The Errant Flock

by Jana Petken

  David and Paco dragged Miguel, who was barely able to stand, into the room and shackled him by the hands and feet whilst two Inquisition men-at-arms did the same to Ignacio. When the accused were secured, David and Paco took their places at the door and waited for the trial attendees to arrive.

  David had already seen the town’s prosecutor and his assistant enter. They’d been weighed down by documents. He’d also been present when the defence advocates had insisted on speaking to the accused men. Their job would be difficult, David thought, for both suspects were unable to speak or supply witnesses on their behalf. He wondered if justice would prevail here today, and if by some miracle, the two men would be set free due to lack of evidence. No … There would be no justice unless he confessed.

  The duke, town magistrate, Father Bernardo, Garcia, the inquisitor’s magistrate, and two leading councilmen entered the chamber and took their seats. Captain Tur, one of the last men to enter, stood next to David and Paco. His face was drained of colour. He looked sheepishly at the prisoners, and then his eyes settled on the hard, cold floor.

  “They’re a horrible sight, Captain, are they not?” Paco whispered to Tur. “I’m surprised they managed to put up a fight and that you found it necessary to beat them into submission.”

  “Hold your tongue, Morales, and mind your business,” Tur told him. “I’ll not have you questioning me about mine.”

  A burning heat engulfed David’s body. His chest felt tight, and his throat was as dry as an old wench’s mossy cave. Swallowing painfully, he stared at Garcia with unmasked defiance. Then, at the mere thought of the fight with the marauder, his wound started stinging. If it got infected, he might lose his arm, he thought. Damn Garcia and all the devils in hell if that happened.

  He wasn’t afraid, and he wanted Garcia to know. He intensified his gaze. He was wounded, but he was still alive and so angry that he would fight anyone else the whoreson sent and probably enjoy thrusting into him. He smirked, lifted his wounded arm so that Garcia could see it, and then watched with pleasure as the treasurer’s eyes narrowed to angry slits.

  The bastard had suffered defeat. He was probably livid and feeling humiliated. He wished his thoughts could reach Garcia’s ears. They would hear him say, “I’m still posing a threat, you turd from a pig’s arse. I’m ready for you and any assassin you care to send.”

  David shifted his eyes to the duke, whose forehead glistened with perspiration. Feeling a measure of satisfaction, he concluded that although the duke and Garcia had marked him for death, and that had been made painfully obvious, he saw fear in their eyes. In all likelihood, he would die at their hands or he’d be stabbed in the heart by their lackey, the scar-faced marauder. Yet at this moment, he felt strangely unafraid of them. The duke might be giving the impression that he was a mere interested party in this trial, David thought, but he was probably sitting there bum wetting himself and terrified of the truth coming out.

  Luis shifted nervously in his chair and stared straight ahead. He could feel Sanz’s eyes on him. The man had not stopped staring at him since the moment he’d walked into the chamber. If it were anyone else, he’d order him removed for his audacity. David Sanz was a loyal soldier, Luis had told himself repeatedly since that night, yet there was an absence of respect in his bold glances. Maybe he now wanted the money he’d thrown back in Garcia’s face, Luis thought. He was probably as greedy as any other man was. Perhaps he was thinking of confessing to the inquisitor about the murders. Luis was surprised to find that he was strangely unafraid of that happening. There was not a man in the world willing to go voluntarily to the stake, not even a self righteous scum like Sanz.

  Luis flicked his eyes over David and shivered as though a cold breeze had just enveloped him. Sanz was still glaring. He glanced at Tur. He’d speak to his captain about Sanz. He’d have him confine the man to prison duties on a permanent basis … No, that wouldn’t work. No matter where Sanz was, he would continue to vex. Garcia had been right all along, although he’d never admit that to the treasurer’s face. David Sanz would have to die.

  Looking at the prisoners, Luis squirmed at their ugliness, yet his mind was not entirely focused on them or on the trial about to take place. He inadvertently grunted in anger. He’d been hoping for financial aid from the inquisitor but instead De Amo had demanded money. What an effrontery. The inquisitor could buy Sagrat’s castle and still have enough coin left over to live comfortably. His father-by-law’s arrival had been disappointing, Luis thought miserably. He’d given the Inquisition every courtesy: residency in the municipal palace, a new prison, complete access to the townspeople, and accommodation for a large entourage. Yet he, Luis, had received nothing but disrespect in return.

  He’d never forgive his father by law, he decided, watching the inquisitor enter the chamber. The future duke of Sagrat had been baptised in the castle’s cold, damp chapel without one person of note being present to witness the occasion. The infant hadn’t even been given the name originally chosen for him. Gaspar Peráto, as he was now called, was not a good name. To make matters worse, he, Luis, was stuck with a madwoman for a wife, yet her father had not had the good grace to compensate him for the inconvenience or even mention his daughter’s insanity ... And now Sagrat was going to lose money to feed the inquisitor’s vanity in a grand auto-de-fé.

  Sighing, Luis closed his eyes. Ugliness surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, the malicious eyes of greedy, power seeking varlets met his. He was being bombarded with problems, and they were ruining his happiness and his plans.

  “Who deformed the prisoners’ faces?” the inquisitor barked at Luis in front of all those present. “How can they confess to me when they have no voices to speak with?”

  “My lord inquisitor, I believe Captain Tur may have been overly zealous when capturing the accused,” Luis answered with an equal amount of disdain. “According to him, the prisoners were armed and put up a fight. They are murderers and had to be subdued. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

  Tur nodded. “Yes Your Grace,” he said.

  The inquisitor continued to stare at the two mangled faces kneeling in front of him. He despaired at Luis’s lack of common sense. A soldier under the command of a nobleman would never strike an accused unless his master gave him permission to terrorize the common man. This was a clear sign of bad leadership, and the fault lay on Luis’s shoulders, for it demonstrated that Sagrat’s militia had no respect for their duke.

  De Amo faced a conundrum. He was obligated to follow canon law to the letter, for it sat at the core of all Inquisition procedures. Suspects could only be arrested after the Holy Office’s magistrates and a theology expert had seen conclusive evidence against the accused. But in this case, a civil authority, not the Inquisition, had collected and perused the testimonies. Naturally, the suspects were to be presumed guilty, and the onus would fall on them to prove their innocence, but how could these men defend themselves, he wondered again, if they couldn’t even open their mouths?

  His sole task was to obtain an admission of guilt and a penitential submission, but achieving this would also be impossible. During every trial, scribes meticulously documented accusers’ statements and suspects’ words as well as records of the prisoners’ treatment whilst in custody. The prisoners also had the right to question evidence against them, and if it were to be found lacking, the suspects were usually set free immediately. Interrogating and issuing a verdict on both men together in a single day would also be frowned upon, for by law, every Inquisition prisoner must have the right to a full investigation over a period of days, weeks, or even months.

  Taking a moment to look at the witnesses’ written statements, he wondered how he could justify such a speedy trial. Under Inquisition law, it was not necessary to reveal the names of accusers to the accused. Nor did he, as inquisitor, feel it necessary on this occasion to investigate the witnesses’ truthfulness. All five testimonies seemed to agree on facts, the time the crimes took place, and who had been responsi
ble.

  When he’d arrived at the prison, he’d been shocked to see hundreds of people gathered outside, weathering the damp and cold. Their calls for the suspects’ execution had been heartfelt and desperate. High Mass would take place in two days. He needed the townspeople’s undivided attention, and he wouldn’t get it if the case against these two men was not resolved.

  He comforted himself. His real work would begin after Sunday’s Mass. These two men were obviously guilty, and the charges against them didn’t require a lengthy investigation. No one would know that Inquisition procedures fell short on this occasion. God would forgive him, he believed. He would be satisfied to see the two murdering whores go to hell.

  The inquisitor regarded Miguel and Ignacio, and for a moment, he felt pity. His stiff pristine white collar and cuffs, black robes, cap, and cloak, were in stark contrast to the men’s half-naked bodies, which were covered in bruises and blackened with dirt. The prisoners were on their knees, craning their necks and moaning with pain.

  De Amo stepped forward and touched both prisoners’ heads as though he were blessing them. He felt one of the accused tug the hem of his robe. He looked down and saw the man’s broken fingers. He shuddered and shifted his gaze to the other man, who was clasping his hands in prayer. His eyes, blackened and bloodied around the edges, held a terror that Gaspar de Amo had seen previously on heretic’s faces. But even he, a hardened interrogator, found it difficult to look at him.

  “I believe I am ready to begin,” he told all those present.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  De Amo nodded to his magistrate and then to the defence advocate, who looked almost as terrified as the men he was there to defend.

  “Magistrate, present your evidence and accusers’ statements,” the inquisitor ordered.

  Vicent Arguti stood, bowed to the inquisitor, and then picked up one of the many documents lying on his tabletop. He cleared his throat. “My lord inquisitor …” Then addressing Luis, he said, “Your Grace, Miguel Ferrer and Ignacio Ruíz are accused of murder, kidnapping, and fire-raising. The deceased persons in this case – Adolfo Marsal and his wife, Alma Casellas – were found brutally stabbed to death in their house. Upon hearing the victims’ terrified screams, three neighbours were awakened, and they took it upon themselves to investigate. In the street, all three neighbours saw the aforementioned men running out of the victims’ house with an infant and a small child in their arms. The witnesses have since formally identified the accused.

  “Furthermore, on that same night, three smallholdings were burnt to the ground on the plain lying east of Sagrat. A boy, Juanjo Sanz, was killed during one of the raids. Witnesses have come forward, and all, without fail, have identified the two present suspects as being the perpetrators of these horrific crimes.

  “On the morning following the vicious attacks and murders, His Grace’s militia were dispatched to hunt and capture the murderers. When Miguel Ferrer and Ignacio Ruiz were eventually seized, they were found to be in possession of an infant’s blanket.” Arguti held up the blanket covered in blood.

  All those in attendance crossed themselves and gasped in horror.

  The two accused men shook their heads. Tears ran down the cheeks of one, whilst the other grunted incoherently at the magistrate.

  “Reliable witnesses have testified that this is the blanket belonging to the murdered infant, Matias Marsal Casellas. Unfortunately, the militia were unable to find the infant’s body or that of his sister, Angelita, Marsal Casellas.

  With a wave of his hand, the inquisitor gestured to the magistrate to sit back down. Looking at both of the accused, he said, “I don’t want to prolong this trial. It is quite clear that multiple witnesses have identified you both and that you are guilty of these atrocities. I could stand here all day and read witness accounts, but for your sake, I would much rather forego this lengthy process and hear your confessions now. Taking a step closer, he added, “I cannot save your souls, for they are beyond redemption, but I can show you mercy with a prompt death.”

  Miguel hung his head. Ignacio grunted and shook his head violently. The inquisitor raised an arm and then snapped his fingers. The masked torturer, who until now had stood behind Inquisition men-at-arms, stepped forward. Knowing what was required of him, he gripped Ignacio by the arm with his gloved hand and dragged him to his feet.

  “Ignacio, are you ready to confess to your terrible crimes against man and God?” De Amo asked Ignacio, not unkindly.

  Ignacio groaned like a whimpering wounded beast and shook his head.

  “You killed five people. We have proof,” De Amo told him. Your advocate sits here unable to defend you against the barrage of evidence that we have presented. Why do you prolong your suffering? Surely no physical torture can compare to the anguish of a tormented soul. God cannot show you mercy if you don’t unburden yourself of these terrible sins. You understand that it is my sacred duty to hear your confession and bring you back to the faith?”

  Ignacio’s glassy eyes stared at him; he looked like a small child not understanding a word that he was hearing.

  “You need only nod your head and this will be over.”

  Ignacio let out a desperate moan. Saliva dribbled down his chin, and his head drooped. The inquisitor gestured to the torturer, who tilted Ignacio’s head back, forcing him to look up.

  Bending down, the inquisitor looked into Ignacio’s eyes and said patiently, “Would it not be better for you to get this over with? You have caused great suffering, yet I am giving you the opportunity to find rest.”

  Ignacio shook his head and then bowed it again until it hung limply.

  De Amo had seen this gesture of defeat many times. It usually meant that the prisoner was ready to make a confession. He didn’t want to torture these men. They would not survive any of the inquisition’s methods, and there would be no justice for the townspeople if he burned dead bodies. “You killed five people. You murdered them! You took the lives of innocent babes … You must confess before you face the eternal flames of hell!”

  Ignacio looked at each face in the room as though searching for one single ally. Raising his eyes, he stared now with terror at the masked torturer. Tears poured down his face. Mucous dripped from his nostrils. His lips trembled, but he couldn’t seem to open them. He could only manage to whimper.

  “Will you now confess to God?” De Amo asked him again.

  Ignacio nodded.

  There was no point in going through any more Inquisition requisites, the inquisitor thought. He would have a just confession as long as the accused nodded his head at the right time and the scribe noted the gesture in the records.

  “Did you, Ignacio Ruiz, murder five innocent people and set unlawful fires that resulted in the destruction of properties?”

  Ignacio stared into De Amo’s eyes and then nodded his head.

  “Are you confessing?” the inquisitor asked once more, to make sure everyone else could see Ignacio nodding in answer.

  Ignacio nodded.

  “Is the confession recorded?” the inquisitor asked his scribe.

  The scribe said, “Yes Your Excellency, every gesture.”

  Miguel was pulled to his feet. He was in an even weaker state than Ignacio, and the torturer had to hold him up with both arms wrapped around his chest.

  “Miguel Ferrer, are you ready to confess to the murders?” the inquisitor asked.

  Miguel gasped for air and then released a loud sob.

  “Nod your head. Did you kill those people?” the inquisitor urged him.

  Miguel tried desperately to open his mouth.

  “Don’t try to speak. You’ll only cause yourself more pain.”

  Miguel nodded.

  “Are you confessing?”

  Miguel nodded again.

  The inquisitor sighed with relief. He did not normally conduct his business this way, and he had found it distasteful. “Did you all see their confessions?” he asked the seated men.

  “I did,” Lui
s answered. “They are both guilty.”

  The others nodded in agreement, and then each man said, “Yes, guilty.”

  De Amo sat down. In capital offence cases, the Inquisition generally handed convicted prisoners to the civilian authorities for sentencing. The Holy Office did not involve itself with the issuing of death sentences. “As we are all agreed, I will now abandon the prisoners to the secular arm. The Inquisition has done its duty,” he said, and then he sat down.

  For a moment, there was a silent pause as each man in the chamber came to terms with the verdict. David stood rigidly to attention, eyes boring into the prisoners. Paco inadvertently shook his head in a gesture of disgust. Captain Tur continued to stare at the ground as though daydreaming. But the council members, clergy, and Garcia nodded their heads in satisfaction whilst looking at the duke, who would now decide the convicted prisoners’ fate.

  Luis stood and then went to stand next to De Amo’s chair. Facing the council, he said, “The sentence must be death for both men. What does my council say?”

  “I agree, Your Grace,” the town magistrate said with enthusiasm.

  “They must be executed immediately,” Garcia said. “If we don’t carry out the sentences this night, we will have civil unrest. All hell will break loose.”

  The other councilmen agreed. The monks nodded. Father Bernardo, the only other clergyman present, had not yet spoken.

  “What say you, Padre?” Luis asked him.

  “They have been convicted of such evil crimes that I cannot even think of a suitable punishment. They have inflicted injury on so many lives in this town, and in my opinion, they should be mutilated and their parts fed to the pigs.”