‘ZARITA DE MARZENA, you are once again given an opportunity to confess.’
The hood of my habit rested on my shoulders and my veil was drawn aside. I could see the face of the monk in the black robes seated at the table opposite me and he could see mine.
‘Father,’ I said politely, ‘I do not feel the need to confess.’
The monk sighed. ‘I don’t wish a young woman, especially one with a connection to a religious order, to be put to any trial. But you must co-operate with me.’
‘Of what am I accused?’
‘You are accused of the most grievous sin against the Inquisition – that of heresy.’
I was to stand trial for heresy! Beatriz’s fears had proved correct.
‘When and how am I supposed to have committed this heresy?’
The monk picked up the paper in front of him and read from it. ‘You committed heresy in acts and sayings on various occasions while residing in the house of your father, the magistrate of the town Las Conchas, he being known as Don Vicente Alonso Carbazón.’
‘What!’ I almost laughed. ‘This is nonsense. My parents were devout people – especially my mother, who attended church almost every day of her life.’
The monk consulted the paper. ‘There is no reference to your mother here.’
‘Quote me the time and place of these incidents.’
Again he looked at his paper. ‘There is no note of them.’
‘Then where is your evidence?’ I demanded.
‘I cannot produce it here. It will be shown at your formal trial.’
‘You cannot produce it because it does not exist,’ I said firmly.
The monk’s face flushed in annoyance. He leaned forward over the table to glare at me. ‘I will tell you what does exist, my clever young miss. I have the means to make you confess. For, believe me, you will confess. In the end all our prisoners do. And I will remove any doubt from your mind about this. As you seem so keen on being shown evidence, then I will ensure that you are shown evidence that will convince you of what I say.’
He beckoned to my gaoler to come to him, and by gestures and whispering instructed him how to proceed.
The gaoler took me by the arm and led me off – not to my cell, but along a dank passageway that led down to the innermost area of the basement.
There he showed me the instruments of torture. The rack, and the pincers for removing fingernails. The hoist, and the pokers for burning the truth from the victim’s flesh. This latter had been used to break Bartolomé in spirit and in body.
We passed cells that contained those who had been put to the question. They lay huddled in a corner of their room, whimpering and crying. Then the gaoler took me to a communal area where people hung chained to the walls. The smell was rancid – the bitter scent of urine, the stink of excrement. He stopped beside a set of empty chains.
‘I am not to be left here,’ I gabbled, all my resolve and fortitude dissolving. ‘I was only to be shown what might happen.’
He looked at me sadly. I’d noticed that he smelled of alcohol and I wondered if he drank to excess to stop himself thinking of the sights he must see every day. With genuine regret in his voice he said, ‘I do as I’m told.’
‘No!’ I cried, my voice rising on a note of hysteria. ‘I have done nothing wrong! Nothing, I tell you!’
‘They all say that.’ The gaoler sighed as he unlocked the ankle- and wrist-cuffs and opened them up.
I looked around. The rest of the chained men and women hardly lifted their heads to acknowledge my presence. One’s mouth lolled open, showing gory stumps where there had been teeth. Another’s hair was matted with blood.
‘Please,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t even know what I am supposed to have done.’
‘You will be informed of that in due course,’ someone said behind us. The voice was unpleasant yet familiar.
I turned.
Standing in front of me was Father Besian.