The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Copyright

  for Ian, Liz and Lynn

  PREFACE

  Through twelve generations of the Blanxart family, we follow the tumultuous story of Catalunya. From open warfare and terrorist atrocities to joyous celebration of a unique culture, the narrative of Catalunya as experienced by the Blanxarts, sheds light upon our experience of the modern world and its challenges.

  This is not a history of Catalunya: readers who wish to know more about the fascinating and troubled history of the nation can find accurate sources, in English. What follows is fiction, and although many of the characters and situations in the story are taken from history, the Blanxart family and its exploits are entirely imaginative. Blanxart is a traditional Catalan family name, pronounced (approximately) “Blan-shart”.

  This story has been made possible by research at the Museum of the History of Catalunya, in the Palau del Mar, Barcelona; at the amazing Mediaeval building, Santa Maria del Mar, also known as the Cathedral of the Sea; and at the extraordinary church of Sant Miquel in Barceloneta. The sculpture of St Michael on the façade of the church was the catalyst for the story.

  Jeremy D Rowe

  January 2016

  CHAPTER ONE

  The child’s life was hardly different from that of a small foraging animal. Each night he would curl up to sleep in the filth and rubbish in some neglected corner beside the cathedral; by day he would beg and hunt for scraps of anything edible he could find. He stayed with a small pack of urchins, all equally stinking and unwashed, all hardly alive in the midst of the bustling affluence of the city.

  His world was small, no more than a few lanes and alleyways around the walls of the cathedral. He would scuttle from place to place, never missing a chance to beg from the constant stream of pilgrims arriving to worship at the shrine of Santa Eulalia. He was tiny: perhaps no more than four years old. And his smallness was at times an advantage. Now and again, a grand lord or lady would arrive with a servant carrying alms for the poor, and he would be lucky, picked out for his smallness, and big brown pleading eyes. A coin would be dropped into his filthy fingers, a coin sufficient to buy a pie at Santa Caterina market. It happened occasionally that some pilgrim had decided his route to heaven required him to bring a basket of bread to give to the urchins of the cathedral, and he would spend the day nibbling half a loaf.

  He thought he had a name, since everyone called him Sucio. Little did he realise at the time, that it simply meant ‘dirty-one’, and it amused the clean and cultured visitors to the cathedral to see him answer eagerly to the insult. He understood speech, but never spoke, apparently quite dumb, and he knew little of the world beyond the cathedral alleyways.

  Sucio knew his city was Barcelona. He knew he had a king called Philip, since he heard the nobles’ calls of ‘God save King Philip’, and he often wondered which of the rich gentlemen entering the cathedral was indeed his king. He knew that God lived in the cathedral, and that along with the mysterious Santa Eulalia, God had many visitors. He’d often tried to creep into the cathedral to see this God, but he had never got past the fierce priests who were always guarding the doors. “Away with you,” they would cry, kicking into the air as Sucio dodged back, “Filthy urchin, away from the door, this is God’s house!” And Sucio would scamper away, turning only to pull a face at the pomposity of the priest, and then run on to find the next crust.

  At night he would curl up with the other urchins he ran with. Like a pack of small animals, they huddled together for warmth in the winter, for companionship in the summer. And it was at night, lying in the darkness and filth, that he would see again the haunting last picture of his mother, after she was dragged from the tiny room they called a home.

  They had come for her at night, crashing down the lane with shouts and curses. “Witch!” they had shouted, “Witch! You will not escape! Do not try to hide!” And at that she had bundled him into the corner and covered him with the rags they slept on. Peeping from the pile of torn blankets, he had watched the men, snarling like animals, burst into the hut; he had seen them grab his mother, and heard her cries.

  “No, never, leave me alone. I’ve done no wrong, I’ve done no wrong!”

  “You cannot escape, you whore. We’ve seen you in the market trying to sell your potions, claiming to have cures for sickness and stomach attacks. We know you make the stuff here, and we’ve been told of how you collect herbs and flowers. We know you steal from gardens, and grab plants from any corner. And insects. We have eyes everywhere and have been told of you crushing beetles into your evil concoctions. You cannot deny it.”

  “Surely I make remedies,” replied his mother, “But it’s with a good heart and good skill to give good medicine.”

  “Fie on your good medicine,” interrupted the man leading the gang. “You are no expert in medicine, you are an expert in sorcery, and you bring black arts into our market place. And what is this?” he continued, bring the lantern up to his mother’s face, “What painted harlot are you? What stuff is on your face, evil one?”

  “I make cosmetics also,” whimpered the woman.

  “Cosmetics?” spat the man, slapping his hand brutally across her face. “What clever words are these from one so low? Words only a witch will know.” And he slapped her repeatedly scraping the simple make-up from her face. As she screeched and whimpered, he continued to abuse her.

  The boy cowered down in the rags, struck dumb by the brutality he was watching. The other men joined in baiting and attacking the woman, calling her whore and witch and filthy names. She would have fallen to the dirt floor if the leader had not been grasping her by the wrist. She twisted and pulled from him, but he was far too strong for her to resist.

  “It’s to Santa Caterina market you’ll go, but not to sell your evil stuff. There you will hang by your scrawny neck. There are others too – and all will be put to death. You are working for the devil and now the time has come for you to meet him!”

  With that, they dragged her from the hut. The tiny boy lay, quivering in the darkness, listening to her screams. Cautiously he crept out from the pile of rags and peeped around the ragged curtain at the door of the hut. Despite being in the grasp of four strong men, his mother was struggling enough to make progress down the lane very slow. Screaming like an animal caught in a trap, she did all she could to escape. It was useless. They continued on their brutal way.

  From other hovels in the lane, nervous faces watched the progress of the brutes, but none came to the aid of their neighbour.

  His silence in the hut had saved his life, and now the little boy continued dumbly to follow his mother. An instinct told him to remain inconspicuous. As he reached the open market place of Santa Caterina, he saw a sight of nightmarish horror. Other groups of men were dragging other women into the centre of the market place, which was lit by flaring torches. Set up, and well lit by the flames, was the gallows, with ropes hanging ready to hang several unfortunate women all at once.

  Each chaotic group, three or four men dragging a screaming young woman, converged into the torchlight, until there were six women being held, struggling and cursing, with a gathering crowd of onlookers. The boy could see people he recognised joining the crowd and shouting for the deaths of the witches.

  “Hang them all!” echoed around the market.

  “I saw her conjuring a potio
n to ruin the vegetables in my garden,” said one.

  “And she bewitched my cow, and turned the milk sour,” said another.

  “That’s the one who sent my boy mad, raving night after night, screaming that the devil was chasing him!”

  “There’s the one who looked into the face of my poor husband when he dropped dead before me. She killed him, I know, by her witchcraft. Death to the witches!”

  “Hang them all.” The cries grew, as more and more of the crowd joined the mass hysteria.

  Suddenly a shout halted all the other cries and screams. “Stop this nonsense!” came the loud voice of one of the priests from the cathedral. “You do not do this in the name of God. These women have had no trial. You have no evidence against them. The church does not condemn them.”

  “Go back to your cell, cleric,” came the voice of the man who had come to drag Sucio’s mother away. “This is nothing to do with you. Your pope-ish ways could have rooted out the evil living in the midst of us, but you chose to ignore it. Your inquisition could have burned these witches, but you didn’t. We can wait for you no longer. The time has come for these hags to die.”

  The priest stepped forward in front of the gallows, but one of the men stepped up to him. “Move aside my lord bishop,” he said with a sarcastic sneer, “Move aside.” The priest lifted up the wooden cross hung round his neck, but as he did so, the man struck him in the face, and he fell. “Get him out of the way.”

  A group of women darted forward and half carried and half dragged their priest away. The crowd, which had gone silent during this exchange, started their murmurings again. The sound grew and grew again, until all were baying for the lives of the women.

  The little boy, bewildered by the noise, terrified by the flames from the torches and confused by the screams, stayed in a dark corner of the market. Something told him not to run to his mother; something told him to remain silent and hidden. And he watched the satanic ritual take place.

  The women’s arms were tied behind their backs. Their struggles brought forth much cursing and swearing by the men. Their shawls were pulled away from their faces, and each neck was placed in a noose.

  “I have done no wrong!” came the loud clear voice of his mother.

  “Nor I, nor I!” called the other women.

  “Witches you are, and as witches you will die!” shouted the leader. And turning to the crowd, he said, “Let this be a warning to any others who practise the evil arts. Get out of Barcelona. Be on your way, for do not doubt, if you be caught, you also will die.”

  “I curse you,” came from another of the women, “We curse you!”

  “It is you who are cursed,” shouted the leader. “And now you die.”

  Horses were brought into the market place, three of them, bucking and rearing in the torchlight. Their riders were having much trouble controlling them, but brought them eventually to the gallows. The ropes from the nooses about the women’s necks were already hanging from the high gallows, and now the loose ends were knotted and brought to the horses. They were handed to the riders, who gripped them firmly, and tied them to their saddles. All went quiet, save for the snorting of the horses and the crying of the women.

  “Now you die!” repeated the leader, bellowing so that all would hear.

  Suddenly the horses were whipped hard, and bolted. This shot the women high into the air, hanged by the neck. A great cheer went up from the crowd. The women’s bodies whipped and swung. For some the end was mercifully quick; for others, their death was lingering as they choked and retched. The women swung limply, like rag dolls.

  The ropes were quickly grabbed from the horses, and several of the crowed darted forward to hold them and tie them to nearby posts, thereby keeping the women swinging high above their heads.

  The little boy watched all. The sight was printed into his memory, and even if he didn’t understand what had happened, he was numbed by what he had seen. The women were left hanging, and the crowd started to drift away. Unsure what to do, he went back towards the hut. As he shuffled slowly in the shadows, the smell of burning came to him; and as he turned into the lane, he saw the hut blazing. Hiding in a dark corner, he heard the shouts of the neighbours.

  “Hang the witch and burn her hut! That’s the end of all her evil ways. We’ll have no more of her kind here.”

  He slipped down in the corner, and cried, a strange animal-like mewling cry. Numbly he curled into a tiny ball. In the darkness no-one noticed him, and the crackling and spitting of his burning home meant that the strange noises he was making were unnoticed and unheard.

  Each night he had curled up in the same way: at first alone, and then with the small group of homeless orphans around the cathedral. He never spoke; remained quite dumb, the power of speech having left him when his mother was taken from him. He had little memory of her, nor understanding of having a mother, and it was only the horror of her death which remained with him. It was as if he had known her only at the moment she was taken from him. The only sound he ever made was the mewling cry which accompanied his midnight tears.

  He had fallen in with the gang of urchins, and learned their ways: scrounging and stealing and begging through their days; waking with the sunrise; huddling together to sleep at sunset. Each child had his own nightmares, and each would cry out in his own way. They comforted one another roughly in the darkness of the night, but come morning, they never tried to tell one another what horrors haunted them.

  Thus a year passed, and then another. Sucio shivered in the cold of winter, then broiled in the summer sun. His sun-tanned skin became dark with its constant patina of dirt. As the smallest urchin in the group, he stayed close to the older boys, and never ventured far from them. The oldest boy watched over him, ensured he got his share of the meagre pickings, and in a crude way cared for him.

  It was a hot day in the height of the summer when a legless beggar arrived, dragging himself on his hands and settling himself at the cathedral door. The boys watched warily as the beggar stretched out his calloused hand for alms. They were surprised to see someone more filthy and more needy than themselves. The beggar was dressed in rags, and a shaggy beard added to his fierce visage. His crab-like movement on his hands gave an impression of someone not human, more some kind of creeping, dragging animal, low to the dirt of the road. The cathedral priests did not kick the beggar out of the way as they had kicked the urchins, nor prevent the cripple from calling for alms; the passing worshippers were clearly rewarding the beggar far more than they did for the urchins.

  As evening came, the beggar moved towards the boys, and the oldest shouted to him.

  “Hey, you! You’ve taken our place today. Give us some of what you got given!”

  The beggar laughed. “Filthy kids. What do you take me for? Go try somewhere else.”

  But the boy persisted. “This is our patch. We live here. We can’t try somewhere else. We don’t know anywhere else. We’ve always been here.”

  “You can do better than here. You’re wasting your time here. This is my patch now. All these rich lords and ladies like to give alms to a cripple like me. They just think you kids are a nuisance and in the way. It’s giving alms to me that gets them into heaven isn’t it?”

  “We have nowhere else to go.”

  “Look kids, take some advice from someone who’s been on the streets for ever. Go down La Ribera slums. You’ll do better there. More chance to steal, more rubbish to pick through, more chances. I’d be there myself, but I can’t run away like you can. Go on down La Ribera.”

  Sucio listened and watched with his usual wide-eyed attention. Was there really somewhere better than being at the cathedral?

  “So where is this place?” retorted the boy.

  “Not far,” replied the beggar, “Go on down to Santa Caterina, go straight across the market and just keep going. Go past Santa Maria, and go on and on. You’ll know the Ribera slum when you get there. It stinks. But then so do I! And so do you! Lots of narrow alleys, lot
s of shops and hovels all close together. Lots of chances.”

  The urchins withdrew from the beggar and talked together. “Is it true? Here in our city, a better place for us?”

  The oldest boy decided: “I’ll go and see. And if it’s good, like he says, I’ll come back for you.”

  The boys found it hard to trust anyone, even one another, and suspiciously a couple of them grasped his wrists. “You’d better come back. Don’t just abandon us. If it’s good, you come and get us – or else we’ll come and find you, wherever you are.”

  He struggled out of their grasp. “I’m not going now, it’s getting dark. I’ll go in the morning. Now let’s sleep.”

  Sucio crept up close to the bigger boy. He said nothing, but put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s OK little one, we won’t leave you behind.” said the boy, and Sucio slept close to him.

  When he woke, the boy was gone. “We’ll not see him again.” muttered the other boys, and Sucio felt tears welling up inside. “Hey, we’ll be alright little one,” said the others, “Come on.”

  But Sucio stayed in the dark corner of the cathedral wall, rocking and mewling quietly. How could he run with the others, when yet again, he was so alone? Suddenly a fist knocked him gently on the shoulder. The oldest boy had come back.

  “What’re you crying for, little one? I said I’d come back. I’ve come to get you. It’s true what the old bastard said. It would be better. And if it didn’t work, we could come back here.”

  The gang crowded round. “This city is bigger than we know,” said the boy, “but it’s not too far. La Ribera is big, goes on and on, and it’s what he said, full of chances. Look what I got.” And from his dirty jerkin he pulled a grubby paper, full of squashed cake. The boys devoured it in just the way they gobbled all food. Sucio had never tasted anything so sweet, and he looked hopefully for some more. “Some more, little one?” laughed the boy. “There’ll be more when we get there.”