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“Taking him to prison.”

“No, you aren’t,” he heard himself say.

Perhaps... perhaps there was an explanation for all this. It was impossible that Arnau had tried to steal from the bastaixos’ collection box. Not Arnau.

“He’s a thief, Father.”

“That’s for a court to decide.”

“And that’s what will happen,” said the captain as his men supported Arnau under the arms. “But he can wait for the judgment in jail.”

“If he goes to any jail, it will be the bishop’s,” said the priest. “The crime was committed on holy ground. Therefore it is under ecclesiastical jurisdiction, not that of the city magistrate.”

The captain looked at his soldiers and Arnau. Shrugging his shoulders, he ordered them to release him, which they did by simply letting him go and allowing him to fall to the ground again. A cynical smile spread across the captain’s face when he saw how the youngster’s face struck the paving stones.

Father Albert glared at them.

“Bring him round,” he ordered, taking out the keys to the chapel. He opened the grille and stepped inside. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

He went over to the collection box. He saw that the three clasps had been broken. It was empty. There was nothing else missing in the chapel, and nothing had been destroyed. “What happened, Our Lady?” he asked the Virgin silently. “How could you allow Arnau to do something like this?” He heard the soldiers splashing water on the boy’s face, and reappeared outside the chapel just as several bastaixos who had heard about the robbery came rushing into the church.

The freezing water brought Arnau round. He looked up and saw he was surrounded by soldiers. In his mind, he heard the spear whistling past his head in Calle Boria once again. He was running in front of them: how had they managed to catch him? Had he stumbled? The soldiers’ faces bent toward him. His father! His body was burning! He had to escape! Arnau struggled to his feet and tried to push one of them off, but they easily succeeded in pinioning him.

Dejected, Father Albert saw how Arnau was trying to wriggle free from the soldiers.

“Do you need to hear any more, Father?” the officer growled. “Isn’t this confession enough?” he insisted, pointing at Arnau.

Father Albert raised his hands to his face and sighed. He walked slowly over to where the soldiers were holding Arnau.

“Why did you do it?” he asked when he came up to them. “You know that box belongs to your friends the bastaixos. They use the money to help the widows and orphans of their guilds, or to pay for the burial of any member who dies. It’s also for works of charity, and to decorate the Virgin, your mother, with candles that are always alight. So why did you do it, Arnau?”

Seeing the priest reassured Arnau: but what was he doing there? The bastaixos’ collection box! The thief! He remembered being punched, but then what? Wide-eyed, he looked around him. Beyond the soldiers, countless faces that he knew were waiting for his answer. He recognized Ramon and little Ramon, Pere, Jaume, Joan—who was trying to see more by standing on tiptoe—Sebastia and his son Bastianet, and many more he had given water to and with whom he had shared unforgettable moments when the Barcelona host had marched on Creixell. So that was it! He was being accused of the robbery!

“It wasn’t me ... ,” he muttered.

The king’s captain held up Grau’s purse. Arnau felt on his belt for where it should have been. He had not wanted to leave it under his mattress in case the baroness reported them to the authorities and accused Joan, and now ... Damn Grau! Damn the purse!

“Is this what you’re looking for?” the captain said.

Arnau defended himself. “It wasn’t me, Father.”

The captain guffawed, and the soldiers joined in the laughter.

“Ramon, it wasn’t me. I swear it,” Arnau insisted, staring directly at the bastaix.

“What were you doing here so late at night then? Where did you get that money? Why did you try to run away? Why is your face covered in mud?”

Arnau felt his face: it was caked with mud.

The purse! The king’s officer was continually waving it in front of his eyes. More and more bastaixos kept arriving, and remarking on what had happened. Arnau watched the purse swinging. That damned purse! He spoke imploringly to Father Albert.

“There was a man,” he said. “I tried to stop him but couldn’t. He was very big and strong.”

The captain’s incredulous laugh echoed once more round the ambulatory.

“Arnau,” the priest said, “just answer the captain’s questions.”

“No ... I can’t,” Arnau admitted, producing more hilarity among the soldiers, and consternation among the bastaixos.