The king had ordered his armies to assemble in the town of Figueres, in the north of the principality. All those nobles who had not abandoned him headed there, together with the hosts of Catalonia, including the citizens of Barcelona. Among these was Arnau Estanyol. He felt free and hopeful, and carried his father’s crossbow and his blunt bastaix dagger.

But if King Pedro succeeded in bringing together an army of twelve hundred men on horseback and four thousand foot soldiers in Figueres, he also managed to attract another army: the relatives of soldiers—mostly of the Almogavars, who lived like Gypsies and took their families with them wherever they went: tradesmen selling all kinds of goods, and hoping to be able to buy whatever booty the soldiers obtained; slave traders; clergymen; cardsharps; thieves; prostitutes; beggars; and all kinds of hangers-on whose only aim was to try to cream off the army’s spoils. Together, they formed an incredible rear guard that moved at the same pace as the army, but obeyed its own rules—often crueler ones than those to be found in the conflicts they lived off like parasites.

Aledis was simply one more in this motley crowd. The farewell from Arnau was still ringing in her ears. She could still feel the way that her husband’s rough, clumsy hands had forced their way between her legs. The old man’s panting mingled with Arnau’s words in her memory. He had pushed at her, but she had not moved. He had grasped her more firmly, hoping for that fake generosity with which she usually rewarded his efforts. But this time, Aledis closed her legs. “Why did you leave me, Arnau?” was all she could think as Pau fell on her, pushing his penis into her with his hands. She gave way and opened her legs. She felt so bitter she had to stifle a desire to retch. The old tanner started to squirm like a snake on top of her. She was sick beside the bed, but he did not even notice. He was still thrusting away feebly, supporting his flaccid manhood with his hands, and nibbling at her breasts, where the nipples lay flat, unaroused. As soon as he had finished, he rolled off and fell fast asleep. The next morning, Aledis made a small bundle of her scant possessions, took a few coins she had managed to steal from her husband, and went out into the street as usual.

That morning, however, she headed for the monastery at Sant Pere de les Puelles, then left Barcelona and started along the old Roman road that led to Figueres. She walked through the city gates, head down, avoiding looking at the soldiers and restraining the urge to break into a run. Once she was beyond the city walls, she looked up at the bright blue sky and set off toward her new future, smiling broadly at all the travelers coming in the opposite direction toward Barcelona. Arnau had also left his wife; she was sure of it. He must have joined the army to get away from Maria! He could not love that woman. When the two of them made love ... she could tell! When he was on top of her, she could feel his passion! He could not fool her—it was her, Aledis, whom he loved. And when he saw her ... Aledis had a picture of him running toward her, arms outstretched. Then they would escape! Yes, they would run away and be together ... forever!

For the first few hours of her journey, she fell in with a group of peasants returning to their farms after selling their produce. She explained she was going in search of her husband because she was pregnant, and wanted him to know before he went into battle. From them she learned that Figueres was a good five or six days’ walk away, following the same road through Girona. She also had the chance to hear the advice of a couple of toothless old women who seemed so frail that they must break under the weight of the empty baskets they were carrying on their backs, but who nevertheless kept going barefoot, and showed an unbelievable strength for such old, weak creatures.

“It’s not good for a woman to be traveling these roads alone,” one of them told her, shaking her head.

“No, it isn’t,” agreed the other.

A few seconds went by, while they both paused for breath.

“Especially if you are young and beautiful,” the second one added.

“That’s true, that’s true,” the first one concurred.

“What can happen to me?” Aledis asked naively. “The road is full of good people such as yourselves.”

Again she had to wait, while the old women struggled to catch up with their group.

“In this part there are plenty of people. There are lots of villagers who live off Barcelona like we do. But a bit farther on,” one old woman added, still staring at the ground, “when the villages are fewer and there is no large city nearby, the paths become lonely and dangerous.”

This time her companion did not add an immediate comment. Instead she walked on another few steps, then turned to Aledis. “If you are alone, make sure you’re not seen. Hide as soon as you hear a noise. Keep away from other people.”

“Even if they are knights?” laughed Aledis.

“Especially if they are!” one of the old women cried.

“As soon as you hear a horse’s hooves, hide and pray!” added the other.

This time they both shouted the warning together, without even needing to pause for breath. They were so insistent that they came to a halt, and allowed the other peasants to get some way ahead. Aledis’s look of disbelief must have been so obvious that, as they set off again, the two old women repeated their warning:

“Listen, my girl,” said one of them, while the other crone nodded agreement even before she knew what her companion was going to say, “if I were you, I’d go back to the city and wait for your man there. The roads in the countryside are very dangerous, especially now that they are full of soldiers and knights off to fight. That means there is no authority, nobody is in charge, nobody is worried about being caught and punished by the king, because he is so busy with other matters.”

Aledis walked thoughtfully alongside the two old women. Hide from knights on horseback? Why on earth should she do that? All the knights who had ever been to her husband’s workshop had always been courteous and shown her respect. Nor from the many traders who supplied the tanner with his materials had she ever heard any stories of robberies or problems on the roads of Catalonia. Instead, they had regaled the old man and her with terrifying stories of what could happen during sea voyages that took them into the lands of the Moors or even farther, to the territory of the sultan of Egypt. Her husband had told her that for more than two hundred years, Catalan roads had been protected by law and by the king’s authority, and that anyone who dared commit a crime anywhere along them would be punished far more severely than for a similar offense committed elsewhere. “Trade depends on peace on the highway!” he would declare, adding: “How could we sell our products all over Catalonia if the king could not guarantee peace?” He would go on to tell her, as though she were a child, how two hundred years earlier it had been the Church that had first started to take measures to defend the roads. First came the Constitutions of Peace and Truce, drawn up at church synods. If anyone broke them, they faced instant excommunication. The bishops established that the inhabitants of their sees were not to attack their enemies from the ninth hour of Saturday to the first hour on Monday, or during any religious festival. This truce also benefited all members of the clergy and churches, and everyone who was headed toward a church or coming back from one. He went on to explain that these constitutions had gradually been broadened to protect a greater number of people and goods, until they included merchants and farm animals, as well as those used for transport, and then farming implements and houses, the inhabitants of villages, women, crops, olive groves, wine ... and finally, King Alfonso the First extended this official peace to all public highways and paths in his kingdom, ruling that anyone who broke these provisions committed a crime of lèse-majesté.

Aledis looked at the old women, who had carried on walking in silence, bowed down under their burdens, dragging their bare feet through the dust. Who would dare commit a crime of lèse-majesté? What Christian would want to run the risk of being excommunicated for attacking someone on a Catalan road? She was still turning all this over in her mind when the group of peasants headed off toward the village of Sant Andreu.

“Good-bye, my girl,” the old women said. “Take heed of what we’ve told you. If you decide to carry on, be careful. Don’t go into any town or city. You could be seen and followed. Only stop at farmhouses, and then only when you see women and children in them.”

Aledis watched the group move off, with the two old women struggling to keep up with the others. A few minutes later, she was all alone. Until now she had been in the company of the peasants, talking with them and allowing her thoughts to fly out as she imagined herself with Arnau again, excited by the adventure she had experienced after her sudden decision to leave everything and follow him. Now, as the voices and sounds of her companions faded into the distance, Aledis suddenly felt lonely. She had a long way ahead of her; she put a hand to her forehead to try to make out where she should go, protecting her eyes from the sun, which was already high in the bright blue sky. Not a single cloud spoiled the magnificent dome joining the horizon to the vast, rich lands of Catalonia.

Perhaps it was not only a feeling of loneliness that Aledis felt when the peasants departed, or the strangeness of finding herself in this unknown landscape. The fact was that Aledis had never seen the earth and sky laid out before her, with nothing to prevent her from looking all round her and seeing everything stretched out in front of her ... whenever she liked! She stared and stared. She stared toward the horizon, beyond which she had been told lay the town of Figueres. Her legs trembled at the thought. She turned and looked back the way she had come. Nothing. She had left Barcelona behind, and could see nothing she recognized. Aledis looked in vain for the rooftops that until now had always come between her and this unknown marvel: the sky. She searched desperately for the smells of the city, the smell of her husband’s leather workshop, the noise of people, the sounds of a living city. She was on her own. All at once, the words of warning the two old women had offered her came flooding into her mind. She tried to catch some last glimpse of Barcelona. Five or six days! Where was she to sleep? How would she eat? She raised her bundle. What if their warning was true? What should she do? What could she do against a mounted knight or an outlaw? The sun was high in the sky. Aledis turned again toward where they had told her she could reach Figueres ... and Arnau.

She tried to be careful. She was constantly on the alert, listening for any sound that might disturb the road’s peace and quiet. As she drew near Montcada, where the castle stood proud on its hill, defending access to the plain of Barcelona, the road filled once more with peasants and traders. It was almost midday, and Aledis joined them as though she were part of one of the groups heading for the town, but when they came to its gates she remembered the old women’s advice, and instead skirted it and continued on her way on the far side.

Aledis was pleased to find that the farther she walked, the more the fears that had assailed her when she found herself alone gradually subsided. To the north of Montcada, she met up with more peasants and traders. Most of them were on foot too, although some rode on carts or on mules and donkeys. They all greeted her cheerfully, and this generosity of spirit also cheered Aledis. As she had done earlier, she joined a group, this time of merchants headed for Ripollet. They helped her ford the River Besós, but as soon as they had crossed it, they veered off left toward Ripollet itself. On her own again, Aledis avoided Val Romanas, but then found herself facing the real River Besós, a river that at that time of year had enough water in it to make it impossible for her to cross on foot.

Aledis looked down at the rushing water and at the boatman waiting unconcernedly on the riverbank. When he smiled a condescending smile at her, he revealed two rows of horribly blackened teeth. If she wanted to continue on her way, Aledis knew she had no choice but to use the services of this grinning fool. She tried to draw the top of her dress tighter over her bosom, but having to carry her bundle made it difficult. She slowed down. She had always been told how gracefully she moved: until now, she had been pleased at the idea. But now: the man was a big black bear! A filthy mess. What if she dropped her bundle? No; he would notice. After all, she had no reason to fear him. His shirt was stiff with dirt. What about his feet? “My God!” His toes were almost invisible under the grime. Slowly. Slowly. “What a dreadful man!” she could not help thinking.

“I’d like to cross the river,” she said in her bravest voice.

The boatman gazed up from her breasts to her big brown eyes.

“Ha,” was all he said, before brazenly staring at her bosom once more.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“Ha,” he repeated, without looking up.

The only sound came from the water rushing by. Aledis could feel the boatman’s eyes on her. She breathed more rapidly, which served only to make her breasts stand out even more. The man’s bloodshot gaze seemed to penetrate to the deepest corners of her body.

Aledis was all alone, lost in the Catalan countryside, on the banks of a river she had never heard of and that she’d thought she had already crossed with the traders heading for Ripollet. Alone with a big, strong brute of a fellow who was staring at her in the most disgusting way with bloodshot eyes. Aledis looked all round her. There was not a soul in sight. A few yards to her left, at some distance from the riverbank, stood a rough cabin built of tree trunks thrown together. It looked as vile and filthy as its owner. In among a pile of rubbish near the entrance stood an iron tripod with a pot cooking on it. Aledis could scarcely bear to think what might be inside the pot: the smell it gave off was enough to make her feel nauseous.

“I have to catch up with the king’s army,” she began to say hesitantly.

“Ha,” was all she got from him again.

“My husband is a captain,” she lied, speaking more firmly now, “and I have to tell him I’m pregnant before he goes into combat.”

“Ha,” said the boatman, showing his blackened teeth once more.

A trickle of saliva appeared in one corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with his sleeve.

“Don’t you have anything else to say?”

“Yes,” he replied. His eyes narrowed. “The king’s captains usually die quickly.”

Aledis did not see it coming. The boatman hit her swiftly and powerfully across the side of the face. Aledis spun around and fell at the feet of her aggressor.

The man bent down, grabbed her by the hair, and started dragging her toward his hut. Aledis dug her fingernails into the flesh of his hand, but he kept on dragging her along. She tried to get to her feet, but stumbled and fell again. She struggled, and threw herself against his legs, trying to stop him. The boatman evaded her clutching hands, and kicked her in the pit of the stomach.

Inside the hut, as she tried to get her breath back, Aledis felt earth and mud scraping against her as the ferryman discharged his lust.

Arnau Estanyol was among the royal army. At the age of twenty-two, he had never experienced anything like it. The royal camp, with more than two thousand men still excited by their victory in Mallorca, and keen for more fighting, violence, and booty, had nothing to do but await the order to march on Roussillon. It was the opposite of the quiet routine he knew from the bastaixos in Barcelona. Except for the periods when they were receiving training or practicing with their weapons, life in the camp revolved around gambling, listening to the tales of war that the veterans used to terrify the newcomers with, petty thefts, and quarrels.

Arnau was in the habit of strolling round the camp with three other youths who were from Barcelona and were as unused to the ways of war as he. They stared in admiration at horses and suits of armor, which the squires kept spotless at all times and displayed outside their tents in a kind of competition to show whose arms and equipment could shine the most. But if these steeds and armor impressed them, they could not help but be sickened by the amount of filth, the dreadful smells, and the clouds of insects attracted by the mounds of waste created by the thousands of men and animals. The royal officials had ordered that several long, deep trenches be dug to make latrines, as far as possible from the camp and close to a running stream intended to carry away the soldiers’ waste. But the stream was almost dry, and the refuse piled up every day and rotted, giving off a sickly, unbearable stench.

One morning when Arnau and his new companions were walking among the tents, they saw a knight on horseback returning from training. The horse was anxious to get back to its stable for a well-earned feed and to have the heavy armor removed from its breast and flanks. It snorted, raising its legs and kicking out, while the rider tried to control it and reach his tent without doing any damage to the soldiers or gear strewn about the lanes that had been created between the rows of tents. Held in check by a fierce iron bit, the huge, powerful animal chose instead to perform a spectacular dance, spraying anyone and anything it met with the white foaming sweat lathering its sides.

Arnau and his companions tried to get as far as possible out of the way, but unfortunately just at that moment the horse lunged sideways and knocked over Jaume, the smallest of the group. He was not hurt, and the rider did not even notice, continuing on his way back to his tent. But Jaume had fallen onto another group of soldiers, who were busy gaming with dice. One of them had already lost all he could hope to gain from whatever future campaigns King Pedro undertook, and was looking for a fight. He stood up, more than ready to vent the anger he felt toward his gaming colleagues on poor Jaume. He was a strongly built man with long dirty hair and beard. The desperate, frustrated look on his face, which came from losing steadily hour upon hour, would have deterred even the bravest of foes.

The soldier lifted Jaume clear off the ground until he was level with his face. The poor lad did not even have time to realize what had happened to him. In the space of a few seconds, he had been knocked down by a horse, fallen into a dice game, and now he was being attacked by a great roaring brute who shook him and then all of a sudden punched him so hard in the face that blood started to trickle from his mouth.

Arnau saw Jaume dangling from the man’s grasp.

“Let go of him, you swine!” he shouted, surprising even himself.

The others rapidly moved away from Arnau and the soldier. Jaume, who had been so astounded at Arnau’s words that he had stopped struggling, suddenly found himself on his backside on the ground as the veteran dropped him and turned to face the person who had been foolish enough to insult him. Soon, Arnau found himself at the center of a circle of onlookers curious to see what would happen between him and this enraged soldier. If only he had not insulted him ... Why had he called him a swine?

“It wasn’t his fault... ,” Arnau stammered, pointing to Jaume, who still had little idea of what was going on.

The soldier said nothing, but charged straight at Arnau like a bull. His head struck Arnau in the midriff and sent him flying several yards, right through the ring of spectators. Arnau’s chest ached as if it had exploded. The foul-smelling air he had got used to breathing seemed suddenly to have disappeared. He gasped for breath and tried to get to his feet, but a kick in the face sent him sprawling again. His head throbbed violently as he struggled again to breathe in, but before he could do so, another kick, this time to his kidneys, flattened him once more. After that, the blows rained down on him, and all Arnau could do was roll into a ball on the ground.

When the madman finally paused, Arnau felt as if his body had been smashed to pieces, and yet despite all the pain, he also thought he could hear a voice. Still curled in a ball, he tried to make out what it was saying.

He heard it quite clearly, speaking directly to him.

First once, then over and over again. He opened his eyes and saw the circle of people around him, all of them laughing and pointing at him. It was his father’s words that were resounding in his ears: “I gave up all I had for you to be free.” In his befuddled mind he saw images and had flashes of memory: his father hanging from the end of a rope in Plaza del Blat ... He got to his feet, his face a bloody mess. He remembered the first stone he had carried to the Virgin of the Sea ... The veteran had turned his back on him. Arnau recalled the effort it had taken to lift the stone onto his back ... the pain and suffering, and then his pride when he unloaded it outside the church ...

“Swine!”

The bearded veteran whirled round.

“Stupid peasant!” he roared again, before launching himself full-length at Arnau.

No stone could have weighed as much as that swine did. No stone ... Arnau stood up to the man’s charge, grappled with him, and the two men fell onto the sandy ground. Arnau managed to get to his feet before him, but instead of punching him, he grabbed him by his hair and his leather belt, lifted him above his head like a rag doll, and threw him right above the heads of the watching circle.

The bearded veteran fell in a heap on top of them.

But the soldier was not daunted by this show of Arnau’s strength. He was used to fighting, and in a few seconds he was again in front of Arnau, who was standing with feet spread wide in order to meet his charge. This time, however, instead of flinging himself on his opponent, the soldier tried to punch him, but once more Arnau was too quick for him: he parried the blow by grasping the man’s forearm, then spun round quickly and sent him crashing to the ground again, several yards away. This did not hurt the soldier, and so again and again he returned to the charge.

Finally, just when the soldier was expecting him to throw him off once more, Arnau instead punched him straight in the face, putting all his pent-up rage into the blow. The soldier fell at his feet, knocked cold. Arnau wanted to clutch his own hand to try to stop the stinging pain he could feel in his knuckles, but instead he stood staring defiantly at the small crowd that had gathered, his fist raised as though he might strike again. “Don’t get up,” he said silently to the fallen man, “for God’s sake, don’t get up.”

The veteran tried drunkenly to stagger to his feet. “Don’t do it!” Arnau put his foot in the other man’s face and pushed him to the ground. “Don’t get up, you whoreson.” The soldier lay still, until he was dragged away by his friends.

“You there!” The voice was one of command. Arnau turned and saw himself confronted by the knight who had caused the fight in the first place. He was still in full armor. “Come over here.”

Arnau went over to him, secretly nursing his bruised hand.

“My name is Eiximèn d’Esparca, King Pedro the Third’s shield bearer. I want you to serve under me. Go and see my attendants.”