Several days of entertainment followed – a most unfamiliar experience for the family. Javier had become a wealthy man in England and was generous in providing for the daily feasting. He enjoyed hiring a cart, and going with his wife and Anna to La Boqueria Market, Barcelona’s biggest and oldest food market, to buy expensive meats and other foods. Once, when Anna suggested going to the little shops in La Ribera which were their neighbours, he dismissed the idea. “Oh no,” he said, “we can have far better than that!”
Even the markets of El Born and Santa Caterina were too humble for Javier; only the prestigious Boqueria was good enough for him. He presented Anna and her kitchen maid with huge cuts of pork, and sweetmeats, pig’s hearts and sausages. He sought out unusual fruits and expensive pastries. Only the wine pleased him in La Ribera, and that was because it was from Miquel’s own well-chosen cellar.
Miquel and Elena became quite exhausted by the constant holiday atmosphere, and Perot excused himself regularly to attend to the family business. At last it all became too much for Elena, who took to her bed, and she was relieved when Perot announced that the Woodbird was fully laden and the weather fair for the return trip to London. Javier’s wife requested another visit to Santa Maria del Mar, and the whole family joined together in prayer for the safety of those about to embark on the journey to England.
The farewells on the beach were tender, a mixture of regret and relief. Miquel knew that he would never see his brother again, but longed to return to the daily routine of his life which had been so completely disrupted. He had also become increasingly uncomfortable with the ostentatious spending of his wealthy younger brother. It did not sit happily in his conscience to eat, drink and be quite so merry in the midst of the poverty of La Ribera slum.
On the day Javier was to sail, Perot took the sword from its hiding place, and carried it, keeping it hidden in its roll of cloth, for the first time, to the beach. Perez walked beside him, excited to touch the hardness of the steel under the cloth.
On the beach, Javier made a speech which he had clearly been preparing: “Miquel, my dear brother, and all of your family: my wife and I have had an extraordinary visit to Barcelona. We return to London to live out the rest of our days, peaceful now that we have been to visit you, my dear family, in our precious city of Barcelona. We have great memories and love for our Catalan heritage, and will tell the stories you have told us with pride and dignity. There will always be a small part of Catalunya in our house in London, and I proudly fly the senyera in Charing Cross. You will always be in our thoughts. Remember always in your struggles and strife, that the English will come to your aid when you need them. Long live Catalunya!”
Without unwrapping it, Perot held the sword aloft and repeated the words, “Long live Catalunya!”, and Perez’s shrill young voice echoed the sentiment again, “Long live Catalunya!” The words echoed around the bay. Anna’s children, gathered closely on the beach, sang all of their repertoire of Catalan songs as Javier and his wife were rowed out to The Woodbird, their voices ringing across the water in the forbidden Catalan language. With the euphoria of the moment, none of the family noticed how much they had been observed.
Anna’s family lived comfortably in their fortified farmhouse at Sant Cougat, and were generous to family and servants; but Javier had gained an Englishman’s attitude to money, and clearly relished his expensive lifestyle. Miquel found it hard to know why he was uncomfortable with Javier, but not with Anna’s parents. When he talked to Perot, he discovered that his son shared his disquiet.
“We strive to make a living,” he began, “and we are successful. We are minor businessmen here in La Ribera, and we work hard to provide a good living for our wives and the grandchildren. So why does Javier’s financial success upset us?”
“I’m not sure, father,” replied Perot, “but I know we were embarrassed at the way he bought meat and sugary treats into the house. Somehow, I wanted to tell him to share it with the beggars and urchins in the street, not us.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Miquel. “I wanted to share, I didn’t want it all just for us. Your grandfather Joan always had something to spare for the street poor.”
“It seems unfair to me,” continued Perot, “That some people in this world are so lucky, and have so much, whilst others are so poor and live such miserable lives.”
“The priest would tell us to be content with our position in life,” said Miquel. “We thank God and the Virgin for what we have, however little it may be.”
“And the rich give alms to the poor, a tiny proportion of all their wealth,” said Perot, “Is that enough? Should we not do more?”
“We must accept our lot,” concluded Miquel, “but that does not mean I am without conscience. I remain uncomfortable. Somehow it seems to be part of our Catalan heritage that we feel concern and sympathy for the poor, and dislike the feudal system which gives so much to one and so little to another.”
“Dislike is not the word in my mind, father,” said Perot. “It makes me angry and I hate it, the poverty we see around us all the time, and wish with all my Catalan heart, I could do something about it.”
Ironically, in the light of such sentiments, the Blanxart business continued to flourish with the two ships constantly sailing between London and Barcelona. The good Catalonian Rioja continued to provide the backbone for the trade. The weather favoured voyage after voyage, the skills they had developed to deliver the high quality wine to England ensured that the family remained ahead of other importers in their reputation and success in the London wine markets, and the Blanxarts continued to receive a healthy and regular income.
In 1697, the French reluctantly abandoned their attempts to control Barcelona, leaving the city to the Castilian army. The regulations outlawing use of Catalan became more draconian, and many families gave up their efforts to maintain the language, capitulating to the pressure to speak Castilian. The Blanxart family, however, remained a defiant stronghold for the Catalan language.
Miquel and Elena did indeed die in their bed, in 1697, of old age; Elena died within a month of her husband. For a man who had had a price on his head for over fifty years, living until the age of seventy-seven was a remarkable achievement; the Castilians had failed to identify the bandits of the Corps de Sang and had abandoned their efforts to do so. His wife, from solid blacksmith’s stock, was a strong woman, and remained so into old age, surviving the horror and sadness of the plague, standing beside her husband in fierce defence of the Catalan language.
On his death bed, Miquel addressed Perot and Perez. “My son and my grandson. I passed the Blanxart sword to you Perot, some years ago, and at the time you committed to pass it to Perez when the time is right. The sword is a symbol of our Catalan heritage, and in this year of our Lord 1697, we are beset with efforts to stamp it out. Few are left in this great city to pass on the stories and songs of our past, and you, more than anyone else, are charged to do so. Perez, young man, to you falls the task of finding a loyal Catalan wife, and raising your children in the Catalan heritage. Even now, before you receive the sword, you must be thinking of the next generation to whom you will pass it. How old are you now, boy?”
“Seventeen, grandfather,” replied Perez.
“Then you must be married within a year,” smiled the old man.
“I promise, grandfather, that I will do my best.”
“And now,” continued Miquel, “bring in your brothers and sisters and sing once more the great Catalan songs. Sing to me of the mountains and the seas, the bandits and the sailors, and the land God gave to us.”
The family crowded into the room, and started to sing. Quietly at first, in reverence to the dying old man, but gradually more and more lustily, the singing filled the room. Angels themselves could not have heralded a man more beautifully into heaven, and the young people finished with their favourite song, praising the resplendent mountains of Catalunya. At the end of the song, there was a silence. Perot pulled the sheet gently over his father
’s face, and Anna ushered her children quietly out of the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rafael Blanxart was Perez’s first-born son, born in 1699. Perez had taken it as a duty to obey his grandfather’s instructions, and had married Carla in less than a year. Carla was the daughter of Senor and Senora Macia, another Ribera family, with a small butcher’s shop deep in the slum. Perez had seen the young Carla Macia occasionally at the pump, but had never spoken to her. He had even been sent once or twice to the Macia family shop to buy meat, and was rather repulsed by the smelly and fly-blown atmosphere of the butcher’s. The Macia family were known, however, for having a small senyera hanging at the back of the shop amongst the offal, and Anna, who had visited the place more often, suggested the Macia girl as a likely match.
The courtship had been a strange one, with Perot and Anna quizzing Carla’s parents about their understanding and knowledge of Catalan and the stories and songs of the land. The parents had passed this test with flying colours, and so Carla was deemed an appropriate wife for Perez.
When the question of a dowry had come up, Carla’s parents were as surprised as they had been by the Catalan grilling they had been given.
“I am not a rich man,” Carla’s father had begun, “and with many other children, my daughter Carla cannot bring a rich dowry to your family.”
“I do indeed seek a valuable and rich dowry for my son,” stated Perot, “but not as you expect. I want him to inherit the richness of his Catalan ancestry, and I need your daughter to bring your family’s songs and stories to the marriage. I must know that she will bring all the richness of our Catalan language, and ensure that my grandchildren are brought up in the tradition. That is all the dowry I seek.”
Once more the vintners had echoed with a merry wedding feast: following their marriage at Santa Maria del Mar, the couple had returned to the wine shop to find a banquet. Perot had raided the best of the wine from his cellar, Senor Macia had sent a generous piece of pork and many varieties of sausage, and Anna’s parents, in recognition of another excellent Catalonian liaison, had sent a whole basket of country treats from the farm at Sant Cougat.
The wedding feast was followed by the singing which had become a tradition in the Blanxart home, and Perez’s brothers and sisters were joined by Carla’s brothers and sisters who knew most of the same songs. There was further delight when they discovered that Carla herself could sing with a high clear voice, and there was a silence as she launched into a song which was new to the Blanxarts.
The singing vibrated through the shop and rooms above it, and out into the street. Many passers-by smiled to hear the twenty voices raised in joyous celebration of the marriage, but there were some who stopped, and listened and frowned. The family was unaware of spies in La Ribera, but reports of this unashamed celebration reached la Generalitat, adding to a growing file of notes and evidence that the Blanxart Wine Merchants were defying all the regulations banning the Catalan language.
The presence of the Castilians continued to cast a shadow, but failed to curtail the commerce and trade of the city and port. Carla and Perez continued to produce babies as rapidly as their forefathers, and soon Rafael had a dozen siblings. With his trade-mark blond curls, Rafael stood out from most of his friends, and even his brothers, and followed his father into the family trade. By the age of 13, he was fully engaged in the business and his hard work enabled his grandfather Perot to start to slow down and enjoy the fruits of his labour.
Perot cannot have known that his decision to enact the ceremony of handing the family sword to Perez came at a particularly significant time. It was the last day of 1712, and he was now sixty-two years old. He knew Rafael was old enough to witness the ceremony, and that Perez deserved his inheritance of ownership of the sword. He asked the family to gather in the cellar.
In the familiar candle-light of the old cellar, Perot reached behind the barrels, just as his father had done before him, and pulled out the bundle containing the sword. Anna put her arm around her husband, and Perez gasped, since they realised the significance of the moment. Carla stood with her husband and son, wondering what was to happen, and Rafael remained blankly uncomprehending. Unwrapping the sword, Perot announced, “This is the Blanxart family sword.”
Perez grasped his wife’s hand, smiling broadly. Perot continued.
“This sword is a Castilian weapon; it was used to assassinate my grandfather, Joan Blanxart. My father, Miquel, stole it from the murderers and swore upon it to revenge his father’s death, and did so in Madrid. You all know the story of the famous Corpus de Sang. Miquel, my father, was one of those bandits who went to Madrid to kill the royal family, the members of the house of Austria. He did not kill the king, but found and murdered several members of his family, leaving the mark of the senyera on each of them. When he knew he was too old to wield the sword, my father gave it to me in a solemn ceremony here in this cellar. The time has now come for me to pass the sword to my son. Perez, I pass the sword, and the responsibilities it bears, to you. I do this in front of my grandson Rafael, so that he understands his inheritance. Rafael, this sword will one day be your’s. Its existence and hiding place must remain a secret, and I have judged today that you are old enough to bear the responsibility of this secret.”
There was a pause, and then Perez spoke first. “Father, it is with joy and pride I take the sword from you. I have waited many years for this day, since you were given the sword by grandfather Miquel, in the presence of your brother Javier. I have carried the secret honourably, and I know my son Rafael will do so also. I take the sword and swear to defend the precious state of Catalunya. When called, I will be ready.”
“I too will be ready,” said Rafael. “The knowledge I have gained today sustains me in my love and commitment to my homeland, and when the time comes to be given the sword from my father, I will be ready.”
Unexpectedly, Carla spoke up, “I am the newest member of the Blanxart family, but I come from another staunch Catalan family. The Macias have always loved the songs and stories of Catalunya, but never did I expect to come so close to the great story of the Corpus de Sang. To be married to the grandson of one of the bandits of Madrid, I consider an honour, and with enthusiasm I swear to support my husband with his responsibilities of the sword, and to prepare my son Rafael to be an honourable successor in this astonishing family tradition.”
“Well spoke, daughter,” said Perot. “It is good to have you in our family. You have already proved your worth teaching my grandchildren the stories and songs of our land, and I know you will continue to do so with renewed vigour now you have witnessed our ceremony of the sword.” Turning to Perez, he continued, “Now, son, it is time to return the sword to its hiding place; and I think it appropriate to go upstairs and sample some of this new Cava you are so keen to export.”
Perez wrapped the sword, and hid it again, and then turning to the family with a grin, said, “That’s what it’s for, this Cava. It’s a celebration drink. And I think we may need more than one bottle!”
Upstairs, Perez poured the sparkling wine into glasses, the first the family had owned, and proposed a toast. “To our homeland. Long live Catalunya!”
“Long live Catalunya!” they echoed, and then, “Happy New Year!”
“I wonder what 1713 will bring?” mused Anna. “Let us hope for a peaceful year.”
The family hurried through the streets to midnight mass at Santa Maria del Mar, with Rafael’s younger brothers and sisters puzzled by the sudden air of excitement in the adults. Rafael held the wondrous new secret tight inside himself, and prayed for strength to keep his new knowledge safe and hidden.
The season was cold, and few ventured outside unnecessarily. During that winter, however, there were a number of visitors to the Blanxart shop, often in the dark of night. Mostly strangers, they spent much time talking in urgent whispers to Perot and Perez. As the spring arrived, they decided to bring Rafael into their confidence, and explained why the various strangers
had been visiting.
“The news is not good, Rafael,” began Perot, “We’ll not worry the women and your young brothers and sisters, but we believe you should be aware of what’s going on.”
Handing his son a cup of wine, Perez continued, “There are many messages coming from the country-side that this new king, the fifth Philip of Spain, cursed Castilian king that he is, has made peace with the French court and Louis the Fourteenth. Louis’s army is much depleted following many wars with the English, but with Philip’s help, the two have set their eyes on a final defeat of Catalunya, and total control of the Mediterranean via our strategic port of Barcelona.”
“I thought the Castilians already had a great deal of control of our land,” observed Rafael.
“They control the Generalitat certainly,” replied Perot, “but they don’t have the absolute rule they crave. Many families such as ours defy the law, we are a thorn in their flesh, but we remain alive just as long as we are useful to the commercial life of the port. With greater control and influence, Catalan will finally be eliminated and Catalunya will be dead.”
Perez sighed and spoke with resignation. “I have no heart for bloodshed, for I am a peace-loving businessman, but as long as I have the sword,” said Perez. “I will fight to the end to defend our land.”
“And I,” said Rafael. “I hold your trust inside myself, and I have long known with certainty, that I will honour my inheritance. I will stand firm beside my father.”
“I fear that time will be sooner than you expect,” said Perot sadly. “Even now the French-Castilian army is massing in the countryside. I have word from the fortified house at Sant Cougat, that they are surrounded. I don’t know how to tell your grandmother, but her family are in mortal danger, and their lands liable to be forfeit to the enemy.”
The Lions of Catalunya Page 11