“What’s going on?” Nicolau asked the guard, starting back from the window.
“Barcelona has come to set its consul of the sea free,” a boy shouted when Joan asked the same question.
Aledis and Mar closed their eyes and set their mouths in a firm line. They felt for each other’s hand, and stared up with tear-filled eyes at the window that had remained half-open.
“Go and fetch the magistrate!” Nicolau ordered the captain of the guard.
With no one paying any attention to him, Arnau got up from his knees and took Francesca by the arm.
“What made you tremble?” he asked her.
Francesca just managed to stop a teardrop from falling down her cheek, but she could not prevent her mouth from twisting in pain.
“Forget me,” she said, her voice choking with emotion.
The uproar outside the windows made all further conversation or thought almost impossible. The host had assembled and was heading for Plaza Nova. It passed beneath the old city gate, and on past the magistrate’s palace. He watched it go by from one of his windows. Then the men marched along Calle de los Seders up to Calle Boqueria and the church of San Jaume, whose bells were still ringing out, and then up Calle del Bisbe to the bishop’s palace.
Still clutching each other by the hand, Mar and Aledis rushed to the end of the street. Everyone was pressed up against the walls to leave room for the host to go by: in the vanguard was the banner of the bastaix, then the Virgin under her canopy, and behind her in a riot of color came the banners of all the other guilds of the city.
THE MAGISTRATE REFUSED to see the Inquisition’s envoy.
“The king cannot interfere in the host of Barcelona’s affairs,” the king’s captain told him.
“But they will attack the bishop’s palace,” said the other man, still panting.
The royal officer shrugged. “Do you use that sword to torture with?” he was on the point of asking him. The Inquisition envoy saw his look, and the two men glared at each other.
“I’d like to see you measure it against a Castillian blade or a Moorish scimitar,” the soldier said, spitting between the other man’s feet.
Meanwhile, the Virgin’s statue had reached the bishop’s palace, swaying on the shoulders of the bastaixos, who had been forced almost to run up the street to keep pace with the enraged people of Barcelona.
Somebody threw a stone at the leaded windows.
This one missed, but not the next one, or many of the others that followed.
Nicolau Eimerich and Berenguer d’Eril rushed away from the windows. Arnau was still waiting for an answer from Francesca. Neither of them moved.
Several people started banging on the palace doors. A youth with a crossbow slung over his back climbed up the wall, cheered on by the crowd below. Others followed suit.
“That’s enough!” shouted one of the city councillors, trying to push the people away from the door. “Enough!” he said again. “Nobody is to attack without the city’s approval.”
The men stopped hammering on the door.
“Nobody can attack the building without an order from the councillors and the guild aldermen,” the official repeated.
The people nearest the door fell silent, and word ran through the square. The Virgin steadied, and silence fell throughout all the host. Everyone in the square was staring up at the six men who had scaled the palace walls; the first of them was already level with the smashed window of the tribunal chamber.
“Come down from there!” came the cry.
The five city councillors and the bastaix alderman, who was wearing the key to the Sacred Urn round his neck, all shouted at the locked palace door.
“Open in the name of the Barcelona host!”
“OPEN UP!” THE Inquisition’s envoy banged on the doors of the Jewry, which had been shut as the host approached. “Open up for the Inquisition!”
He had tried to reach the bishop’s palace, but all the streets leading to it were thronged with people. There was only one way to get there: by crossing the Jewish quarter, which ran alongside the palace. If he could do that, he might be able to send his master the message: the magistrate was not going to intervene.
NICOLAU AND BERENGUER were still in the tribunal chamber when they heard the news: the king’s soldiers would not come to their defense, and the Barcelona host was threatening to assault the palace if they did not let them in.
“What do they want?”
The guard looked toward Arnau.
“They want the consul of the sea set free.”
Nicolau went up to Arnau until their faces were almost touching.
“How dare they!” he spat. Then he turned on his heel and sat down again behind the tribunal bench. Bishop Berenguer went with him. “Let them in,” ordered Nicolau.
To set the consul of the sea free; Arnau straightened up as much as his enfeebled condition would allow. Ever since her son had asked her his question, Francesca had been staring blindly in front of her. “‘Consul of the sea.’ I’m that person,” Arnau’s steady gaze told Nicolau.
The five city councillors and the bastaix alderman burst into the tribunal. Behind them, trying to go unnoticed, came Guillem, who had asked the bastaixos for permission to enter with them. He remained at the door while the other six, weapons drawn, faced Nicolau. One of the councillors stepped forward.
“What—” Nicolau started to say.
“The Barcelona host,” cut in the councillor, raising his voice above the inquisitor’s, “orders you to hand over Arnau Estanyol, consul of the sea.”
“You presume to give orders to the Inquisition?” asked Nicolau.
The councillor did not flinch. “For a second time,” he warned, “the host orders you to hand over the consul of the sea of Barcelona.”
Nicolau blustered, and turned to the bishop for support.
“They’ll attack the palace,” Berenguer said.
“They would not dare,” Nicolau whispered. “He’s a heretic!” he shouted.
“Should you not try him before you decide that?” one of the councillors said.
Nicolau’s eyes narrowed. “He is a heretic,” he insisted.
“For the third and last time, hand over the consul of the sea to us.”
“What do you mean, ‘for the last time’?” asked Berenguer d’Eril.
“Look outside if you really wish to know.”
“Arrest them!” shouted the grand inquisitor, waving his arms at the soldiers guarding the door.
Guillem took a few steps away from them. None of the councillors moved. Some of the soldiers put their hands to their swords, but the captain in charge signaled them to do nothing.
“Arrest them!” shrieked Nicolau.
“They’ve come to negotiate,” argued the captain.
“How dare you—” Nicolau shouted, rising to his feet.
The captain interrupted him: “Tell me how you expect me to defend this palace, and then I will arrest them; the king is not going to come to our aid.” The captain gestured toward the square outside, from where the sounds of the crowd were growing louder every minute. He turned to the bishop for help.
“You can take your consul of the sea,” said the bishop. “He’s free to go.”
Nicolau’s face flushed. “What are you saying ... ?” he cried, grasping the bishop by the arm.
Berenguer d’Eril shook himself free.
“You don’t have the authority to hand over Arnau Estanyol,” the councillor told the bishop. “Nicolau Eimerich,” he went on, “the Barcelona host has given you three chances: now hand over the consul of the sea to us or face the consequences.”