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dot in the distance, the two soldiers wheeled away and galloped after him.
    Once quiet had returned to the farmhouse, Bernat peered at the cloud of dust trailing off toward the horizon, and then looked over at the two oxen, stolidly chewing on the ears of corn they had been trampling.
    From that day on, although Bernat continued working with his animals and on the land, his thoughts returned constantly to his son. At night, he wandered around the farmhouse recalling the childish breathing that spoke of life and the future, the creaking of the wooden slats of the cradle whenever Arnau moved, his shrill cry when he was hungry. He tried to discern his son’s innocent smell in every corner of the house. Where might he be sleeping now? His cradle, the one Bernat had made with his own hands, was here. When finally Bernat succeeded in falling asleep, the silence would wake him with a start. He curled up on his pallet, listening hour after hour to the sounds of the animals down below that now were all the company he had.
    Bernat went regularly to Llorenç de Bellera’s castle to have his bread baked. He never saw Francesca: she was shut away to attend to Doña Caterina and her son’s unpredictable appetite. The castle, as his father had explained when the two of them had been obliged to come here together, had started out as little more than a watchtower on the summit of a small hill. Llorenç de Bellera’s forebears had taken advantage of the power vacuum following Count Ramon Borrell’s death to build new fortifications, thanks to the forced labor of the serfs who lived on their ever-expanding territories. Around the keep a hodgepodge of buildings soon grew up, including the bakery, the forge, some new, more spacious stables, kitchens, and sleeping quarters.
    The castle was more than a league away from the Estanyol farmhouse. On his first visits, Bernat heard no news of his son. Whenever he inquired, he always received the same reply: his wife and boy were in Doña Caterina’s private apartments. The only difference was that, while some of those he asked laughed cynically, others lowered their gaze as though ashamed to look the child’s father in the eye. Bernat put up with their evasive answers for weeks on end, until one day when he was leaving the bakery with two loaves of bean-flour bread, he ran into one of the scrawny blacksmith apprentices whom he had already questioned several times about his son.
    “What do you know about my Arnau?” he asked again.
    There was no one else around. The lad tried to avoid him, as if he had not heard, but Bernat seized him by the arm.
    “I asked you what you know about my son, Arnau.”
    “Your wife and son ...” The apprentice started with the usual formula, not lifting his eyes from the ground.
    “I know where he is,” Bernat interrupted him. “I’m asking if my Arnau is well and healthy.”
    Still not looking at him, the lad started shuffling his feet in the sand. Bernat shook him roughly.
    “Is he well?”
    When the apprentice still would not look up, Bernat shook him even harder.
    “No!” the lad finally admitted. Bernat loosened his grip so that he could look him in the face. “No,” he said again.
    “What’s wrong with him?”
    “I can’t ... We have orders not to tell you ...” The apprentice’s voice trailed off.
    Bernat raised his voice, not caring whether a guard might hear.
    “What’s wrong with my boy? What’s wrong? Tell me!”
    “I can’t. We cannot ...”
    “Would this change your mind?” asked Bernat, offering him one of the loaves.
    The lad’s eyes opened wide. Without a word, he snatched the bread from Bernat’s hands and bit into it as if he had not eaten in days. Bernat pulled him to one side, away from any prying eyes.
    “What’s happened to my Arnau?” he asked anxiously.
    His mouth stuffed with bread, the apprentice glanced at Bernat, then signaled for him to follow. They crept stealthily along the castle walls until they reached