49
THE DUNGEON DOOR suddenly clanged open.
This was not the usual time; the sun had not yet gone down
sufficiently, and daylight was still struggling to find a way in
through the bars of the tiny ground-level window, although the
scene of misery inside seemed to make this an impossible endeavor
amid all the dust and the foul vapors coming from the prisoners’
bodies. This was not the usual time for the door to open, and all
the shadowy figures stirred. Arnau heard the sound of chains, which
ceased when the jailer came in with the new prisoner. That meant he
had not come in search of one of them. Another man ... or rather,
another woman, Arnau thought, correcting himself when he saw the
outline of the old woman in the doorway. What sin could that poor
woman have committed?
The jailer pushed her inside the dungeon. She fell
to the floor.
“Get up, witch!” his voice resonated round the
entire dungeon. The old woman did not stir. The jailer gave the
bundle at his feet two hefty kicks. The echoing sound of the two
dull thuds seemed to last an eternity. “I said, get up!”
Arnau noticed how the other shadows tried to merge
into the walls of the prison. The same shouts, the same gruff bark,
the same voice. He had heard that voice often during the days he
had been imprisoned, thundering from the far side of the door after
one or another of the prisoners had been unchained. Then too he had
noticed how the shadows shrank away from it, consumed with the fear
of torture. First came the voice, then the shout, then a few
moments later the heartrending cry of a body in pain.
“Get up, you old whore!”
The jailer kicked her again, but she still would
not move. Eventually, puffing and blowing, he bent down, grasped
her by the arm, and dragged her over to where he had been told to
chain her up: as far as possible from the moneylender. The sound of
keys and chains told them all what had happened to her. Before
leaving the dungeon, the jailer came over to where Arnau was.
“Why?” he had asked when he had been ordered to
chain the witch up as far away as possible from Arnau.
“This witch is the moneylender’s mother,” the
officer of the Inquisition told him; he had heard it from one of
the lord of Bellera’s men.
“Don’t think,” said the jailer when he was next to
Arnau, “that you can pay the same to have your mother eat properly.
Even if she is your mother, she is still a witch, and witches cost
money.”
NOTHING HAD CHANGED: the farmhouse, with the tower
to one side, still dominated the low rise. Joan looked up the hill
and in his mind once more saw the assembled host, the nervous men
with their drawn swords, the shouts of joy when he, on this very
spot, succeeded in convincing Arnau to give up Mar in marriage. He
had never got on well with the girl: what was he going to say to
her now?
Joan looked up at the heavens and then, stooping
and with downcast eyes, started to climb the gentle slope.
Outside, the farmhouse seemed deserted. The silence
was broken only by the rustle of animals moving on the straw in the
stables.
“Is there anybody there?” shouted Joan.
He was about to call out again when he spotted
something moving by a corner of the house. A boy was staring at
him, his eyes wide open in astonishment.
“Come here, boy,” Joan ordered him.
The youngster hesitated.
“Come here ...”
“What’s going on?”
Joan turned to look at the external staircase
leading to the upper floor of the farmhouse. At the top was Mar,
staring straight at him.
The two of them stood motionless in silence for
quite some time. Joan tried to discover in this woman the image of
the girl whose life he had handed to the Lord de Ponts, but the air
of severity about her seemed far distant from the explosion of
feelings that had occurred in this same farmhouse six years
earlier. The seconds flew by, and Joan felt more and more
inhibited. Mar meanwhile pierced him with her steady, unflinching
gaze.
“What are you here for, Friar?” she asked him
finally.
“I came to talk to you.” Joan had to raise his
voice to reach her.
“I’m not interested in anything you might have to
say.”
Mar made as though to turn on her heel, but Joan
quickly added: “I promised Arnau I would talk to you.”
Contrary to his expectations, the mention of
Arnau’s name did not seem to make any impact on her; but she did
not go inside either.
“It’s not me who wishes to talk to you.” Joan let a
few moments go by. “May I come up?”
Mar turned her back on him and went into the
farmhouse. Joan walked to the foot of the staircase. He peered up
at the heavens. Was this truly the penitence he deserved?
He cleared his throat to show her he was there. Mar
was busy at the hearth, stirring a pot that hung from a hook over
the fire.
“Speak,” was all she said.
Joan studied her back as she leaned over. Her hair
cascaded down below her waist, almost as far as a pair of firm
buttocks whose outline was very clear beneath her smock. She had
turned into an ... attractive woman.
“Have you got nothing to say?” asked Mar, turning
her head toward him briefly.
“Arnau has been put in jail by the Inquisition,”
the Dominican blurted out.
Mar stopped stirring the food in the pot.
Joan said nothing more.
Her voice seemed to quaver and dance as delicately
as the flames of the fire itself: “Some of us have been
incarcerated for much longer.”
Mar still had her back to him. She straightened up,
staring at the beams of the hearth.
“It wasn’t Arnau who put you there.”
Mar turned quickly to face him. “Wasn’t he the one
who gave me to the Lord de Ponts?” she cried. “Wasn’t he the one
who agreed to my marriage? Wasn’t he the one who decided not to
avenge my dishonor? Ponts raped me! He kidnapped me and raped
me!”
She had spat out the words. Her whole body was
shaking, from her top lip to her hands, which she now raised to her
breast. Joan could not bear to see the pain in her eyes.
“It wasn’t Arnau,” the friar repeated in a faint
voice. “It was... it was me!” He was speaking loudly now. “Do you
understand? It was me. I was the one who convinced him he should
marry you off. What future was there for a raped girl? What would
have become of you when the whole of Barcelona learned of your
misfortune? Eleonor convinced me, and I was the one who arranged
your kidnapping. I agreed to your dishonor in order to get Arnau to
allow you to be married to someone else. It was I who was guilty of
everything. Arnau would never have done it otherwise.”
They stared at each other. Joan could feel the
weight of his habit lightening. Mar stopped shaking as tears welled
up in her eyes.
“He loved you,” said Joan. “He loved you then and
he loves you now. He needs you...”
Mar lifted her hands to her face. She bent her
knees to one side, and her body sank until she was prostrate before
the friar.
That was it. He had done it. Now Mar would go to
Barcelona. She would tell Arnau and ... These were the thoughts
racing through Joan’s mind as he bent to help Mar up ...
“Don’t touch me!”
Joan jumped away from her.
“Is something wrong, my lady?”
The friar turned toward the door. On the threshold
stood a giant of a man. He was carrying a scythe and stared at him
menacingly. Joan could see the little boy’s head poking out from
behind his legs. The man was only a couple of feet from the friar,
and seemed head and shoulders taller than him.
“Nothing is wrong,” said Joan, but the man came
into the room, brushing him aside like a feather. “I’ve told you,
there’s nothing wrong,” Joan insisted. “Go about your
business.”
The little boy ran and hid behind the doorframe.
Joan stopped looking in his direction, and when he turned to the
others, he saw that the man with the scythe was kneeling in front
of Mar, without touching her.
“Didn’t you hear me?” asked Joan. The man did not
answer. “Do as you are told, and get about your business.”
This time the man did turn and look at him. “I take
orders only from my mistress,” he said.
How many big, strong, proud men like him had fallen
at Joan’s feet? How many had he seen sobbing and begging for
forgiveness before he passed sentence? Joan’s eyes narrowed. He
clenched his fists and took two steps toward the servant.
“How dare you disobey the Inquisition!” he
cried.
Before he could even finish, Mar was on her feet.
She was shaking again. The man with the scythe also stood up, but
more slowly.
“Friar, how do you dare come into my house and
threaten my servant? Inquisitor? Ha! You’re no more than a devil
disguised as a friar. You were the one who raped me!” Joan could
see the man’s fingers gripping the handle of the scythe. “You’ve
admitted it!”
“I... ,” Joan stammered.
The servant came over to him and pushed the blunt
edge of the scythe into his stomach.
“Nobody would find out, Mistress. He came on his
own.”
Joan looked at Mar. There was no fear in her eyes,
or compassion. There was only ... He turned as quickly as he could
to make for the door, but the little boy slammed it shut and
confronted him.
Behind his back, the man reached out with the
scythe until it was hooked round Joan’s neck. This time it was the
sharp edge he pressed against his throat. Joan did not move. The
boy’s fearful expression had changed to mirror that of the two
people near the hearth.
“What... what are you going to do, Mar?” As Joan
spoke, he could feel the scythe cutting into his neck.
Mar said nothing for a few moments. Joan could hear
her breathing.
“Shut him in the tower,” she ordered.
Mar had not been in there since the day the
Barcelona host first made ready for its attack, then exploded in
shouts of triumph. Ever since her husband had fallen at Calatayud,
she had kept it locked.