“That is what I have been ordered to determine, Father Ibarra. I have read the charges brought against you. You have been accused of practicing witchcraft, of using charms and amulets to heal the sick.”
The priest remained silent for two breaths before speaking. “Similarly, I know of you, Inquisitor Frías. Of your reputation. You were one of the three judges during the witch trials in Logro?o two summers ago.”
Alonso hid a wince born of shame and had to look away, but he could not so easily escape the flicker of flames, the reek of blackened flesh. The sights and smells here were all too familiar. During those tribunals at the nearby township of Logro?o, he had gone along with judgments of the other two Inquisitors. Guilt for that decision ate at him. It had been the largest witch trial in Spain. The accusation of a single woman—Maria de Ximildegui—ignited a wildfire of hysteria and panic. She had claimed to have witnessed a witch’s sabbath and pointed fingers at others, who in turn cast aspersions upon even more. In the end, three hundred stood accused of consorting with the devil. Many of the accused were mere children, the youngest being four years old. By the time Alonso had arrived in Logro?o, the other two Inquisitors had narrowed the trial to thirty of the worst offenders. Those who admitted to their crimes were punished, but mercifully spared the flames. Unfortunately, a stubborn twelve refused to admit they were witches and were subsequently burned at the stake.
Alonso carried their deaths upon his soul—not because he failed to get them to admit they were witches, but because he believed in their innocence. He expressed just such a conviction afterward, risking much by the admittance to Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas, the Inspector General of the Spanish Inquisition in whose friendship Alonso trusted greatly. His faith in their relationship proved well founded. The cruel and bloodthirsty time of the Royal Inquisitor, Tomas de Torquemada, was a century in the past. The Inspector General sent him alone to carry out an investigation throughout the wider Basque region of Spain, to separate hysteria from reality. He had been on the road for nearly two months, questioning those accused or imprisoned. So far he had discovered only false testimonies pried forth during torture, stories rife with contradictions or inconsistencies. During his travels, he had yet to discover a single verifiable case of witchcraft.
In his private struggle to spare those souls accused of such crimes, he wielded a single weapon. He returned his attention to the priest and patted the leather satchel at his side. “Father Ibarra, I carry with me an Edict of Faith, signed by the Inspector General. It allows me to pardon anyone who admits their crimes, swears fealty to God, and denounces the devil.”
The priest’s eyes shone in the darkness, fervent with pride. “I have no qualms about swearing the latter—of expressing my love of God—but as I said from the beginning, I am not a witch and will not admit as such.”
“Not even to spare your life?”
Ibarra turned his back and studied the firelit window of his cell. “Did you arrive in time to hear their screams?”
Alonso could not hide his wince this time. Earlier, as he descended out of the mountains, he had spotted streams of smoke rising from the village. He prayed the smoke marked bonfires being set to celebrate the summer solstice. Still, fearing the worst, he sped his horse faster. He raced the setting sun, only to be greeted by a chorus of wails as he reached the village outskirts.
Six witches had been burned at the stakes.
Not witches . . . women, he reminded himself.
Unfortunately, Alonso was not the first of the Inquisition to reach the hamlet. He suspected Father Ibarra had been spared until now because he was a priest.
Alonso stared at the man’s back.
If I’m only able to save him, so be it.
“Father Ibarra, please, just admit—”
“What do you know of Saint Columba?”
Taken aback by such a strange question, it took Alonso a moment to answer. He had attended both the University of Salamanca and the University of Sigüenza, studying canon law in preparation for taking holy orders and joining the Church. He was well versed in the litany of all the saints. But the name spoken by Father Ibarra was not without controversy.
“You speak of the witch from Galicia,” Alonso said, “who encountered the spirit of Christ in the ninth century during a pilgrimage to Rome.”
“Christ warned her to convert to Christianity if she wished to enter heaven.”
“And she did and would later be martyred for it, beheaded for refusing to forsake her religion.”
Ibarra nodded. “While she entered the Church, she never forsook being a witch. Peasants throughout the region still revere her for both sides of her person—both witch and martyred saint. They pray to her to defend themselves against evil witchcraft, while also asking her to protect good witches against persecution, those who heal the sick with herbs, amulets, and enchantments.”
During his travels throughout northern Spain, Alonso had heard whispers of the cult of Saint Columba. He knew many women—educated women—who studied the natural world, who sought medicines and herbs, drawing upon pagan knowledge. Some were accused of witchcraft and poisoned by priests or burned at the stake; others sought shelter in nunneries and monasteries where—like Saint Columba—they could worship Christ, yet still plant secret gardens and help the sick or afflicted, smudging the line between paganism and Christianity.
He studied Father Ibarra.
Was this priest a part of that same cult?
“You yourself are accused of using charmed amulets to heal the sick,” Alonso said. “Does that not mark you a witch of the same ilk? If you would admit as much, I can use the Edict to intercede—”
“I am no witch,” he repeated and pointed to the smoke wafting through the cell’s tiny window. “There go the women who healed many of the sick throughout these pastures and mountain villages. I was merely their protector, acting as a humble servant of Saint Columba, the patron saint of witches. I cannot with a true heart claim to be a witch. Not because I despise such an accusation, but because I do not deserve to be called a witch . . . for I am not worthy of such an honor.”
Alonso took in the shock of these words. He had heard countless renunciations by those accused of witchcraft, but never a denial such as this.
Ibarra pulled closer to the bars. “But the story of my amulet . . . that allegation is true. I fear those who arrived here at the village before you came seeking it.”
As if summoned by his words, the door opened behind Alonso. The hooded figure of a monk, robed in black, entered. Though the newcomer’s eyes were covered by a strip of crimson, he could clearly still see. “Has he confessed?” the man asked gruffly.
Alonso turned to Ibarra. The priest stepped from the bars and straightened his back. Alonso knew Ibarra would never break. “He has not,” Alonso admitted.
“Take him,” the man ordered.
Two of the monk’s brethren pushed into the room, ready to drag Ibarra to the stake. Alonso blocked them. “I will walk him out.”
In short order, the cell was unbarred, and Alonso strode alongside Ibarra out of the jail and into the village square. To steady the priest and keep him upright, Alonso kept a hand on Ibarra’s elbow. It was not just weakness and starvation that trembled the man’s limbs—but the sight found in the square.
Six stakes smoldered, holding fire-contorted shapes, charred arms raised high, wrists bound in glowing iron. A seventh trunk of freshly hewn chestnut towered upright in a waist-high pile of dry kindling.
Ibarra reached and clutched hard to Alonso’s hand.
Alonso tried to squeeze reassurance into the frightened prisoner. “May God accept you into His embrace.”
But Alonso had misinterpreted the priest’s intent. Bony fingers pried open his hand and pressed an object into his palm. Alonso instinctively closed his fingers over it, knowing what had been passed to him in secret, likely slipped free from some secret pocket inside the priest’s tattered robe.
Ibarra’s amulet.
The priest whispered in Spanish, confirming what Alonso suspected. “Nóminas de moro.”
Nóminas were charms or amulets upon which were inscribed the names of saints and were said to be capable of miraculous acts.
“It was found at the source of the Orabidea River,” Ibarra explained urgently. “Keep it from them.”
Ahead, through the pall of smoke, a tall figure strode purposefully forward. His robe was crimson, his blindfold was black. It was the sect’s leader. Alonso had heard rumors of this inner cabal of the Inquisition, those who still adhered to the bloodlust of long-dead Torquemada. They called themselves the Crucibulum, after the Latin word for crucible, a vessel that purifies through fire.