Cathedral of the Sea

“Why is that?”

“If he were to name any of the witnesses accusing him, the tribunal could consider their testimony unsound.”

“But Arnau doesn’t know who denounced him,” Mar said.

“No, not at the moment. He might find out in due course ... if Eimerich concedes him that right. In fact, he is entitled to know,” said Joan, noticing how the two women reacted. “That is what Pope Boniface the Eighth decreed, but the pope is a long way away, and each inquisitor conducts his own trials as he sees fit.”

“I THINK MY wife hates me,” Arnau replied in answer to Eimerich’s question.

“Why should Dona Eleonor hate you?” the inquisitor insisted.

“Because we have no children.”

“Have you tried? Have you lain with her?”

Arnau had sworn on the four gospels. “No.”

The clerk’s quill copied all the words onto the pile of parchments in front of him. Nicolau Eimerich turned to the bishop.

“Can you name any other enemy?” asked Berenguer d’Eril.

“The nobles on my lands, in particular the thane of Montbui.” The clerk went on writing. “I have also judged many people as consul of the sea, but I consider I have always been just in my judgments.”

“Do you have any enemies among members of the Church?”

Why were they asking him that? He had always got on well with the Church.

“Apart from some of those here—”

“The members of this tribunal are impartial,” said Eimerich, interrupting him.

“I trust they are.” Arnau looked directly at the inquisitor.

“Anyone else?”

“As you well know, I have been a moneylender for many years, and perhaps—”

“It’s not for you,” Eimerich interrupted him again, “to speculate on who might or might not be your enemy, or for what reason. If you have enemies, you are to name them; if not, say nothing. Do you have enemies?”

“I do not think so.”

“WHAT THEN?” ALEDlS wanted to know.

“Then the inquisition proper begins.” Joan thought back to all the village squares, the chambers in rich houses, the sleepless nights ... but a heavy blow on the table in front of him brought him back to reality.

“What do you mean, Friar?” Mar shouted at him.

Joan sighed and looked her in the eye.

“The word ‘inquisition’ means a search. The inquisitor has to search out heresy and sin. Even when there have been accusations, the trial is not based on them or restricted to them. If the person on trial refuses to confess, they will search for the hidden truth.”

“How will they do that?” asked Mar.

Before he replied, Joan closed his eyes. “If you’re asking about torture, yes, that is one of the ways.”

“What will they do to him?”

“They might decide torture is not necessary.”

“What will they do to him?” insisted Mar.

“Why do you want to know?” said Aledis, taking her by the hand. “It will only torment you ... still further.”

“The law forbids death or the loss of any limb under torture,” Joan explained, “and suspected heretics may be tortured only once.”

Joan could see how the two women, their faces streaming with tears, sought some comfort in that. Yet he knew that Eimerich had found a way to make a mockery of this legal requirement. “Non ad modum iterationis sed continuationis,” he used to say, with a strange gleam in his eye; “Not repeatedly but continuously,” he translated for the novices who did not yet have a good grasp of Latin.

“What happens if they torture him and he still doesn’t confess?” asked Mar, after taking a deep breath.

“His attitude will be taken into account at the moment of handing down a sentence,” Joan said, without further explanation.

“Will it be Eimerich who sentences him?” asked Aledis.

“Yes, unless the sentence is life imprisonment or burning at the stake; in that case, he will need the bishop’s approval. And yet,” the friar went on, anticipating the women’s next question, “if the Inquisition considers that it is a complex matter, it has been known for them to consult the boni viri, between thirty and eighty people, not members of the Church, so that they can give their opinion as to the guilt of the accused, and the appropriate sentence. That means the trial drags on for months and months.”

“During which time Arnau would remain in jail,” said Aledis.

Joan nodded. The three of them sat in silence. The women were trying to take in everything they had heard; Joan was remembering another of Eimerich’s maxims: “The jail is to be forbidding, placed underground so that no light, and especially no sun or moonlight, may enter. It has to be harsh and tough, in order to shorten the prisoner’s life to the point that he faces death.”