by Ken Follett
They met the Villaverde family as soon as they entered the great west doors of the cathedral. Carlos bowed deeply to Francisco Villaverde, then smiled eagerly at Valentina. Barney observed that she was pink-skinned and fair-haired, more like an English girl than a Spaniard. When they were married, Carlos had confided to Barney, he was going to build her a tall, cool house with fountains, and a garden thick with shade trees, so that the sun would never scorch the petals of her cheeks.
She smiled back happily. She was fiercely protected by her father and an older brother, as well as her mother, but they could not stop her showing her pleasure at seeing Carlos.
Barney had courting of his own to do. He scanned the crowd and located Pedro Ruiz and his daughter, Jerónima – the mother was dead. Pushing through the congregation to where they stood, he bowed to Pedro, who was panting after the short walk from his home to the cathedral. Pedro was an intellectual who talked to Barney about whether it was possible that the earth moved around the sun, rather than vice versa.
Barney was more interested in his daughter than his views. He turned his hundred-candle smile on Jerónima. She smiled back.
‘I see the service is being conducted by your father’s friend Archdeacon Romero,’ he said. Romero was a fast-rising churchman said to be close to King Felipe. Barney knew that Romero was a frequent visitor to the Ruiz house.
‘Father likes to argue with him about theology,’ said Jerónima. She made a disgusted face and lowered her voice. ‘He pesters me.’
‘Romero?’ Barney looked warily at Pedro, but he was bowing to a neighbour and had taken his eyes off his daughter for the moment. ‘What do you mean, he pesters you?’
‘He says he hopes to be my friend after I’m married. And he touches my neck. It makes my skin crawl.’
Clearly, Barney thought, the archdeacon had developed a sinful passion for Jerónima. Barney sympathized: he had the same feeling. But he knew better than to say so. ‘How disgusting,’ he said. ‘A lascivious priest.’
His attention was caught by a figure ascending the pulpitum in the white robe and black cloak of a Dominican monk. There was going to be a sermon. Barney did not recognize the speaker. He was tall and thin, with pale cheeks and a shock of thick straight hair. He seemed about thirty, young to be preaching in the cathedral. Barney had noticed him during the prayers, for he had seemed possessed of holy ecstasy, saying the Latin words with passion, his eyes closed and his white face lifted to heaven, by contrast with most of the other priests who acted as if they were doing a tedious chore. ‘Who’s that?’ Barney asked.
Pedro answered, having returned his attention to his daughter’s suitor. ‘Father Alonso,’ he said. ‘He’s the new inquisitor.’
Carlos, Ebrima and Betsy appeared alongside Barney, moving forward to get a closer look at the preacher.
Alonso began by speaking of the shivering fever that had killed hundreds of citizens during the winter. It was a punishment from God, he said. The people of Seville had to learn a lesson from it, and examine their consciences. What terrible sins had they committed, to make God so angry?
The answer was that they had tolerated heathens among them. The young priest became heated as he enumerated the blasphemies of heretics. He spat out Jew, Muslim and Protestant as if the very words tasted foul in his mouth.
But who was he talking about? Barney knew the history of Spain. In 1492, Ferdinand and Isabella – ‘the Catholic monarchs’ – had given the Jews of Spain an ultimatum: convert to Christianity or leave the country. Later the Muslims had been offered the same brutal choice. All synagogues and mosques had since been turned into churches. And Barney had never met a Spanish Protestant, to his knowledge.
He thought the sermon was hot air, but Aunt Betsy was troubled. ‘This is bad,’ she said in a low voice.
Carlos answered her. ‘Why? There are no heretics in Seville.’
‘If you start a witch hunt, you have to find some witches.’
‘How can he find heretics if there are none?’
‘Look around you. He’ll say that Ebrima is a Muslim.’
‘Ebrima is a Christian!’ Carlos protested.
‘They will say he has gone back to his original religion, which is the sin of apostasy, much worse than never having been a Christian in the first place.’
Barney thought Betsy was probably right: the dark colour of Ebrima’s skin would throw suspicion on him regardless of the facts.
Betsy nodded towards Jerónima and her father. ‘Pedro Ruiz reads the books of Erasmus and disputes with Archdeacon Romero about the teachings of the Church.’
Carlos said: ‘But Pedro and Ebrima are here, attending Mass!’
‘Alonso will say they practise their heathen rites at home after dark, with the shutters closed tightly and the doors locked.’
‘Surely Alonso would need evidence?’
‘They will confess.’
Carlos was bewildered. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘You would confess to heresy if you were stripped naked and bound with cords that were slowly tightened until they burst through your skin and began to strip the flesh from your body—’
‘Stop it, I get it.’ Carlos shuddered.
Barney wondered how Betsy knew about the tortures of the inquisition.
Alonso reached his climax, calling for every citizen to join in a new crusade against the infidels right here in their midst. When he had finished, communion began. Looking at the faces of the congregation, Barney thought they seemed uneasy about the sermon. They were good Catholics but they wanted a quiet life, not a crusade. Like Aunt Betsy, they foresaw trouble.
When the service ended and the clergy left the nave in procession, Carlos said to Barney: ‘Come with me while I speak to Villaverde. I feel the need of friendly support.’
Barney willingly followed him as he approached Francisco and bowed. ‘May I beg a moment of your time, Señor, to discuss a matter of great importance?’
Francisco Villaverde was the same age as Betsy: Valentina was the daughter of his second wife. He was sleek and self-satisfied, but not unfriendly. He smiled amiably. ‘Of course.’
Barney saw that Valentina looked bashful. She could guess what was about to happen, even if her father could not.
Carlos said: ‘A year has passed since my father died.’
Barney expected the murmured prayer that his soul would rest in peace that was a conventional courtesy whenever a dead relative was mentioned, but to his surprise Francisco remained silent.
Carlos went on: ‘Everyone can see that my workshop is well run and the enterprise is prospering.’
‘You are to be congratulated,’ said Francisco.
‘Thank you.’
‘What’s your point, young Carlos?’
‘I’m twenty-two, healthy and financially secure. I’m ready to marry. My wife will be loved and cared for.’
‘I’m sure she will. And . . . ?’
‘I humbly ask your permission to call at your house, in the hope that your wonderful daughter, Valentina, might consider me as a suitor.’
Valentina flushed crimson. Her brother gave a grunt that might have been indignation.
Francisco Villaverde’s attitude changed instantly. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said with surprising force.
Carlos was astonished. For a moment he could not speak.
‘How dare you?’ Francisco went on. ‘My daughter!’
Carlos found his voice. ‘But . . . may I ask why?’
Barney was asking himself the same question. Francisco had no reason to feel superior. He was a perfume maker, a trade that was perhaps a little more refined than that of metal worker; but still, like Carlos, he manufactured his wares and sold them. He was not nobility.
Francisco hesitated, then said: ‘You are not of pure blood.’
Carlos looked baffled. ‘Because my grandmother is English? That’s ridiculous.’
The brother bristled. ‘Have a care what you say.’
Francisc
o said: ‘I will not stand here to be called ridiculous.’
Barney could see that Valentina was distraught. Clearly she, too, had been astonished by this angry refusal.
Carlos said desperately: ‘Wait a minute.’
Francisco was adamant. ‘This conversation is over.’ He turned away. Taking Valentina’s arm, he moved towards the west door. The mother and brother followed. There was no point in going after them, Barney knew: it would only make Carlos look foolish.
Carlos was hurt and angry, Barney could see. The accusation of impure blood was silly, but probably no less wounding for that. In this country, ‘impure’ usually meant Jewish or Muslim, and Barney had not heard it used of someone with English forebears; but people could be snobbish about anything.
Ebrima and Betsy joined them. Betsy noticed Carlos’s mood immediately, and looked enquiringly at Barney. He murmured: ‘Valentina’s father rejected him.’
‘Hell,’ said Betsy.
She was angered but did not seem surprised, and the thought crossed Barney’s mind that somehow she had expected this.
*
EBRIMA FELT SORRY for Carlos, and wanted to do something to cheer him up. When they got home, he suggested trying out the new furnace. This was as good a time as any, he thought, and it might take Carlos’s mind off his humiliation. It was forbidden for Christians to work or do business on a Sunday, of course, but this was not really work: it was an experiment.
Carlos liked the idea. He fired up the furnace while Ebrima put the ox into the harness they had devised and Barney mixed crushed iron ore with lime.
There was a snag with the bellows, and they had to redesign the mechanism driven by the ox. Betsy abandoned her plans for an elegant Sunday dinner, and brought out bread and salt pork, which the three men ate standing up. The afternoon light was fading by the time they had everything working again. When the fire was burning hot, fanned by the twin bellows, Ebrima started shovelling in the iron ore and lime.
For a while nothing seemed to be happening. The ox walked in a patient circle, the bellows puffed and panted, the chimney radiated heat, and the men waited.
Carlos had heard about this way of making iron from two people, a Frenchman from Normandy and a Walloon from the Netherlands; and Barney had heard something similar talked of by an Englishman from Sussex. They all claimed the method produced iron twice as fast. That might be an exaggeration, but even so it was an exciting idea. They said that molten iron would emerge from the bottom of the furnace, and Carlos had duly built a stone chute to carry the flow to ingot-shaped depressions in the earth of the courtyard. But no one had been able to draw a plan of the furnace, so the design was guesswork.
Still no iron emerged. Ebrima began to wonder what might have gone wrong. Maybe the chimney should be taller. Heat was the key, he thought. Perhaps they should have used wood charcoal, which burned hotter than coal, though it was expensive in a country where all the trees were needed to build the king’s ships.
Then it began to work. A half-moon of molten iron appeared at the outlet of the furnace and inched into the stone chute. A hesitant protuberance became a slow wave, then a gush. The men cheered. Elisa came to look.
The liquid metal was red at first, but quickly turned grey. Looking hard at it, Ebrima thought it was more like pig iron, and would need to be smelted again to refine it, but that was not a major problem. On top of the iron was a layer like molten glass which was undoubtedly slag, and they would have to find a way to skim that off the top.
But the process was fast. Once it got started, the iron came out as if a tap had been turned. All they had to do was keep putting coal, iron ore and lime into the top of the furnace, and liquid wealth would pour out the other end.
The three men congratulated one another. Elisa brought them a bottle of wine. They stood with cups in their hands, drinking and staring in delight at the iron as it hardened. Carlos looked more cheerful: he was recovering from the shock of his rejection. Perhaps Carlos would choose this celebratory moment to tell Ebrima that he was a free man.
After a few minutes Carlos said: ‘Stoke the furnace, Ebrima.’
Ebrima put down his cup. ‘Right away,’ he said.
*
THE NEW FURNACE was a triumph for Carlos, but not everyone was happy about it.
The furnace worked from sunrise to sunset, six days a week. Carlos sold the pig iron to a finery forge, so that he did not have to refine it himself, and could concentrate on production, while Barney secured the increased supplies of iron ore they needed.
The king’s armourer was pleased. He struggled constantly to buy enough weapons for warfare in France and Italy, for sea battles with the Sultan’s fleet, and for protection against pirates for galleons from America. The forges and workshops of Seville could not produce enough, and the corporations opposed any expansion of capacity, so the armourer had to buy much of what he needed from foreign countries – which was why the American silver that came into Spain went out again so quickly. He was thrilled to see iron being produced so fast.
But other iron makers in Seville were not so glad. They could see that Carlos was making twice as much money as they were. Surely there was a rule against this? Sancho Sanchez lodged an official complaint with the corporation. The council would have to make a decision.
Barney was worried, but Carlos said the corporation could not possibly go against the king’s armourer.
Then they were visited by Father Alonso.
They were working in the courtyard when Alonso marched in, followed by a small entourage of younger priests. Carlos leaned on his shovel and stared at the inquisitor, trying to look unworried, but failing, Barney thought. Aunt Betsy came out of the house and stood with her big hands on her broad hips, ready to take Alonso on.
Barney could not imagine how Carlos could be accused of being a heretic. On the other hand, why else would Alonso be here?
Before saying anything, Alonso looked slowly around the courtyard with his narrow, beaked nose in the air, like a bird of prey. His gaze rested on Ebrima, and at last he spoke. ‘Is that black man a Muslim?’
Ebrima answered for himself. ‘In the village where I was born, Father, the gospel of Jesus Christ had never been heard, nor had the name of the Muslim prophet ever been spoken. I was raised in heathen ignorance, like my forefathers. But throughout a long journey God’s hand guided me, and when I was taught the sacred truth here in Seville I became a Christian, baptized in the cathedral, for which I thank my heavenly father every day in my prayers.’
It was such a good speech that Barney guessed Ebrima must have made it before.
But it was not enough for Alonso. He said: ‘Then why do you work on Sundays? Is it not because your Muslim holy day is Friday?’
Carlos said: ‘No one here works on Sundays, and we all work all day every Friday.’
‘Your furnace was seen to be lit on the Sunday I preached my first sermon in the cathedral.’
Barney cursed under his breath. They had been caught out. He surveyed the surrounding buildings: the courtyard was overlooked by numerous windows. One of the neighbours had made the accusation – probably a jealous metal worker, perhaps even Sancho.
‘But we weren’t working,’ said Carlos. ‘We were conducting an experiment.’
It sounded thin, even to Barney.
Carlos went on, with a note of desperation: ‘You see, Father, this type of furnace has air blown in at the bottom of the chimney—’
‘I know all about your furnace,’ Alonso interrupted.
Aunt Betsy spoke up. ‘I wonder how a priest would know all about a furnace? Perhaps you’ve been talking to my grandson’s rivals. Who denounced him to you, Father?’
Barney could see from Alonso’s face that Aunt Betsy was right, but the priest did not answer the question. Instead he went on the offensive. ‘Old woman, you were born in Protestant England.’
‘I most certainly was not,’ Betsy said with spirit. ‘The good Catholic King Henry the Seventh w
as on the throne of England when I was born. His Protestant son, Henry the Eighth, was still pissing in his bed when my family left England and brought me here to Seville. I’ve never been back.’
Alonso turned on Barney, and Barney felt the deep chill of fear. This man had the power to torture and kill people. ‘That’s certainly not true of you,’ Alonso said. ‘You must have been born and raised Protestant.’
Barney’s Spanish was not good enough for a theological argument, so he kept his response simple. ‘England is no longer Protestant, nor am I. Father, if you search this house, you will see that there are no banned books here, no heretical texts, no Muslim prayer mats. Over my bed is a crucifix, and on my wall a picture of St Hubert of Liège, patron saint of metal workers. It was St Hubert who—’
‘I know about St Hubert.’ Clearly Alonso was offended by any suggestion that someone else might have something to teach him. However, Barney thought he might have run out of steam. Each of his accusations had been parried. All he had was men doing something that might or might not count as working on a Sunday, and Carlos and his family were surely not the only people in Seville who bent that rule. ‘I hope everything you have said to me today is the pure truth,’ Alonso said. ‘Otherwise you will suffer the fate of Pedro Ruiz.’
He turned to go, but Barney stopped him, concerned for Jerónima and her father. ‘What happened to Pedro Ruiz?’
Alonso looked pleased to have shocked him. ‘He was arrested,’ he said. ‘In his house I found a translation of the Old Testament into Spanish, which is illegal, and a copy of the heretical Institutes of the Christian Religion by John Calvin, the Protestant leader of the abominable city of Geneva. As is normal, all the possessions of Pedro Ruiz have been sequestrated by the Inquisition.’