Executioners

by Phil Clarke

  The inquisitors were sent out by papal decree and led an almost nomadic existence, moving from town to town, seeking out heresy and handing out punish­ments to those found guilty of unortho­doxy. Along with their sizeable entourage, these inquisitorial judges took large crucifixes into their chosen town, no doubt attempting to appeal to the dutiful side of the inhabitants. They would invite the townspeople to gather in the main square for a mass confessional. Attendance was voluntary – however, those who failed to accept the invitation would run the risk of being suspected of heresy. The visiting inquisitor would then issue a period of grace – usually lasting a month – in which time all individuals who wished to confess any heretical guilt could come forward and receive a minimum penance before being welcomed back into the fold. Those who came clean were also encouraged to inform on their neighbours and even children were pushed to give details of their parents’ heresies. Any two testimonies, even those provided by the despicable and disgraced, were enough to warrant a full enquiry by the Inquisition. This all helped the investigation get under way, stirring up suspicion and blame.

  The focus of many an inquisitorial probe were the affluent members of a town. While such rich pickings usually ensured a higher profile arrest and therefore a more effective deterrent to heterodoxy, it was routine for those charged to have their property and assets seized by their religious interrogators. It was therefore in the inquisitors’ best interests to find heretics that had money, revealing that the unselfish Dominicans and Franciscans were not wholly resistant to the drawing power of wealth. In fact, as the numbers of executed heretics swelled so did the coffers of their persecutors.

  Once sufficient, if factually dubious, information had been gathered, the trial could then take place. This would be a fairly one-sided affair favouring the prosecution, for as far back as 1205 Innocent III had issued a bull entitled Si Adversus vos, forbidding any legal help for heretics. Despite this ruling, legal counsel was often permitted, although finding a willing representative was tricky as any defending lawyer losing a case ran the risk of losing his practice, as well as being considered a supporter of heresy. Witnesses for the defence were few and far between for much the same reason. The trials failed to follow the judicial process today. The Inquisition conducted their trials of heresy behind closed doors, where the bulk of the details were shrouded in secrecy. The suspected heretic would be arrested and imprisoned and kept in the dark – both literally and figuratively – while being forced to guess what charges had been brought against him. The accused would not be granted any opportunity to question their accusers during the trial, however they were afforded the chance to name those they believed possessed a ‘mortal hatred’ against them. If this list of enemies included their accuser then the charges – whatever they were – were dismissed and the prisoner would be given their freedom. The named foe would then face the possibility of life imprison­ment for his grudge-bearing testimony.

  This general obscurity promoted self-incrimination. The majority of inquisitors wished for heresies to be self-confessed without resorting to other more severe means, yet despite the threat of torture or even death, freely declared confessions were rare. It was far more common for the accused to remain stubborn and steadfast. While chaired by the Chief Inquisitor, the trial was required to be conducted in collaboration with the local bishop and they were both obliged to consult the Boni Viri – a number of experienced lay­men and clergymen considered honest and true – to come to an informed decision as to the guilt of the charged. Anything up to 80 of these wise men were summoned to decide the fate of the prisoner, who could soon find himself facing execution.

  Those prisoners who tenaciously denied any religious transgression and refused self-condemnation would force the inquisitor’s judicial hand. The next step to elicit the truth was torture, which was made lawful on 15 May 1252, when Pope Innocent IV issued a papal bull entitled Ad Exstirpanda. Physical torment had been used on prisoners in the past but only by secular authorities and never the Inquisition. The bull authorising enforced confession through violence would be regularly affirmed throughout the thirteenth century by successive popes such as Alexander IV on 30 November 1259 and Clement IV on 3 November 1265. Naturally, the more devout and spiritual officials within the Church regulatory sector called for restrictions. They demanded there be no bloodshed, mutilation or death from these truth-extracting acts and that the torture sessions should be limited to only one. For the less principled inquisitors, this was an obstacle that was easily overcome. The single session would merely be suspended when the physical torments proved fruitless and when they returned to the pain-racked prisoner the agony would resume within what was officially, the same session.

  Despite the restrictions requiring a bloodless torture session, the inquisitors still found many forms of torture to draw out a confession of heresy. Before resorting to any physical violence, the inquisitors would traditionally start with simple threats, intimi­dating the prisoner with thoughts of the unbearable pain that could await them at the stake. If this was unproductive, then the supposed heretic would be confined in a cell and often starved of food and water. The last non-violent method employed was the use of tried men; previously accused and investigated individuals who had experienced the pressure of an inquisitor. These first-hand accounts of inquisitorial justice were intended to persuade the prisoner to confess and if this failed to pay dividends, the preacher turned persecutor would have no choice but to make use of the gruesome contraptions that were at his disposal.

  There were several established methods of physical torture used throughout the reign of the Papal Inquisition in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries against the more doggedly determined deniers. These included the strappado and the rack; two ominous-looking devices which stretched and pulled the limbs to such a degree that dislocation often occurred. If stretching could be endured then thumbscrews and brodequins or stivalettos were introduced. These would crush and splinter bones, rendering hands and feet permanently mutilated.

  Once the physical, mental and spiritual ordeals were exhausted, the verdict against the accused would be determined. However, this could still mean a lengthy stay in prison as the inquisition preferred to stockpile the cases for one mass sentencing. This religious reckoning called a sermo generalis would be scheduled on a Sunday, or traditional feast day, in order to attract the bigger crowds and would be a ceremonial event full of pomp and circumstance. The Church would want to take full advantage of such an affair which celebrated orthodox Christianity and denounced its captured heretical opponents. Amid the self-congratulatory glamour of the sermo generalis was the real business of the verdicts. Prisoners would finally be made aware of their charges before the crowds and the punishments were promptly assigned. These could often be fairly minor penalties such as enforced pilgrimages to demonstrate a renewed devotion to Christianity. Further confiscation of assets could be imposed, an unconvincing repre­sent­ation of the Mendicant rejection of worldly possessions. Some would escape with excommuni­cation, others with imprisonment. And then there was the ultimate punishment for heresy – the stake. This was given to two groups considered the worst examples in the eyes of the Church; those who consistently chose an unorthodox path and those who remained un­ashamed of their non-conformist beliefs.

  While the Inquisition was responsible for con­victing the heretic, the completion of the sentence was outside the jurisdiction of this ecclesiastical body. Those who had been convicted as repeat offenders or unrepentant heretics and were therefore prescribed capital punishment, would be subject to relictus culiae saeculari and handed over to the secular court for execution within five days. This appears to have removed the inquisitors from the final act in the life of a condemned heretic, detaching them from respon­si­bility. However, this relinquishing to the state authorities was just an official stance. The Church could not be seen to take the lives of these men and women, heretics or not. They needed to remain suitably disconnected from the burning
so as not to further tarnish their reputation and religious values. Yet the Inquisition – as always – still managed to exert control. The civil authorities may well have had the last say in the life of a heretic, but if they failed to follow the inquisitors’ recommendations, the officials involved could find themselves excommuni­cated. This was far more serious than it sounds, for ecclesiastical law stated that if they were unable to free themselves from the papal ban they would be labelled a heretic.

  By 1325, after almost a century of official extir­pation, the Inquisition saw the destruction of Catharism, the main threat to the Catholic Church, and so slowly relaxed its persecutory grip over the continent. The number of heretics burnt at the stake by the Papal Inquisition throughout the towns and cities of Europe has never been accurately calculated. The various figures reported show that relatively few heretics succumbed to the flames. At Pamiers, in South-west France between 1318 and 1324 five out of 24 heretics were placed under the control of the civil court to perish on the pyre and likewise, from 1308 to 1323, only 42 out of 930 in the Cathar capital of Toulouse, died at the stake. This confirms the Inquisition’s desire to convert rather than execute in the main. Execution admitted defeat and was a loss for the Church. They wished for a nonconformist to admit their sins and repent, to see the error of his or her ways but a dead man could not confess. A dead man could not have his soul saved or freely understand the power of the one God and the authority that served Him – the Catholic Church. Despite this preference for conversion, favouring the redemption of a wayward soul rather than its extermination, which exemplified the beliefs of the Mendicant orders, there were unfortunately a number of inquisitors who were less keen to rescue a life and more devoted to the annihilation of all heretics. These rather unscrupulous souls would prove to be effective executioners.

  Conrad of Marburg

  The actions of the papal inquisition effectively began with the appointment of one man: Conrad of Marburg. His reign of terror throughout the Rhine­land in the early 1200s would single-handedly help the Inquisition become the force that has been so well-documented in modern times. A man of unequalled religious zeal, Conrad crusaded against the many heretical sects that existed throughout Germany with the full power of the Pope behind him, sending large numbers to the stake with his hard-line and hang-tough approach of recant or die.

  The early life of this notorious inquisitor is shrouded in mystery. Little of note is known about his parentage or his schooling, however, it is widely believed he did complete a course at a university, possibly at Paris or Bologna, having been referred to as a magister – one involved in academia – in writings from the time. At some stage following completion of his scholastic studies he became a priest, though doubt surrounds which order he belonged to. Modern thinking suggests he was not attached to either the Dominican or the Franciscan orders but was a non-monastic or secular clergyman.

  Conrad first came to prominence in 1213 when he spoke vehemently in favour of the religious crusades against heretics called for by Pope Innocent III. In turn, the Pope became a strong and vocal supporter of this austere priest. During these turbulent times, the Catholic Church was concerned with the piety of their own officials and Innocent’s successor, Honorius III, saw Conrad as the right man to reform the errant convents and monasteries of Germany and to ensure its wayward clergy were brought back into line. During this tour of re-education, he encountered Ludwig, the Landgrave, or Count of Thuringia, who took to Conrad and made him a leading figure at court. Conrad became highly influential, with one of his many powers being to appoint ecclesiastical livings which was soon confirmed by Pope Gregory IX in June 1227. His significant role at the Thuringian court was that of spiritual counsel and confessor to Ludwig’s wife, Elizabeth.

  The relationship between Conrad and Elizabeth was a peculiar one. The Landgravine was a match for the strict priest’s ascetic ways and willing to adhere to Conrad’s severe instruction. She took to wearing a hair shirt beneath her regal attire, was often separated from her three children and would regularly submit herself to violent physical attacks from her spiritual tutor in a bid to become worthy of the religion she held so dear. These correctional episodes may well have been too excessive to endure, as it is thought by some to have been the cause of her death on 19 November 1231. Her confessor may well have been her killer, and yet rather than suffer any reproach, Conrad was asked to look into and document the virtuous life of Elizabeth and assist in the application for her beatification. His efforts were a success and she was canonised four years later.

  By the time Pope Gregory IX had commissioned him as the first papal inquisitor of Germany on 11 October 1231, Conrad had already built a reputation as a dedicated terroriser of the unorthodox sects. The first that we know of to fall before this fanatic was Heinrich Minnike, the Provost of Goslar in Lower Saxony, who was to suffer a trial lasting two years before he was found guilty of heresy and suffered the flames. Conrad’s persistent endeavours were observed by all. Heretics and high officials within the Catholic Church alike followed his wicked work throughout Germany, generating two divergent factions: those that championed his efforts such as the archbishops of Trier and Mainz, who both wrote letters of praise to the Pope in 1231, and those who heavily criticised the enthusiastic manner in which he was allowed to wander districts and dioceses dispens­ing his own dubious justice.

  Conrad’s focus was fixed upon one specific group of heretics, a fantastical sect called the Luciferans. Conrad believed that these infidels shunned the word of God for the power of the fallen angel, their Lord of Light, Satan himself. For Conrad of Marburg, there could not be a faction of unorthodox believers more guilty of heresy than those that worshipped the Devil and, marauding through the towns of Thuringia and Hesse, he forced confessions and burnt those who failed to come clean. Conrad’s ignorant assistants, Dominican friar Conrad Dorso of Tor, John Le Borgne and the Franciscan Gerhard Lutzelkolb, found heresy in all things. A look or word out of place would be suffi­cient for them to report back to their inquisitor with what they considered a solid accusa­tion. And Conrad would listen.

  With the Pope’s blessing, Conrad enjoyed freedom from the restraints of the usual canonical procedure and so was allowed to dispense with the formality of a trial. The unfortunate accused were threatened and tortured by Conrad and his collaborators and found guilty of their crimes without legal counsel, judge or jury. The torments subjected to these religious prisoners would have been severe, for Conrad was not disinclined from administering various acts of torture upon himself as part of his own atonement. He would have raised the bar when it came to devil-worshippers as for him the more violent the punish­ment, the sooner these heretical sects would be destroyed. If a supposed heretic confessed under excru­ciating pain, the inquisitor would order for their head to be shaved and a penance undertaken. For those who withstood the agony without admitting their guilt, the punish­ment would be death. The fact that the appre­hended may be innocent seems to have not con­cerned Conrad, whose twisted sense of justice is encapsulated in the motto he lived by:

  We Would Gladly Burn a Hundred if Just One of Them Was Guilty.

  Fear consumed the districts before the arrival of Conrad and his entourage, with even the kings and bishops of Rhineland fearing for their lives. And for good reason, for Conrad was not averse to accusing the aristocracy, for no one was above the law of God in his eyes. However, it would be the denunciation of one such noble that would lead to the downfall of this supposedly untouchable inquisitor. In 1233, Conrad of Marburg publicly accused Heinrich II, Count of Sayn, of participating in satanic orgies. Whether or not this was true, Conrad had chosen to point the finger at a very powerful target. Furious at this allega­tion, the count appealed to the Archbishop of Mainz demanding to be allowed a fair trial. This earnest entreaty for justice was approved and the archbishop convened a Synod on 25 July 1233, which was even attended by the young King Henry VII of Germany. For the first time since his papally appointed per
ogative, Conrad of Marburg was required to legally prosecute a supposed heretic and was, unsurpris­ing­ly, unable to do so. The bishops and nobles on the council all elected to find the count innocent of the charge of heresy, much to the chagrin of Conrad, who immediately called for a reversal of the verdict. The synod had made their decision and there would be no U-turn.

  With this failure to prosecute, Inquisitor General Marburg made public his fury and assured those that would listen that he would focus his persecutory zeal on heretical noblemen and ensure such an injustice would not occur again. Conrad would not see another aristocrat escape the wrath of Catholicism nor see one burn, for only four days later, the much-hated inquisitor would be dead. Travelling back to Marburg with his satanist-spotting companion, Gerhard Lutzelkolb, Conrad and his Franciscan aide were set upon by what were later thought to have been knights in the employ of the vindicated count.

  The inquisitor’s death was not mourned by the people of Germany. A collective sigh of relief must have swept across the Rhineland, thankful that, at last, true justice had been served. Back in Rome, Pope Gregory IX was incensed by the murder of his trusted weapon against the heretics. He wasted no time in proclaiming Conrad as a champion of the Christian faith and called for the castigation of his killers, but this was not forthcoming. The strength of the German people had been clearly shown by their endurance through interrogation and execution at the hands of Conrad so there was little hope of them surrendering the names of the inquisitor’s execu­tioners. The murder of Conrad of Marburg sent an unsubtle message to the Pope illustrating the general feeling towards the severity of persecution they had suffered and Gregory IX, along with his successors, would never apply such a heavy inquisitorial hand in Germany again.