The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “These are all sources of our wine and brandy,” whispered Jose to Miquel. “This is grim news indeed.”

  “In exchange, I am delighted to announce that Barcelona and the surrounding lands are now under the control and justiciary of Castile,” continued the emissary, “and amongst my duties will be the raising of taxes for Madrid.”

  “This is not a peace for us,” said Jose to Miquel, “It’s as the English warned me. We cannot trust either the Castilians or the Frenchies.

  Flinging their wine cups to the floor, and with a noisy scraping of stools, the group of businessmen started to stand indignantly, and prepare to leave the assembly.

  “Stay just where you are!” ordered the emissary. The soldiers raised their weapons, and the atmosphere in the room became distinctly ugly.

  “There will be a number of regulations relating to this delinquent region; the most significant is the abolition of the reprobate language of Catalan.” There were further gasps of horror. “Castilian is the only permitted language for public use, and will be adhered to in all legal, political and commercial business. Further regulations will be posted, in Castilian of course, on the door of the Generalitat. Now gentlemen, go about your business. Canon Pau d’Ager, you will remain with me.”

  The brothers, young Perot and the rest of the businessmen shuffled out of the chamber. Once in the street, their anger exploded.

  “Peace treaty! It’s an abomination!”

  “How dare they come into our parliament and behave this way?”

  “To try to ban Catalan! I would they tore the tongue from my mouth first – I am a Catalan, and my language, my culture, my whole being is of Catalunya.”

  The men stood in an impotent group frustrated by the high-handed treatment they had received. Jose glanced around. “Gentlemen, I think we should move on. There are Castilian soldiers all around us, and who knows what spies amongst them. Hold your peace until we are somewhere a little safer.”

  Turning to one or two closer friends, Miquel said, “Come this evening to my shop. Let us reflect upon these happenings and consider what should be done.”

  Later that evening, over a considerably more friendly cup of wine, Miquel spoke to his friends. “I swore on the body of my murdered father, that I would never live under the yoke of the Castilians. I swore to uphold the Catalan language and traditions. Before you, my friends, I renew my vow. We are Catalans, and will always be so.”

  “And I swear also,” came the youthful voice of nine-year-old Perot, “that I shall follow my father and grandfather. Grandfather was the first Lion of Catalunya, and my father here, is the second. I will grow up to be third, and Catalunya will never be destroyed whilst I am alive!”

  “Well spoken, young man,” replied one of those listening. “We all join you in dedicating ourselves to this most nobles of causes.”

  Miquel spoke thoughtfully. “Friends, I believe we must continue our guerrilla war against the Castilians. We are few in number compared to the hoards from Madrid, and we cannot openly declare war. We can, however, continue to make life hard for Philip’s men. We must undermine their resolve to dominate our land.”

  “We’ll drink to that,” came another voice. “It is us, not them, who will show resolve.”

  Jose interjected, “I don’t think this supposed peace will last. Friendship and peace between France and Castile? They’ll soon be at one another’s throats. And Catalunya will again be their battlefield. I give it two or three years, and the Treaty of the Pyrenees will be ripped to shreds.”

  “You may be right, brother. We all pray that you are. Meanwhile, we fight on, and when the time comes we will be ready to rid our land of the Castilian curse. Just as we spilled the wine in front of that cursed emissary, so we shall spill Castilian blood.”

  Barcelona was a great prize for the Castilian king; and he wanted it as much for the riches of the international trade developed there, as much as the power and prestige. Perversely, therefore, he did not want action to be taken against the businessmen of the city, as without them the trade would collapse, and with it the possible advantages for Madrid. It was this policy, more than anything else, which saved the life of Canon Pau d’Ager, and prevented a manhunt in La Ribera for the Catalan guerillas. Miquel and his fellows were protected rather than threatened by the Madrid attitude, and much to their own surprise, were able to continue to trade, although with the threat of unknown taxes hanging over them.

  Emilia, Elena and Elizabeth became good friends, and gave an impression that they would happily sit and sew together, gossip, and quietly laugh, enjoying the benefits of being the women in an affluent and successful family. Elizabeth, however, was becoming increasingly homesick for London, a feeling not helped by the dangers of living in Barcelona at that time. One day Elena took her husband to one side. “Miquel,” she began, “you should know that Jose is talking of going back to London. Elizabeth misses her family, and misses life in London; she is becoming desperate to return. Jose thinks her anxiety is preventing her from bearing him a child. I think they will be going on the next voyage of the Swan.”

  “I had expected this, good wife, and we must wish them well. Life here in Barcelona is uncertain – heavens, the poor women has hardly known a time without wars of some sort surrounding her. Letters from Javier indicate that England is a great deal more peaceful than here, and it is not surprising that she wishes to return.”

  Jose confirmed his wife’s desire to go back to London. He said that since the English had cut off the head of their king, the land was far more peaceful. “Old Ironsides, the Lord Protector in London, is a fierce man, but he brought peace with the execution of King Charles. Would that we had a Cromwell here, to lead us to a similar victory in Madrid. Would we not be glad to see Philip’s head struck from his shoulders?”

  “I would be that Cromwell,” replied Miquel, “but I haven’t the troops to command. Indeed we must wish Jose and Elizabeth well, and hope that their return to English soil will bring the issue of children from Elizabeth that Jose is hoping for.”

  “Perhaps,” said Emilia, “I will have English grandchildren. Better by far than have Castilians!”

  The family group that gathered on the shore was in sombre mood. Emilia had not seen her son Javier for many years, and she feared she would never see Jose again either. She had grown to love Elizabeth, but understood her homesickness and gave her blessing to her. Instructing them to write long and detailed letters, to be sent back to Barcelona on the Swan, both Elena and Emilia embraced Elizabeth as she stepped into the boat. At the last moment, Jose turned not to Miquel or his mother, but to Perot. “Well young man, I leave the fate of Catalunya in your hands. My brother your father, is a strong and powerful man, but he will not always be so. The task will fall to you to take up arms when called; and to keep the traditions and language of our heritage alive. Farewell, little soldier, little lion!” And he ran his fingers through Perot’s blond curls.

  Turning to his brother, Jose continued, “And farewell Miquel; may God preserve you from the plague, the Frenchies and the Castilians.”

  “Farewell brother,” rejoined Miquel, “and if you find out how Cromwell led his Roundheads to victory, come back and tell us!”

  “If ever you cut off the head of Philip, I’ll be back to help!” laughed Jose as he embarked.

  They watched the couple being rowed out to The Swan, and then the slow and laborious setting of the sails, and the ship gathering speed as it headed for the horizon. At last they turned and walked back up the beach. “Well, little soldier-lion,” said Miquel, ruffling Perot’s hair as his brother had done, “We have a business to run, you and I, so you can put those thoughts of swords and fighting out of your head. With Jose gone, you are my right-hand man, and you are going to work at learning this trade until you know more about it than I!”

  The trade in Rioja and local Catalan brandy remained the cornerstone of the Blanxart family business, and as Perot grew older, he became an expert. He expa
nded the trade of the business, and soon the Blanxart firm needed another ship. A letter was sent to Javier, who contacted the owner of the Swan, John Shaw of Gravesend, and The Woodbird was selected.

  Although the company had an outstanding reputation as experts in the Rioja and brandy trade, and had almost a monopoly in providing high quality wines and spirits to London, Perot was concerned that they needed to diversify, and thus contacted other tradesmen in La Ribera, as well as making discrete enquiries in the countryside. He sent Javier and Jose samples of cloth from a number of cottage industries in small towns to the north, and discovered sources of high quality olive oil in a number of farms in the countryside west of the city. Perot maintained his father’s passionate commitment for Catalonian commerce, and dealt exclusively with farmers and traders who had equal fervour for the cause.

  Javier sent back very encouraging messages regarding the fabrics, but reported that the Londoners were rather confused about olive oil. He agreed to try to sell some for its ‘medicinal’ qualities, but advised Perot not to send too much.

  The Blanxart warehouse on the shore near La Ribera was no longer the secretive place it had been when it was started, and whilst Miquel was almost always at the shop dealing with the wine trade customers, Perot was at the warehouse meeting and greeting traders and farmers as their goods were delivered. With the second ship, Perot was despatching large quantities of goods to London, and was pleased to learn from letters that his uncles Javier and Jose were kept fully employed selling the Catalonian products, and investing in a wide range of goods for sale in Barcelona.

  The years passed. Emilia became a frail old lady, maintaining a dignity and earning respect throughout the Ribera. When she died in 1665, she had outlived her husband by twenty-six years. She died with Miquel, Elena and Perot beside her, and as she expected, she had never seen her sons Javier or Jose again.

  “Perot,” she whispered, “where are you?”

  “Close beside you,” replied her grandson, as he leaned towards her.

  She run her fingers through his curls, and her last words were to Perot. “Always remember, my handsome grandson, the four blood stripes on the golden shield. Always remember.”

  At age fifteen, Perot was as tall as his father, and as strong, and asked to carry his grandmother’s body to Monjuic, to lay it beside the grandfather he never knew. Walking behind him, Miquel and Elena studied the tall blond youth with the precious cargo in his arms.

  “Our son is a man now,” said Elena. “I feel very proud of him.”

  “Let us pray that we see him come of age in these troubled times,” replied Miquel. “He inherits a flourishing business, and a fine tradition; he has been born into a rich culture, and showed strength in surviving the plague. He understands our love of our country, and we have passed to him all the stories and songs of our land. He is our only son and heir. He carries a large responsibility on those shoulders.”

  “He will do well,” said Elena, “He is a true Catalonian.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jose’s prediction that the Treaty of the Pyrenees would not last, was true. In 1663, renewed hostilities had broken out between Castile and France, and a sporadic war between them began that would last for over thirty years. The skirmishes were rarely near Madrid, nor in the South of France – they were invariably in Catalunya. Barcelona, the city, remained largely untouched, frustrating Miquel that he had only a few opportunities to continue his personal guerrilla warfare against both Castilians and French. The continuing war caused far more problems in the countryside, creating constant insecurities for all the farms, hamlets and small towns. Country folk thus formed small armed groups to defend themselves when necessary against the marauding soldiers. Such groups were generally thought of as bandits, and regarded as rather romantic, the stuff of legends and tales.

  Just as his uncle had travelled the land seeking business contacts loyal to the Catalonian flag, so Perot started to ride from farm to farm, meeting grape growers, and learning about the origins of the family’s flourishing Rioja trade. He travelled many miles and was greeted warmly. The farmers remembered the charismatic Jordi who had visited them previously, and Perot, so instantly recognisable with his blond curls, was a popular visitor throughout the land.

  Perot was also the contact between the guerillas in La Ribera, and their bandit counterparts in the countryside. Many times he would arrive to find a farm occupied by a rough Catalan group, to whom he was always a hero.

  One day, his curiosity got the better of him, and he asked one of the bandits why he was treated so royally. “After all,” he said, “I’m just a businessman from La Ribera. You treat me so well, and I’m not sure why. I’m no more than my father’s son.”

  The bandits laughed. “You are your father’s son! That’s enough, that’s more than enough. Your father is our hero; and so his son must be treated well also.”

  Perot was still puzzled. “I don’t understand. What do you mean? My father’s just a wine merchant in Barcelona.”

  The bandits laughed even louder. “Listen to him! Just a wine merchant!”

  Then one of them realised the mystery. “Wait,” he said to Perot, “You don’t know the significance of your father, do you?”

  Perot shook his head.

  “You know the story of Corps de Sang?”

  This time Perot nodded. “My father told me the story. It was when bandits went all the way to Madrid, and murdered many members of the king’s family. My father told the story very well.”

  “As indeed he should. He was one of those bandits. He wanted revenge for the death of your grandfather, and when the call came he was ready to go. The sword, you must know of his sword, the one used to kill your grandfather, was the sword he took to Madrid. It killed many of the accursed House of Austria. Your father dipped his hand in their blood and made the mark of four, just as Guifre el Pelos’s blood was used on his golden shield to make our first senyera.”

  Perot shook his blond curls in astonishment. “My father the bandit. But that makes him a wanted man. This must remain a closely guarded secret. Wait ‘til I get home; how could he not tell me? And wait, you said ‘the sword’. What does this mean? It’s all a mystery to me.”

  With a friendly punch on the shoulder, one of the bandits laughed again. “Just wait until you get home, then you ask him. But do it very privately: choose a very safe time and place.”

  Once back in La Ribera, Perot asked his father to join him in the cellar, where they could talk privately.

  “You have a secret, father: a secret that I have found, quite by accident.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Perot,” said his father.

  “I think you do. All those times you told me the story of Corpus de Sang. You knew the story very well, and in much detail, didn’t you?”

  Miquel nodded, with a slow smile.

  “Perhaps you knew it so well because you were there, father. You were one of those bandits, weren’t you?”

  Miquel nodded again. “My identity was always a secret, and we decided that we could not tell you when you were young, for fear you would boast to friends, and the story would get out. The Castilians would dearly love to know who killed so many of their royal family, but none of us have ever been found.”

  Perot jumped up and embraced his father. “Perhaps you were right not to tell me. I am so proud of you. I would have wanted to shout it from the rooftops if I’d known it when I was young. My father the bandit! And the sword! Where is the sword? Show it to me.”

  “I was the Young Lion of La Ribera once,” said Miquel. “Your grandfather was the Old Lion. Now I suppose I’m the Old Lion and you are Young Lion.” Turning to the darkest corner of the cellar and leaning behind a barrel, he pulled out a bundle, and unrolling it, produced the sword. “It’s a Castilian sword, from a Castilian soldier. It was the one used to murder your grandfather, and in turn it was used to murder many of the House of Austria. One day, this will be your sword, and you will keep i
t safe, and have it ready to defend Catalunya.”

  Perot took the sword from his father and held it reverentially. It was heavy and sharp, showing no sign of its age, or indeed the deeds it had been used for. There was a silence between them, and Perot passed it back to his father. Miquel wrapped it carefully, put it back into its secret corner.

  Perot sought a wife the way he ran the Blanxart business, with enthusiasm and passion, but also with care. Miquel and Elena were perplexed at the way Perot was determined to continue to try to export olive oil despite Javier’s problems selling it to the Londoners. Perot was particularly keen on one particular farmer near Sant Cugat del Valles, who, he claimed, had particularly good and productive olive trees growing on the hillside. One day Miquel took his son to one side.

  “What’s this passion you have for olive oil?” he asked. “And so much interest in that farm at Sant Cugat? You visit there more often than all the vineyards put together. Your judgement seems a little clouded on this issue!”

  “Oh no, father,” replied Perot. “I don’t think my judgement is clouded at all. I have a passion all right, but it’s not particularly for olive oil or the farmer. It’s for the farmer’s daughter. I think I am in love father.”

  “Perot Blanxart, you will inherit one of the most flourishing businesses of La Ribera. Despite your youth, you are already much respected in the barrio, and I suspect even in the city itself. I cannot have you falling for some country girl. I think you should forget all about this trade in olive oil.”

  “Anna’s father is a gentleman farmer, father. He owns much of the Sant Cugat area, and lives in a splendid house, a great masia many times larger than our’s. It is a former castle, standing proud on his own hill overlooking the lands of Sant Cugat. Who knows? Perhaps we may even need it one day to defend Catalunya. I would like for you and mother to visit Anna’s family. May I have your permission to seek an invitation?”