For many months, a guerrilla war raged in Barcelona and reprisals were severe in the city. Castilian agents, well disguised, hid themselves on roof tops and in dark alleyways ready to strike. Anyone showing the senyera, the Catalan flag, was vulnerable. No Catalan was safe as the random slaughter continued. Senor Dominguez knew he was a prime target, but refused to take down the senyera flying over the door of the shop.
The family were awakened one night by shouts in the street and a fearsome hammering on the door. Senor Dominguez had already gone to bed, and clambered down the stairs to see what the commotion was all about. Opening the small door, he peered out, and was grabbed by unknown assailants.
Before he could speak, he was dragged from the house, and his throat slit. Hearing the terrible noises, the family rushed down the stairs to see what had happened. As they climbed through the small door, they were horrified to be confronted by the sight of Senor Dominguez, half naked in his nightshirt, dying in the street, blood pouring from a hideous wound in his neck. With a terrible scream, Senora Dominguez’s instinct was to rush out to her husband. Emilia tried to hold her back, but was not quick enough to prevent the older woman’s headlong charge out into the street. In the melee that ensured, and despite neighbours attempting to intervene, the old lady received a blow to the head from one of the assassins, and Senora Dominguez crashed down and died shortly afterwards, falling beside her husband.
The sight of the two old people lying dead in the street, brought a silence to the crowd. The assassins disappeared into the night as Emilia knelt weakly by her parents. It had all happened so quickly. Neighbours helped her up, and the bodies of the old couple were carried into the shop. Numb with sorrow, Emilia watched as the bodies were laid on the long table, in just the way her husband had so recently been laid. Marta, who had stood paralysed by horror and fear, put her arm around Emilia, and held her tightly. There was a pause as if she was gathering strength for what was to come, and shakily at first, Emilia stood up.
Finding herself thrust shockingly and unexpectedly to guide the family, Emilia focussed on the enormity of the terrible task in hand, and gradually she found a calm inner strength. She invited everyone to a vigil for the grandparents overnight. She thanked the few neighbours who remained with the family, and they set candles around the bodies, finally settling down to a hushed calm.
As dawn broke, Emilia with Marta’s help, watched by her youthful children, carried out the tearful and reverend task of cleaning and preparing the crushed bodies for burial at Montjuic. With a handcart borrowed from a neighbour, the young family took their grandparents to the graveyard. The old couple seemed strangely small and insignificant wrapped in sheets on the bare boards of the handcart, belying the importance and regard with which they had been held in life. Several neighbours joined behind them as Marta and Emilia led the sorry funeral procession across the beach towards the mountain. Emilia found the way to the Dominguez tombs. With help from the neighbours, the grandparents were pushed into the tomb, to lie side by side for eternity. After laying the old couple to rest, the family and their friends went to Joan’s fresh tomb, to say further prayers.
“If it is the way of the world that Catalunya be defended with blood,” said Emilia at Joan’s graveside, “Then so be it. My father was proud to fly the Catalan flag, and his death must not be in vain. My mother also stood by him at all times, always proudly Catalan, and she died beside him in the fight for our country. All night I have been thinking. They died because of what they believed in. And we believe the same. In the name of my father, my mother, and Joan my husband, we must be strong and fight on. We pray for the safe return of Miquel. We pray that he has avenged his father’s murder. We pray to the Blessed Virgin of the Dawn to give us the strength to carry on the fight.”
Some weeks later the family were horrified by another sudden night-time hammering on the door. They went down into the shop, but did not dare to open the door. “Not again,” whispered Emila to the children. “They cannot want the rest of us.”
The hammering continued as the family cowered. Then came a shout, “Is anyone awake? Let me in! It’s Miquel!”
Letting out a huge sigh of relief, Emilia pulled back the bolts, and peered round the door. It was with great relief that she saw her oldest son, grasping his sword. She opened the door just enough for him to slip inside. Miquel had returned unscathed but battle-weary, quietly pleased at the deaths he had achieved with the royal relatives, but frustrated by the survival of the king himself. The family could see immediately that he had changed: the violent experiences in Madrid had given him a maturity, although he still had a young body. He was horrified to discover that his grandparents had become victims of the bloodbath, and reacted with anger. “An old man.” he growled, “And an old lady. What cowards are these Castilians to kill old people in this way?” Miquel’s hand grasped the hilt of his sword tightly, his knuckles turning white. “If only I’d been here,” he said. “They would have received a taste of their own medicine.”
“You were doing greater work for our country, risking everything, Miquel. We won’t forget that, and we don’t regret that you weren’t here when the assassins came. You will remember what your father told us,” said Emilia. “Castile will stop at nothing to win Barcelona; and we must all be ready to defend our land. Your father was a proud Catalan, and showed the senyera defiantly at the door of the baker’s shop. He always knew it was provocative, but he was determined to show his loyalty. He would not take it down – that would have been the action of a coward. In the same way, my father showed the flag at the door of the winery. I am proud of my father, just as you are proud of your’s. The Virgin has returned you safely to us, and we thank her for that.”
Canon Pau Claris, desperate to stop the killings in the city, sent to Louis, King of France for help. Louis XIII was delighted to offer French troops to protect the city from the Castilian soldiers, thereby gaining a foothold in the glittering prize that was Barcelona, and soon the city was teeming with the foreigners. The Castilian troops, with orders that they must not retreat, engaged the Frenchies in skirmishes throughout the region, and both sides were constantly attacked by the Catalans. Miquel, his hackles raised, wanted to join the guerrilla fighting, but this time was held back by Marta.
“You are the eldest, the first-born,” she said. “Your duty now is to the family. With your father gone, and Emilia’s parents also, we look to you for protection and support.”
“But grandmother, I should go. I have tasted the blood of these Castilians, and have seen many bloody deeds. I must drive these foreigners from Catalan soil. Philip’s troops must be driven back to Madrid; and the cost of having the French here is too high. We are forfeiting lands to France in the Pyrenees, and we will never get them back. I have no taste to live under the French flag any more than I wish to be Castilian”
“And who will carry on the fight here?” answered Marta. “Your duty is to marry, and have a son. Teach your son the stories of Catalunya that your father taught you, the stories that my father had taught him. It is up to you now to secure your family, this is your responsibility and duty.”
“Tell the stories?” said Miquel.
“Yes indeed,” said Marta. “They are not written down; they are stories that pass from generation to generation. Remember the senyera, the story of the golden shield. You would not know it, if my father had not told it to your father. That is why you need a son.” she paused and smiled, “And we need you. You are the man of the house, and must settle to the job.”
“Then who shall I marry, grandmother?”
“There are many eager young women in the barrio.”
“Then find me one who has passion and fire and loyalty for Catalunya, and I’ll wed her!”
Marta’s optimism was a little misplaced, for Miquel rejected all of the young women she found. He had no patience for the small talk of the girls, and sent them, crying, on their way.
At last she found Elena, the daughter of a b
lacksmith. Elena was a big fierce woman, with a fiery temper, long black hair, and a suitable match for the battle hardened Miquel. She was a true daughter of La Ribera, and boasted to Miquel that she had played her part in the recent riots. She showed an understanding and knowledge of Catalunya that pleased Miquel, and vowed that when the time came she would fight alongside him.
“We shall raise our own army,” she declared. “Many Catalonian babies, to grow up as soldiers for Catalunya!”
Miquel, as a young man, had learned the trade of baking, and run the Pujol bakery well. Now he found himself without a bakehouse, but with a wine merchant’s. He was anxious to learn the vintner’s trade. For some weeks, since the murder of Senor Dominguez, the business had been in the doldrums, with transactions happening more by chance than design. Emilia knew much from observing her father, but had always remained in the background and thus did not have the many personal contacts which were needed for the business to flourish. Miquel promised to marry Elena as soon as he had it back on its feet.
One evening, a knock at the door startled Miquel and the women. “Who calls at such an hour?” wondered Marta, and Emilia was worried, and frightened, remembering the terrible night of her parents’ murder. “Don’t fear, mother” said Miquel. “‘Tis a friendly knock; I know the sign.” Nevertheless, he picked up his sword before opening the door.
When it was opened, a handsome man of Miquel’s age came into the shop. Dropping his sword, Miquel embraced him warmly. “My dear friend, I did not expect to see you here. I trust you do not bring bad news.”
“On the contrary, brother Miquel, I come peacefully and cordially. Many of us have heard of the murders of Senor and Senora Dominguez; and we know that you are struggling to maintain your grandfather’s business. It cannot be easy.”
“I struggle here, I admit,” replied Miquel, “but I believe I will revive this business. But first, come through to the parlour and be refreshed from your journey.”
Calling to Marta and Emilia to meet his guest, Miquel explained in rather vague terms that the man was known to him as a loyal Catalan fighter, a ‘man of the four stripes of blood’, and a welcome guest. Marta produced pastries, and Emilia was sent to find a bottle of good Catalan Rioja.
“We don’t have many of these left,” she said as she returned from the cellar.
“But soon there will be plenty,” replied the stranger, with a mysterious laugh. “Is it in order for me to talk in front of the women?” he asked.
“It certainly is,” replied Miquel. “My mother and my grandmother are both loyal Catalonians. You can tell we speak no other language in this house, and we will all defend our Catalan heritage until death. I am sorry only that the girl I am to marry is not here also, for then you would meet three generations of good Catalan women.”
“The word has been passed around,” rejoined the stranger. “Of how your grandparents were murdered by Castilian thugs, murdered for showing the flag of Catalunya. The word has travelled over the countryside, and loyal Catalonian farmers send their greetings to you. It is hard to thrive in this strife-filled land of ours, and we are bringing messages of goodwill from many of your admirers.”
Miquel looked startled, and Emilia clutched her son’s shoulder.
“Do not be so alarmed,” smiled the stranger. “The stories of your son’s exploits in Madrid may have become part of Catalan folklore, but his identity remains a close-guarded secret.”
“I am fearful you have come to take him away again,” said Emilia.
“I trust not!” said Marta.
“Fear not ladies, your son, your grandson, is safe here in your care. I bring quite different news. Many farmers are rebuilding their vineyards, and need to renew the network of trade in wine. Despite all the best efforts of the Castilian fighters, and the supposedly friendly intervention of the Frenchies, some of the vineyards are already bearing fruit, and good Catalan wine will soon be flowing again. Now we need to find a way to sell the wine and bring some measure of prosperity back to our land regardless of the intentions of the Castilians or the Frenchies.”
“I have come,” he continued, “ to challenge Miquel to be our channel through the port and to satisfy my brothers that he is ready and willing to deal with the growing trade in Catalan wine. There is much danger, as all his suppliers will be well-known to the Castilians as loyal Catalonians, and we do not wish to bring a spotlight to bear upon this house. There have been enough deaths for the cause already.”
“Amen to that,” whispered Emilia.
“And here is the crux of the matter,” the stranger continued. “Senor Dominguez dealt in wine from the countryside, and supplied it to Barcelona. That was his trade, wine for the rich and the poor. We know that even Pau Claris himself and the rich of the city drank wine supplied from this house. We know also that the loyal people of this barrio, your own Ribera, looked to Senor Dominguez for the good Catalonian wine he sold them. But we are talking about a new and greater challenge. There will be far more wine than Barcelona can drink. If Miquel, our brother in arms here, is to support us and be the channel for rescuing the grape farmers of the region, he must prepare to ship the wine abroad; become a wine trader as well as merchant. What do you think?”
The family turned to Miquel, who did not hesitate.
“I cannot say anything but yes,” he replied.
“It may not be as glamorous as wielding your sword in Madrid,” grinned the stranger, “But it will be supporting the network of Catalunya, and by bringing wealth to the region, help to restore some dignity and strength to our people.”
“A wonderful proposition,” exclaimed Emilia.
“And a good basis for raising a family,” laughed Marta.
“Let’s drink to that, and to your forthcoming nuptials,” announced the stranger, raising his cup of wine.
“Aye, good Catalan wine,” said Miquel. “It’s time the world found out about it.”
The women went to bed, and Miquel and the stranger talked late into the night. Eventually the stranger disappeared into the darkness, but Miquel sat up thinking. He would need contacts at the port; he would need to understand how trade worked and he would need a network of foreign customers. England! The English had always been friendly towards the Catalans. They notoriously hated the Castilians, and were daggers drawn with the French. Yes, he would trade with London, and introduce good Rioja to the Englishmen. All would have to be done with a measure of secrecy. The daily local trade would act as a cover whilst he sorted out the international complexities. London! Could it be?
In the morning, Emilia found him slumped across the table, the candle out, and the wine finished. “Well,” she said, “ what shall we do first, marry or buy a boat?”
“Both, mother!” exclaimed Miquel, “Wait until I tell Elena; she will be mine, and we will sell our wine to England!”
The merchant’s house was again the scene of some rejoicing for the marriage of Miquel and Elena. Although there was a deep underlying sadness, for the wedding would take place without Joan or the Dominguez grandparents, the family did their best to give Miquel and Elena a good start in life. Marta’s old bakery skills, with Emilia’s help, produced many tempting breads and pastries for the wedding breakfast. Miquel found a few more bottles of good wine, and he and Elena were married at Santa Maria del Mar just as his parents had been.
Meanwhile, Miquel had not been wasting time since the visit of the stranger, and at the wedding breakfast, he explained everything to the family.
“I have taken the lease on a warehouse in El Born, and we will start to fill it with good local wine, in barrels, which can age slowly in the dark and cool.” Turning to one of his brothers, he said, “You, brother Javier, are to set sail for London as soon as you can, and will set up our trade in that city. There is an English boat leaving within the week, and you will sail on that.” Javier was suitably astonished, and then excited. “Do not think the voyage will be a holiday, as you must learn the English tongue from the Engli
shmen on board. I will furnish you with a cask of good wine, and if I can find it, another of Catalan brandy, as gifts for the captain, to ensure your safe passage and co-operation from all on board, whilst you learn the lingo.”
Turning to the next brother, he continued, “And you, brother Jose, are to go with him.” Now it was Jose’s turn to be surprised. “And as soon as you know we can sell the wine, you will find the first ship back to tell me. The sooner you return here, the sooner our trade will begin in earnest. Oh, and whilst you’re on board, you will learn English too. In fact, not a word of Catalan from your lips, either of you. If we are to become traders, we will become great traders, and knowledge of the English tongue and habits will be crucial.”
“Finally Jordi, my baby brother,” he continued, “I will give you the names of many of our loyal Catalan farmers, and you can ride out and meet each and every one. Tell them of our scheme. Encourage them to help fill our warehouse ready for Jose’s return.”
The brothers shouted loud with their excitement, but Miquel quietened them quickly.
“Stay calm, my brothers, stay calm. Remember what we are doing is not without its dangers. The Castilians will be watching the seas, and sailing out into the Mediterranean is dangerous. And for you also Jordi, riding the countryside will arouse suspicions if you are not very careful. The Frenchies are watching you, just as much as the thugs from Madrid. There are spies everywhere. These are great adventures you are embarking upon, but maintain some secrecy, keep your own council, and trust no-one. And now, my bride, I had almost forgot this is our wedding breakfast. These brothers of mine are off to London and the countryside, but we are to bed!”
CHAPTER THREE
Miquel and Elena were good at producing babies. Miquel’s bloodthirsty adventures in Madrid left him much in need of the comfort and rewards of a lusty wife; and Elena brought all the gusto and verve of being a blacksmith’s daughter to their love making. Following their wedding, they moved into the room previously used by Senor and Senora Dominguez. At first, they were insecure about the ghosts of the grandparents lingering in the room, but soon their athletic love-making banished all such thoughts. The rest of the family were highly amused by the shrieks which echoed through the house, and indeed the vibrations which threatened to demolish the place, as Miquel and Elena matched one another in lust and stamina. Little Joan Blanxart was born in 1643, rapidly followed by little Miquel, little Jordi, little Jose, and little Javier.
The Lions of Catalunya Page 6