Cathedral of the Sea

“Kill me if you like,” he said, still panting for breath, “but you know very well that if it hadn’t been the halter, it would have been something else. The baroness hates you, and always will. You are nothing more than a runaway serf, and your son is the son of a runaway. You will never find work in Barcelona: those are the baroness’s orders, and if it’s not me, it will be someone else who spies on you.”

Bernat spat in his face. Not only did Tomás not move, but his smile broadened.

“You have no option, Bernat Estanyol. Your son will have to beg for forgiveness.”

“I’LL DO IT,” Arnau said wearily that night, fists clenched as he fought back tears after listening to his father’s account. “We can’t fight the nobles, and we have to work. The swine! They’re all swine!”

Bernat looked at his son. “We’ll be free there,” he remembered promising him a few months after his birth, when they had first set eyes on Barcelona. Was this what he had struggled so hard for?

“No, my son. Wait. We’ll find another—”

“They’re the ones who give the orders, Father. The nobles are in charge. In the countryside, in our lands, here in the city.”

Joan looked on in silence. “You must obey and submit yourselves to your princes,” his teachers had taught him. “Man will find freedom in the Kingdom of God, not in this one.”

“They can’t control the whole of Barcelona. The nobles may be the ones who have horses, but we can learn some other trade. We’ll find something.”

Bernat saw a gleam of hope appear in his son’s eyes. They widened as if he were trying to absorb strength from his father’s words. “I promised you freedom, Arnau. I must give it to you, and I will. Don’t give up so quickly, little one.”

Over the next few days, Bernat roamed the streets in search of freedom. At first, once he had finished his work in Grau’s stables, Tomás followed him, without even bothering to keep hidden. Soon, though, he stopped spying on him: the baroness understood she had no influence over artisans, small traders, or builders.

“It’ll be hard for him to find anything,” her husband tried to reassure his wife when she came to complain about the peasant’s attitude.

“Why do you say that?” she asked him.

“Because he won’t find work. Barcelona is suffering the consequences of a lack of planning.” The baroness urged him to continue; Grau was never wrong in his judgments. “The last few years’ harvests have been disastrous,” he explained. “There are too many people in the countryside, so what little they do harvest never reaches the cities. They eat it all themselves.”

“But Catalonia is big,” said the baroness.

“Make no mistake, my dear. Catalonia may be big, but for many years now the peasants have not grown cereals, which is what is needed. Nowadays they produce linen, grapes, olives, or dried fruit, but not cereals. The change has made their lords rich, and we merchants have done very well out of it too, but the situation is becoming impossible. Until now we’ve been able to eat grain from Sicily and Sardinia, but the war with Genoa has put a stop to that. Bernat will not find work, but all of us, we nobles included, are going to face problems. And all because of a few useless noblemen...”

“How can you talk like that?” the baroness cut in, feeling herself under attack.

“Look at it this way, my love.” Grau was serious in his attempt to explain. “We earn our livelihood from trade, and we’ve done very well out of it. We invest part of what we earn in our own businesses. We don’t use the same ships we had ten years ago, and that’s why we go on making money. But the noble landowners have not invested a thing in their lands or their working methods: they are still using the same implements and techniques as the Romans did. The Romans! They should let their fields lie fallow every two or three years; that way they could produce two or three times as much as they do. But those noble landlords you are so keen to defend never think of the future; all they want is easy money. They are the ones who will be the ruin of Catalonia.”

“Things can’t be as bad as all that,” the baroness insisted.

“Have you any idea how much a sack of wheat costs?” When his wife made no reply, Grau shook his head and went on: “Close to a hundred shillings. Do you know what the normal price is?” This time, he did not wait for her reply. “Ten shillings unground, sixteen ground. So a sack has increased tenfold in price!”

“What will we eat then?” his wife asked, unable to conceal her preoccupation.

“You don’t understand. We’ll still be able to buy wheat... if there is any, because there could come a moment when it runs out—if we haven’t got there already. The problem is that whereas wheat has gone up ten times in price, ordinary people are still receiving the same wages—”

“So we will have wheat,” his wife butted in.

“Yes, but—”

“And Bernat will not be able to find work.”

“I don’t think so, but—”