The Lions of Catalunya Read online

  “You produce babies just as you live life in every way, everything done at speed.” joked Marta. The old lady was slowing down, and found all these great grandchildren rather challenging. The house was getting full, and the constant noise of children was hard for her to bear. She was, by now, well known throughout La Ribera; indeed she was probably its oldest inhabitant, and she would make an almost royal progress when she slowly made her way to a neighbour or friend.

  She would sit in the sun, and tell stories to whoever would listen. “I remember Queen Anne visiting Barcelona,” she would tell them. “I can’t tell when it was, but fifteen-hundred and something. Before the new century. Before little Jordi died. Before he was born even. She was married to Philip, the king of Castile. Not this King Philip now, I spit on him, nor even his father, I spit on him. No, she was married to Philip the grandfather of the Castilian king. She came from somewhere else, a place called Austria, but I never knew where that was. That was a time. It was when they were hanging witches. Used to hang them at Santa Caterina, by the market. That was a time.” And she would mutter on, mixing moments from her ancient history, and her listeners would humour her, not for a moment realising that all she said was true.

  Emilia would worry that her mother-in-law’s ramblings would betray Miquel’s part in the Corpus de Sang, but Marta’s memories were from her childhood and early years; she seemed to have forgotten the recent past.

  Meanwhile the Blanxart family business was on the move. Jose returned from London full of extraordinary stories about the strange Englishmen and the enormous city. He told the family tales of King Charles, and how the English were fighting amongst themselves. He tried to explain how there were two different Christian churches in London, some Catholic and some Protestant, but he wasn’t clear quite what the difference was. He told them how the Londoners hated Charles being married to a Catholic princess, and how the city seethed with plots and schemes. He amazed them that London was a greater city than Barcelona – “No, it can’t be!” said Emilia – but most of all, he came back with stories of the riches of the great English capital. He’d wandered the streets with his brother, and seen the endless procession of rich and poor, prostitutes and businessmen, elegant ladies and tramps. The rich pattern of London life, the wide boulevards and elegant houses, had overwhelmed the brothers at first; and Jose told the family how they had found lodgings in Whitechapel – “very like our Ribera slum,” said Jose – and met wine merchants, and been to the extraordinary London docks and watched the whole process. “We can do this,” he told them, “London is a huge market for us. The local ales and wines in England are poor: rich Londoners are forced to drink cheap French claret, and even some rubbish Portugese wines, and I know they will welcome our Rioja.”

  “But here’s the best news: the wines from Lisbon and Cadiz do not command good prices. I have made an arrangement with a vintner in London by the name of Mr John Paige. He specialises in wine imports, and has, as he says, far too much bad wine from Castile and Portugal in his cellar. He is very excited to get his hands on some of our good Rioja.”

  “Javier is investigating that we will rent or even buy a warehouse, so that we can unload and store our wine when we get it to London. We have great and ambitious plans. Let’s hope it all works.”

  Jose had been surprised that even with political upheavals and parliamentary controversy, the commerce of London was thriving and growing. It was as if the two existed independently of one another. Whilst the king and the politicians and the church fought their battles, the traders continued to be very active and make many lucrative international deals. “Rather like us, here in Barcelona,” commented young Jordi.

  Jose delivered a long letter that Javier had written to Miquel, detailing the practical aspects of the wine trade in London, and introducing vintner John Paige, the merchant willing to buy the Catalan wine. A letter in English from John Paige himself confirmed his good intentions, but warned, “If you should send me bad wine, like the Jerez sent recently from Lisbon, do not expect me to pay more than twelve pounds per pipe.” Jose explained the London traders’ system of measuring wine, and that a Catalan barrel was equivalent to a dozen London pipes. As long as they could get the Rioja to London unharmed, they would command extraordinary prices. It seemed nothing could go wrong.

  Jordi, meantime, had spent many days and weeks in the saddle, visiting farmers throughout the region. From Valencia in the south, up into the high mountains of the Pyrenees, he had worked his way through all the networks of loyal Catalonians, dodging Castilian thugs and French soldiers. He returned with many promises to supply the Blanxart warehouse with wines and some brandies, and was excited each time a cart arrived with a consignment for them. Miquel was impressed how his youngest brother remembered details about all his contacts, and was able to greet personally each cart as it arrived.

  Mostly the consignments of wine arrived very early in the morning, or late into the evening, thus avoiding drawing too much attention to the large quantity which was accumulating in the warehouse. Farmers sent their carts lined carefully with straw to ensure that the wine arrived in excellent condition; and it was handled carefully as it was placed in storage. Jordi, who had seen the process in the fields, knew how important it was for the Rioja to be handled gently, and was worried how it would fare on board a ship. Would it arrive in good enough condition to sell for a good price?

  Gradually the warehouse filled, and the time approached for the first shipment to London. This was a tense time for all the family. Their entire future lay in the warehouse. Miquel was in debt to his suppliers, who he would pay handsomely when the ship returned from London; and he was in debt to both the captain and owner of the vessel. Should the Castilians find the warehouse, or attack the ship; should a storm overtake the vessel in the notorious Bay of Biscay and the ship sink; or any other disaster strike, then all would be lost. Miquel would be the one locked in the bankrupt’s prison, and the family would be reduced to begging on the streets. It was a huge gamble, and it was only once the scheme had started that they realised how much was at stake.

  There was the further uncertainty of what Jose would find when he got back to London with the first shipment. Would Javier have maintained and developed their contact with John Paige? Could they trust a London merchant? Would a civil war have broken out? Would, indeed, Charles still be king, after all the whispering he had heard in the city about assassination?

  At last, the vessel recommended by Mr John Paige arrived in the port of Barcelona. The Swan from Gravesend, owned by Mr John Shaw of that town, brought a small consignment of West Indian sugar. Miquel found himself trading in a commodity he knew nothing about, and consulted the elderly and ailing Marta. “White sugar,” she told him, “is very special and rare. From Havana you say? That’s the best. You must get a very good price for that. I remember baking good cakes for the nobles in their palaces on Carrer Montcada. So long ago now. And muscovados? Good brown sugar but not as valuable as the white. Well done young man, you have done well. I will bake many cakes with this sugar, so beautiful, so white…..” and she drifted off again.

  One night, a group of loyal neighbours from La Ribera, gathered to load the ship. Gently the precious casks of Rioja were passed from hand to hand down to the shore line, and then into small boats to be rowed out to the ship. Straw in each small boat not only kept the operation quiet, but also prevented the wine from rolling about too much. Nervously, the brothers watched the operation – Jordi at the warehouse, Miquel down on the beach, and Jose on the ship.

  At one time, in the darkest part of the night, Miquel was startled to see someone approaching with a lantern. “Don’t be alarmed,” came the voice of his mother, “but I have brought a friend, someone to wish the wine Godspeed.”

  Miquel was astonished to find the lantern illuminating the face of none other than Canon Pau Claris himself, President of the Generalitat of Barcelona. “This is a great thing you are doing, Senor Blanxart. Catalunya is in safe
hands with men like you. It is not prudent for either of us to meet publically, so I have come in the night. When your ship returns, there will be great rejoicing in Barcelona. Godspeed to the Rioja.”

  The ship was loaded by day break, and the warehouse empty. With a favourable wind, The Swan sailed as the sun arose, passing the little fishing boats returning with the night’s catch.

  Jose sailed with that first shipment. Miquel’s local trade continued as it had done all through the first filling of the warehouse and the first shipping to London, and with Jose gone, Jordi went back out onto the lanes and tracks of Catalunya to tell his contacts that their good wine was on its way to England; and to encourage them to send further consignments to refill the warehouse ready for the vessel’s return. Gifts of little paper packets of white sugar endeared him to all the farmer’s wives in the region, and he secured even more contracts to sell Rioja and brandy in London.

  Gradually, as Elena was lustily bringing new lives into the world, Marta’s was ebbing away. She took to her bed, rather as her father had done many years before, and spent much of her time sleeping. When she died in 1649, she had five great grandchildren, supposedly a record for La Ribera, and the whole barrio mourned her passing. Her reputation for celebrating the culture of Catalunya made her a celebrity amongst the neighbours, and many came to her funeral mass in Santa Maria del Mar.

  Elena was pregnant again when Marta died, and in 1650, Perot Blanxart was born. All of her other children had inherited Elena’s black hair, but Perot was the exception, having his father’s mass of blond curls.

  “I am pleased, at last, to have a son with blond curls like mine,” commented Miquel. “He continues a family tradition which started with my father. We used to be called the old lion and the young lion: the lions of La Ribera. Perhaps I’ll become the old lion now, and Perot here will be the new young lion.”

  Elena looked at the tiny baby she was suckling and smiled. “I don’t think he’s a young lion yet; but his time will come.”

  Perot was born into a land of strife. Outside the carefree and loving home provided by Elena and his grandmother, nothing could be relied upon. It was difficult to know who were friends, who were enemies, and who was spying for whom. The network of treachery encouraged by both Castile and France created a web of deceit and nervous anticipation of what might happen.

  Beyond the relative safety of La Ribera, dangers lurked at every turn. A minor scuffle could escalate into a riot; a riot could trigger involvement of the militia, and in the blink of an eye, French soldiers would come running down the lane, bayonets fixed, expecting to skewer Castilian thugs. Should an innocent Catalan get in the way, it was of little consequence.

  Miquel and his family were, however, more concerned with immediate matters, and despite the sadness of losing Great-grandmother Marta, they talked constantly of when the ship would finally return. Each day one or more of them would go to Santa Maria del Mar and pray to the Virgin to bring their ship safely back to Barcelona.

  In London, Javier was standing on the quayside, looking down to the muddy Thames. Below him, moving gently on the rising tide was The Swan. He smiled to himself, and turned to Jose.

  “Father will be so pleased,” he said. “Will he have imagined the success we have had? Will he even believe we have our own warehouse here in London?”

  “I’d love him to see it,” agreed Jose, looking up at the newly-painted sign, proclaiming for all to see, ‘Blanxart and Sons, Importers of Fine Catalan Wines’.

  “It’s all happened so quickly,” continued Javier, “Just one shipment of Rioja. Much of it sold before your return to Barcelona, and an amazing cargo to send back to Father.”

  “I hope he’s ready and willing to deal with diverse goods,” said Jose. “I’ll work hard to reassure him that we’ll make an excellent profit on everything. Besides, it makes sense to take the boat home with a good cargo: it would have been nonsense to go back to Barcelona empty.”

  The Swan sailed on the tide, moving quickly down the river, propelled more by the rush of water than her sails.

  Meanwhile, the waiting in Barcelona continued. Despite the knowledge of the time such a voyage would take, and the unknown challenges faced by Javier in London, and Jose on the high seas, the family fretted day by day, waiting the boat to return.

  At last their prayers were answered and The Swan was sighted in the Mediterranean. It anchored some way off the beach, and Miquel and Jordi were rowed out to the ship, where they found a jubilant Jose waiting on deck for them.

  “At last we greet one another my brothers. Is my mother well? And all those boys of your’s? And your wife Elena? And grandmother? What news? Is all peaceful in La Ribera?”

  “Slow down my dear Jose,” grinned Miquel, “There is much to tell you, and we will tell you all. But first, I must know. Did you have success in London? Have we made our fortune, or am I destined for the bankrupt’s jail?”

  “I can report that our Rioja is a sensation in London. The trade was brisk and at auction, having tasted the wine, the merchants competed to buy it. We reached the top price for imported wine in the vintner’s hall. We have beaten the Castilians and the Portugese at their own game. They do not pack their barrels in straw as we did, and their wine arrives in poor shape. It has to be racked before it can be bottled. Our wine arrived in good condition for drinking.”

  “You have been gone so long,” said Miquel. “Will the voyage always be this slow?”

  “We had easterly winds in the Atlantic, and crossing the Bay of Biscay was very slow. At least the winds were gentle; they told me terrible tales of gales and storms, and of ships vanishing beneath the waves. Once in the English Channel, we made good progress. We took some time in London, renting a warehouse to unload the wine, and then assembling the return cargo. It was very complicated, but we completed many deals very quickly. The English are good businessmen and move fast when they smell a good trade. Our return voyage has been fairly speedy, although it was a little rough in Biscay.”

  “We have another warehouse full of good wine for you to return to London with. Do you believe you will do as well next time?”

  “As well?” laughed Jose, “No, we will do better, for next time our reputation will go before us. But first, dear brother, we have a cargo to unload.”

  “More sugar?” asked Jordi. “Last time we did well selling the sugar.”

  “Some sugar, most of it white this time,” replied Jose, “but many other goods. Some bundles of a rare American wood called campeachy, and cochineal, and indigo, and ginger, and tobacco, rare hides and much more.”

  “So I am to be a general trader? A dealer in commodities I have never heard of!”

  “The merchants of Barcelona will know what you’ve got. The weavers and the dyers will be astonished by the campeachy wood; it is the rarest and best of purple dyes, and can be used for ink as well as fabric. Cochineal and indigo will also command high prices; and the cooks of the city will clamour for the ginger.”

  “And talking of cooks,” said Jose, “How is my grandmother?”

  “A cloud lies over your return,” said Miquel sadly. “Grandmother died whilst you were at sea. We have missed her very much. Your mother has taken it badly; but she waits for you on the shore. Come, let us row back and greet her. She will be so glad to have you in her arms.”

  As they neared the beach, Jose could see the two women waiting. “I see mother, and I see Elena. And is that another baby she carries? Miquel, tell me, are you a father again?”

  Miquel grinned, “Of course, you know me. That’s my little Perot. And wait ‘til you see him; he has my blond curls!”

  Although Marta’s death cast a shadow over Jose’s homecoming, the success of the first shipment of Catalonian wine to London was a cause of quietly intense celebration. Miquel had considerably underestimated the value of the wine in London, and was astonished by the prices achieved by the cargo Jose had brought back on The Swan. He was able to pay all the producing farm
ers. And even after paying the captain and through him, the owner of the ship, he still had a remarkably handsome profit.

  Jose noticed that the situation in Barcelona mirrored that in London – trade was flourishing despite the background strife between the politicians. Javier had sent letters from London: he found the English warring between the Royalists and the Cromwellians to be similar to that between the Castilians and the Catalonians, and he wondered if the socialist principles of the Roundheads matched the feelings within the Blanxart family, of the injustices in Barcelona. He did, however, admit that he didn’t understand everything that was happening, but reassured Miquel that trade and commerce seemed remarkably immune to the English political shenanigans.

  Miquel found the same in Barcelona. Despite being at war with Castile, and the very uncomfortable relationship with the French, the Blanxart businesses flourished. The warehouse was full, and so as soon as the mixed cargo was unloaded, another consignment of Rioja and brandy was gently placed on its straw bed in the hold of the ship, and Jose was once more on his way to London.

  The wine merchant’s shop began to resemble a rather exotic bazaar, and customers were delighted by the chance to buy the rare dyes, and enchanted by the little paper packets of white sugar. Speculating that he would make as much profit from the next shipment as the last, Miquel dared to think that the Blanxart family fortunes were secure. He and Elena felt optimistic; little Perot thrived, and Miquel smiled upon his peaceful family. At last they could live in peace. The Swan sailed continuously between London and Barcelona, taking the good Rioja and brandy, and returning with a variety of exotic goods from around the world.