give it away even after my death. Promise me that, Aledis.”
But what use was her promise now?
WHEN ESTEVE CAME back up into the tower, he was no longer carrying the scythe.
“The mistress says you are to put this over your eyes,” he said, throwing Joan a piece of cloth.
“Who do you think you are?” Joan exclaimed, kicking the cloth away.
There was not much room inside the tower, scarcely three steps in any direction. With a single bound, Esteve was beside Joan. He slapped him hard twice, once on either cheek.
“The mistress says you are to cover your eyes.”
“I’m an inquisitor!”
This time, the blow from Esteve sent Joan crashing against the wall. He lay there at Esteve’s feet.
“Put the blindfold on.” Esteve lifted him with one hand. “Put it on,” he repeated when Joan was upright.
“Do you think that by using violence you can intimidate an inquisitor? You cannot imagine—”
Esteve did not let him finish. First he punched him hard in the face, and Joan went hurtling against the wall once again. Then Mar’s servant began to kick him—in the groin, the stomach, his chest, his face ...
Joan curled up in a ball to protect himself from more pain. Esteve picked him up with one hand.
“The mistress says you are to put it on.”
Joan was bleeding from the mouth. His legs gave way under him. When the servant let go, he tried to stay on his feet, but a stab of pain in his knee made him lurch forward and clutch Esteve’s body. The giant pushed him away.
“Put it on.”
The cloth was beside him. Joan realized he had wet himself and that his habit was sticking to his thighs.
He picked up the blindfold and put it on.
Joan heard the servant close the tower door and go down the staircase. Silence. On and on. Then he heard several footsteps on the stairs. Joan clambered up, gripping the wall. The door opened. They had brought some pieces of furniture with them; could they be chairs?
“I know you have sinned.” Mar was seated on a footstool. As she intoned the Inquisition’s charge, her voice reverberated around the room. Next to her, the little boy was watching the friar closely.
Joan said nothing.
“The Inquisition never blindfolds its... prisoners,” he complained finally. “Perhaps if I could see you face-to-face ...”
“That’s true,” he heard Mar reply. “You only blindfold their souls, their dignity, decency, their honor. I know you have sinned,” she said again.
“I won’t accept a trick like that.”
Mar signaled to Esteve. The servant went over to Joan and punched him hard in the stomach. Joan bent double, gasping for breath. By the time he had managed to straighten up again, there was complete silence in the room. He was panting so hard he could not even hear the others breathing. His legs and chest ached; his face felt raw. Nobody said a word. A knee to the outside of his thigh toppled him to the floor again.
Pain surged through him. He curled up into a ball once more.
Still silence.
A kick to his kidneys sent him arcing in the opposite direction.
“What do you want from me?” Joan screamed between the waves of pain.
Nobody answered. Finally the pain subsided, and it was then that Esteve picked him up again and hauled him in front of Mar.
Joan struggled to stay on his feet.
“What do you ... ?”
“I know you have sinned.”
How far would she go? Would she really beat him to death? Was she capable of killing him? Yes, he had sinned; but what authority did Mar have to judge him? He shuddered so violently he thought he was about to collapse again.
“You’ve already condemned me,” Joan managed to say. “Why judge me then?”
Silence. Darkness.
“Tell me! Why do you want to sit in judgment on me?”
“You are right,” he heard her say at length. “I’ve already condemned you, but remember it was you who confessed your guilt. On this very spot, it was you who robbed me of my virginity; this was where you had me raped time and again. Hang him and get rid of his body,” Mar told Esteve abruptly.
Mar’s footsteps began to descend the staircase. Joan felt Esteve tie his hands behind his back. He could not move; none of his muscles responded. The servant raised him in order to get him to stand on the stool where Mar had been sitting. Then Joan heard the noise of a rope being thrown up over one of the wooden beams in the ceiling. Esteve missed his aim, and the rope clattered to the floor. Joan wet himself again, and his bowels loosened. The noose was round his neck.