Maria Isabel

By Petru Plesa

The novel is a combination between mystery and suspense which introduces you to the subject from the first page. The book reveals the extremes of the human condition from the most absurd to the most uplifting, a condition that has been present with us at all times.
Maria Isabel is a fiction novel that unfolds in three dimensions, intertwining in a harmonious and intriguing way.The first dimension is a historical one, an account of life, people and places, from 17th century Spain. The second is a psychological one, where we know the subjective feelings of the characters fighting with their own problems, their own ephemeris. but also human nature in its individual and group manifestation.The third dimension is a spiritual one, and here we witness the confrontation between religion and spirituality, a debate between believing and being, between socio-cultural programming and freedom, a debate in which whoever is right does not win, whoever has power wins . Here the difference between dry dogma and truth will be perceived very clearly and intensely, and any different point of view must be silenced, regardless of facts or evidence.
The great inquisitor was called to a small village to take over and judge a witch. The process is complicated, everything being atypical, and although he is overwhelmed by the situation, despite the evidence, he decides that the defendant should be purified. During the purification, he has the surprise of his life, a surprise that determines him to reconsider everything he knows, a surprise that shakes the world from its foundations and shatters it irretrievably. As a result, he decides to redeem his previous way of life, making a radical decision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664196643

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Petru Plesa.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/22/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Foreword

I browsed curiously through María Isabel and, right away, liked the title and its Spanish flavor, both of which suggested a story as charming as the name. The first excerpts I read, however, provoked a mixture of fascination and repulsion. I confess, I began with repulsion and disapproval towards everything implied by human agony caused with beastliness by some believing themselves superior, towards injustice and inequality. The disquieting scenes of torture are depicted so vividly that they trigger the striking sensation that you’re bearing witness to the victims’ torment and the torturers’ incomprehensible satisfaction. Unsettling details of times past rouse your imagination from the numbness that comes with the comfort of our times. And one cannot help but ask: What if I were alive then? Would I have been a victim, tyrant, passive observer, or vigilante? Because the emotions you experience reading this book are intense—they’re real, they transpose you into the characters’ skin or, on the contrary, as far away as possible from those you could never identify with. I’ve felt intense compassion, admiration, anger, aversion, powerlessness, unhoped-for leniency—all at maximal levels—and then I reevaluated my stance on life, on my fellow man, and on God.

For me, it developed into a lesson—one of those lessons you’re glad you did not have to experience in your own skin but that lifts your consciousness and drives you to gratefulness and the strength to ask for, offer, and accept forgiveness. And of all the faculties that we have been blessed with as humans, that is one of the most difficult to access and employ. This book offers simple models, both for clean and pure living, as well as for a tumultuous and cruel life that is able to, ultimately, find the strength to switch directions and end in glory.

Fascination springs from the way the author illustrates, so masterfully yet with such simplicity and naturalness, moments and episodes in the unsettling, controversial, and long-past history of the world, which have nonetheless left their mark on where we are now. It makes one want to ask him if he was there, or what sort of inspiration was instilled in him to recount ancient memories from the seventeenth century in a twenty-first-century novel.

The backdrop and characters are penned in detail, making it impossible for the reader not to see them in their mind’s eye and become so captivated as to be unable to put the book aside. The author’s very direct and natural style makes for an easy read, although the story is full of suspense, excitement, and mystery, with a surprise culmination and a liberating conclusion.

For the central character, the plot is much like a journey toward what he believed to be his most valuable possession, which turns into the moral lesson of his life—a lesson that can be a moral for any one of us, in appropriate proportion, of course.

At first sight, it might seem like a religious novel; but in truth, it is a novel dealing with human nature, a novel striking a well-defined balance between negative and positive, good and bad, white and black. It is sprinkled with stirring revelations about the nature of prayer and healing as well as the intrinsic and indissoluble tie between them, but related to various human structures, to the perception, and force of each, very ably weaved within the narrative thread.

María Isabel is not a story that takes place in our times, no, but the metaphor it presents retains validity across times and settings; and its subject is cinemaworthy, even though a movie is already unfolding with ease in the reader’s mind as the story progresses.

Maria Apreotesei

Philologist, translator

Chief Editor at Floare de Iris

1

It surprised me something fierce to see that demon suddenly reveal itself after being tied to the pyre. We didn’t manage to get a thing out of her during questioning. Seems like we can never be too cautious. It was fortunate that we had plenty of witnesses to swear she was in the Devil’s grip.

Yes, it rattled me to hear a man’s voice come out of her mouth. From a lass so small and frail, a demon so terrible!

I have to say, your suggestion to gather all three in one place was a godsend. If it hadn’t been for that, we’d have had to run from one to another. This way we were able to do the three purgings at once.

A thin smile spread across the other man’s face.

Speak your mind, Marcus, Miguel prompted.

I just remembered Lucien grunting like a pig on all fours in the prison corridor.

Aye. Damned sorcerer. The one he set to clucking wasn’t any better off, either.

No, he wasn’t.

How did he succeed, given just one moment of inattention, in putting a curse on two soldiers? Turned one into a hog and the other into a chicken. With just a flick of his hand and an imprecation. What devilish power was there hiding in him?

We’ll never learn it all. We’ve had him burned already. And even if we hadn’t sent him to the pyre so swiftly, I doubt he’d have survived the wound.

With just a word and a movement of the hand, he made a brave soldier, strong as an ox, act like a pig. One wearing a holy cross as a ward on him. And the priest, instead of commanding ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!,’ he took to his heels. Was I too lenient, do you think, with the six months of fasting and solitary prayer?

Miguel, if he could do no more after a lifetime of donning the cloth, I doubt the penitence you prescribed will be much help.

You may be right. Not all have the strength to battle the Devil.

Who wouldn’t be filled with dread facing a man like that, wielding that sort of unholy power?

If the sergeant hadn’t stopped him, who knows what he’d have done with the rest of them!

Yes, that dagger was thrown into his chest with not a moment to spare. Any more, and he’d have been loose. Still, I daresay I don’t see how we’ll bring those two back. It’s disgraceful to have a man of the cloth cursed in that manner, grunting in full view.

On the other hand, I felt sorry for Jimena. I truly thought we’d be able to help that possessed woman. And yet not one exorcism out of three has succeeded thus far. Not even with the aid of the other priests. The things that took place today have made me wonder.

Indeed. It was not her fault that the Serpent coiled about her soul. It must be horrible to have to live with the voices of evil spirits in your head for so long. You saw the state they’d brought her to. I’ve never encountered a woman so soiled before.

Intriguing how she kept referring to herself in the third person. And did you see how uncontrolled her movements were?

Yes.

You know what I think made our efforts go awry? The fact that in her there was more than one devil. That’s exactly why she moved like that. If one of them moved a leg and the other an arm, her behavior would make sense. What if they were fighting for control of her body? That would also be the reason she heard multiple voices, driving her out of her wits. You heard what the jurors said of her deeds.

Yes, that might be. Yes, that’s a most plausible argument. And her manner of speech, that could be explained too. If one tongue were used by several, it wouldn’t produce anything intelligible.

Quite. I’ll have to bring it up in the council. We couldn’t have let her live at the whims of the Unholy One. Baptism by fire was absolutely required. Since we hadn’t managed to purge the demons from her soul, the least we could do was save it from eternal damnation, through the purifying fire.

One more thing that seemed curious to me, said Marcus. Did you notice that none of them reacted to holy water? I believe that might also be presented for debate.

You’re right. Make a list of the problems I need to bring up before the council. After the Madrid fiesta, I’ll summon a full conclave.

The discussion tapered off after this, and sleep overtook Miguel. His head fell lightly back onto a soft pillow.

Marcus raised the carriage’s curtain and peered outside through a dusty pane. A sullen and tired sun was close to setting, and it cast long shadows and lurid colors onto the sky and distant clouds. They were much behind schedule. They should have been at their destination by now but, with all this tumult, had not been able to leave on time.

We need a place to stay for the night, he thought.

Marcus looked at his travel companion, Miguel Hernández de Aragón, otherwise known as the Grand Inquisitor of Aragón, descended from the house of old Aragónian kings that ruled before the unification of the Spanish provinces. He was sleeping tensely, his brow knotted and his eyes darting behind closed eyelids, jaw shifting.

He’s having another nightmare, Marcus thought, shrugging briefly in a vague gesture of resignation. There’s never an end to his nightmares. I should prepare a stronger sleeping draft, his medication, and a tea for the evening.

He studied the other man’s face, framed by sparse white hair cut straight across the middle of his forehead, his aquiline nose and cheeks so gaunt the cheekbones stood out clearly, with sunken purple circles under his eyes. His brow was furrowed, and his mouth quivered into a grimace, the corners of his mouth pointing down, his teeth grinding. Strong emotions and time had left behind deep lines on his face. He was seventy.

Marcus fell into a reverie, reminiscing on the times they’d both been children, playing together in the courtyard of the Hernández family palace, their common residence at the time. Only that Miguel was a master and he a servant’s child. Staring blankly ahead, he could see again those moments when Miguel had drawn him away from his chores to play together, to snatch choice morsels from the kitchen or pull on the skirts of young servant girls. Between that time and now, Miguel had been like a brother to him. He’d never perceived a difference between them. During adolescence, Marcus had been Miguel’s confidant. He listened to tales of adventure involving girls and duels or heard of the future plans of the former royal family. He relived the wedding of Miguel and Eleonora, and then the birth of their daughter. He exhaled a long, slow breath. How quickly the years had passed.

Marcus had been born out of wedlock to one of the palace’s kitchen hands, and he was of similar age to Miguel. They had grown up together, Marcus as Miguel’s personal servant. With time, their bond grew in strength, and after more than fifty years, solidified into a steadfast friendship.

After losing his wife during the birth of his daughter, Miguel had joined the Inquisition, where, because of his family’s influence in the Spanish court, he quickly climbed the ranks. Marcus had remained his sole friend and confidant throughout this time.

A pothole shook the carriage, breaking Marcus out of his reverie. He opened the carriage window and signaled to one of the guards riding along to approach.

Find us a place to pull over for the night. We’ll stop at the first inn.

Yes, Monsignor, the soldier answered, spurring his horse up to the side of the man driving the carriage. When in range, he shouted over, We’re pulling over at the first inn.

The soldier driving the carriage nodded his head in understanding, lightly whipping the horses. Miguel Hernández didn’t like it when the carriage drove too fast. Because of his age, it wore him out, and he didn’t enjoy being shaken too much. These travels irritated him, drawing out all his aches and adding fatigue on top of his sleepless nights. Old age takes its toll.

In a short while, the carriage pulled up to an inn, roiling up a cloud of dust. One of the soldiers vaulted off his mount into another puff of dust at his feet. He handed his reins to a nearby rider, who carried on ahead, tugging at the horse behind him. Rubén, the dismounted soldier, drew open the carriage door and unfolded the stairs with speed and efficiency.

The Cross Inn was an old one and looked worn down from the outside. Its name was not inspired by any crucifix but by the intersection of ways it was built beside. The pulling over of the carriage had awoken its sleeping passenger, who now gazed blearily at his travel companion.

Have we arrived? he asked.

His companion nodded in confirmation.

The door of the carriage opened suddenly, light from outside blinding the passengers with its unexpected glare. In unison, the two reached up to cover their eyes. A grimace of discontent appeared on the Inquisitor’s face, but he said nothing.

Your Holiness, the soldier offered with great formality, holding out a hand to help him down.

With a groan, the Inquisitor stooped and passed through the little door, leaning with all his weight on the proffered arm and stepping gingerly down the stairs. When both feet were on the ground, he began smoothing out his black vestments. After a moment, the soldier turned to assist Marcus down, offering his arm in support again. Then with the same speed and efficiency, he folded up the stairs and closed the carriage door. The other soldiers were a little farther up ahead, unsaddling their horses and bringing them into the inn’s stables for watering and feeding. Each had slung their harness over their shoulders.

Their deftness was a mark of how absolutely accustomed they had become to all this.

The two travelers stretched out their bones, taking in the surroundings. In the distance, there was a village, and above the village, atop a hill, a large forest. Above the forest, the tired sun was giving way, bit by bit, to the creeping in of the kingdom of night.

With small, slow steps, according to their age, the two friends entered the inn arm in arm.

The inn was built on two levels. Upstairs were the guestrooms, and downstairs was the common room, where food and drink were served to all travelers.

Right from the entrance, the heads of wild boars and huge-antlered stags on the wall stared out eerily as torchlight played on their faces. Old cartwheels were hung up between the heads. In every corner of the common room stood a large cask of wine. In the middle were eight tables, two of which were occupied. The flooring creaked at every step and seemed to have been there since the beginning of time. Everything appeared worn, old, and a little gloomy.

As they made their entrance, a deep silence spread over the two occupied tables. Everyone stared with concern at the two old men dressed in the well-known garments of the Inquisition. At the shoulder of clergymen of the Inquisition you could always find stout soldiers armed to the teeth. Everyone knew someone that had been picked up by the Inquisition, never to return to their homes. Customers hurriedly turned their gazes away, staring silently into their cups, ears perked up. Some began making moves as if to leave.

The common room occupied most of the lower level of the inn. It led to the kitchen, and farther on, the kitchen led outside to where the animals, stables, and garden were. Also downstairs was the hosts’ bedroom, to the left of the kitchen. It was not a very spacious room, holding two beds and a tall wardrobe. One of the beds was for the innkeeper and his wife, and the other for their children.

The innkeeper, a man of forty with sparse blond hair and wearing a torn apron that had been white in its better days, came out to greet them. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up and carried a cloth draped over one shoulder. With a kind smile but worry in his eyes, he took a deep bow.

Welcome! Come in, come in! Would the monsignors be seeking meals and lodging?

Yes, a room with two beds for the two of us. And then you can see to housing our guardsmen. Have bread, fruit, meat, and water sent to our room. Give the soldiers whatever they ask for, the Inquisitor said softly, his voice faded.

A deep tiredness could be seen in his eyes, and his gaze still carried some mistiness.

Yes, Monsignor. Let me show you to the rooms and allow you to pick the one you like. And then I’ll quickly bring up some hot water so you may freshen up after the journey.

The innkeeper picked up a lamp and directed the new guests to the stairs with a grand, sweeping gesture of his free arm, bending over in an almost-obsequious show of servitude. He led them to the stairs, then waited patiently to follow behind. The two elders shuffled up time-worn stairs that creaked their age from every joint. Old age, thy cloak weighs heavy, the innkeeper thought.

Juanita! he called out from the stairs. Juanita!

The Inquisitor, startled at his shout, clenched his jaws and frowned, but said nothing. His lips tightened in disapproval, but he relaxed them a moment later in resignation.

A chubby woman, dressed in a gray dress with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and wearing a cook’s apron and a bonnet on her head, appeared from behind the kitchen door.

Take care of customers till I come down. I’m going up to prepare the room for the monsignors.

The woman was his wife, and they worked the inn together. They owned the place and had two children, a boy of twelve and a girl of ten, who both helped with clearing tables, cleaning up, and other easier tasks. The innkeeper, José Mari, had inherited it from his father, who had in turn received it from his own father. It was keeping them from starvation, but it wasn’t making them rich, proof of which was the deplorable state of the building.

The innkeeper opened the door to one of the rooms he knew as the best and cleanest. He entered first, lamp in hand. Would this room be to his lordship’s liking? he asked, eyes shifting from one to the other. If you wish for another, we can offer it, at the same price.

The two went inside, sweeping the place with their eyes. The room was clean and had two modest beds for each person. The linens also looked clean, with a blanket and a pillow on each bed. Beside them were a table and a wardrobe that took up most of the rest of the room. The wardrobe was old but nicely carved, hinting at former better times in their family. A window opened up to the back of the inn, from where animal noises could be heard. The table was covered with a cloth, with a lamp on top. A faint odor of stables and flowers filled the room. The guests exchanged glances for a moment and nodded to one another. The innkeeper promptly laid his lamp on the table, lit the one already there, then bowed. I shall be back smartly with the items you ordered, he said and went out, cautiously pulling the door closed behind him.

The innkeeper scuttled down the stairs and went into the kitchen. Set up a platter with meat, fruit and bread, and I’ll bring the water right away, he ordered Juanita. He then snapped impatiently at the kids. Stay out from under my feet.

He made his way to a stove with a smoldering fire. On one of the plates rested a large metal pot filled with warm water. He hunched down, opened the fire door, and checked the insides. He sighed when he saw the remaining embers. I’ll need to buy more wood, he mumbled to himself.

The soldiers had finished their work and were now stomping noisily into the inn, their weapons, spurs, and armor rattling. The last two of them came in hauling a trunk by its handles, property of the two carriage occupants.

Hearing the voices of the men-at-arms and the rattle of weapons, José Mari hurried out of the kitchen and moved quickly to welcome the knights.

Innkeep, food and wine for us, and quickly, one of the soldiers called out in a loud, rumbling voice, scanning haughtily around to size up the other clients.

Right away, good sirs. Do set yourselves at the table. You’ve come from afar and must surely be weary. I shall return shortly with some victuals and wine, he added, sweeping imaginary breadcrumbs off a nearby table and chair with his shoulder cloth.

Where have the monsignors lodged? one of the two lugging the trunk asked.

José Mari pointed at the door leading upstairs, where the inquisitors were awaiting their hot water and food.

If you bring us some kind of wish-wash, you have my word you’ll be guzzling all of it, proclaimed one of the bearded knights, pointing at the innkeep.

Oh my lord, perish the thought! We carry only the finest wine. If it’s not to your liking, you need pay nothing, he answered with a honeyed smile. No client has ever called our wine wish-wash.

From the kitchen appeared Juanita and the boy, each holding a generous pitcher of wine.

Hahaha, there we go! Leave ’em here on the table and fetch us our cups. My throat is parched after this long haul!

And be quick about it. We need to clear this dust out of our throats!

No holding back, boys!

Out of the kitchen and behind the first two came a tiny blonde munchkin with a headful of curls, hugging six cups to her chest and staring at the noisy knights in wide-eyed innocence.

One of the soldiers rose and took the six cups from her arms. He quickly spread them on table, then lifted the little girl in his arms and set her onto his knee as he sat back down.

Hey, you oafs, take a gander at this beauty of a young lass! She’s going to break so many hearts when she grows up, he added, savoring her prettiness with delight.

As she was filling their cups, Juanita blushed at the soldier’s words. She gave him a quick, weighing glance while she kept on pouring the wine.

Go to the kitchen, she hissed through her teeth at the boy, who stared entranced at the soldiers.

What’s your name, little beauty?

Eleonora, she answered sweetly in a soft, little voice, looking abashedly at the knights as they gawked and chuckled at her.

You don’t say! Why, that’s a name fit for a princess!

The chubby-cheeked young girl had long blonde hair and blue eyes. She stole glances at the soldiers from under her brows, wide-eyed, smiling innocently, and playing with her hands.

The knight held the girl with one hand and searched his pocket with the other, then pulled out a silvery coin and handed it to her.

Thank you, señor, the girl said in a gentle, timid voice.

In reply, the knight noisily kissed her cheek, and she immediately wiped it off with her sleeve in disgust, to a gale of laughter.

I’ll leave you with Mommy now, and we’ll get back to our meal. We’ve got a lot ahead of us tomorrow.

Juanita lifted the little girl off the knight’s knee and pulled her along. She quickly disappeared behind the kitchen door. When inside she took the coin from Eleonora.

It’s my coin, the little girl protested in a small voice.

Shush and don’t get under my feet.

It’s my coin, the pretty little girl repeated sulkily, then made her way to the garden through the postern door.

In the meantime, the recently lodged guests were making themselves comfortable, silently arranging their blankets for sleeping and their clothes for the next day of travel.

You were having bad dreams again, Miguel. Shall I prepare your medicine? asked Marcus.

I did, yes. Again that same wretched dream that’s been tormenting me. I don’t know why I even take those medicines. They’re not doing me any good.

The doctor from Madrid is the best, his friend reminded him softly. Besides, it may be a lot worse without them.

The Inquisitor slowly sat down on the bed with a sigh.

Nothing of what’s been done can be undone. All this torment is useless, Marcus continued, turning down the bed.

My friend, you can speak like that because you’ve never had children of your own, you never married. If I’d only accepted things then, everything might be different now, he said with a bitter expression. I don’t understand! Why couldn’t he just leave my daughter alone? he burst out violently. I’d told him so many times that the will of heaven for my daughter was not that! he continued, impassioned. Of all the girls of Zaragoza, why did he have to set his eyes on mine? I’d told him so many times she was not meant for him!

Yes, but they say love is blind, Marcus intervened, sitting down on his bed. You remember when you yourself met Eleonora, the way your family turned her away?

Perhaps if Eleonora were alive, everything would be different, the Inquisitor replied to his friend’s question.

The wife of Miguel Hernández, Eleonora, had died during the birth of their daughter. It had been a very troublesome delivery, her labor lasting almost two days. The doctor had declared himself powerless to do anything for her. He had proposed extracting the child through surgery, a more-than-certain death sentence for the mother. And if they hadn’t removed the child, both mother and the baby were fated to perish. He could still remember the fading look in her eyes and the effort she made to smile at him. The memory of her face in labor, the way she gripped his hand in agony—it all made his heart bleed. He could see the life draining out of her, and could do nothing. He had never spoken of this to anyone, not even Marcus.

I see him in my dreams, eyes bloodshot, like a demon, staring at me from the torture chair and laughing! In his bleeding mouth, I see his severed tongue. ‘I’ll await you in hell,’ he says every time. I still hear his screams from the torture and interrogation. He should have told me where my daughter was.

After a long pause, Miguel carried on. Or I might have let them live together, but everyone . . . what would everyone at court have said? That my daughter married a pauper, someone from a lower social rank? Would I not have been spoken ill of? Called a weakling that couldn’t properly raise his own daughter? Our family is descended from former kings of Aragón—could we really have debased ourselves that way? The soldiers found her slippers and cape on the banks of the Ebro, her footsteps leading to the water. She drowned in the Ebro. They searched a long way downstream for her, on both banks, but it was for naught. I offered a fortune to anyone that might bring any knowledge of her. For naught. She drowned in that river.

Marcus knew the whole story. It had been repeated and debated many times throughout his lifetime. He continued to listen to that same tale, attentively and with patience, every time.

I must take a sabbatical. All this traveling wears on me. We’ll finish with this witch, then take leave for a month at the estate, and then the fiesta in Madrid begins, which we must attend. What say you, Marcus?

Yes, Miguel, we’ll do that, his friend answered.

I’ve crossed the whole of Aragón and almost all of Spain for these trials, over these past decades. I keep wondering what pushes people to do things so unseemly in the eyes of the Lord? If they would but listen to His laws, and let themselves be shepherded by us, we would not need to take such measures.

Their dialogue was interrupted by a knock. In unison, the two turned to look at the door.

Come in!

A soldier stood in the doorway, carrying a wooden trunk on his shoulder.

Forgive me, your lordships, if I’ve dawdled.

With the pointing finger of his right hand, the Inquisitor indicated where the trunk should be placed. The soldier lowered it beneath the window, then bowed. Would your lordships bid anything else?

Find beds for yourselves and eat, then set up watches for the night, Marcus said.

As Your Highness commands, the soldier answered and left the room, gently pulling the door closed behind him.

Only a moment of silence passed before another knock was heard.

Come in, Miguel said in irritation.

I beg the pardon of Your Holinesses. I’ve brought the things you ordered a moment ago.

With the same finger and in the same manner, he indicated the table on which to place the tray of food and jug of fresh water. The innkeeper set them down quickly and bowed. Would your lordships desire a bath this evening? I could prepare the room and some hot water.

Miguel was feeling short-tempered and tired, and even the thought of a bath was exhausting. He shook his head no.

Marcus, did you want a bath? he asked, looking over at his friend.

Marcus shrugged. No, we can have one tomorrow when we arrive.

We won’t have one. That will be all, declared the old inquisitor.

Shall I bring Your Holinesses some warm water here so you may freshen up?

Miguel found himself at the abrupt end of his patience and turned on the innkeeper to scold him. He drew in a deep breath, opened his mouth, but seeing the humble gaze of José Mari and the way he was bent over almost parallel to the floor, he could only utter a feeble Yes. He sighed heavily, turned back to the table, and slowly took a seat in front of it. Not enough rest, old age, and the road were all making him a bit irascible. He knew this and should have been planning his retirement, but there was always something left to do, always one more thing he needed to accomplish. And in whose hands to leave it all?

The two ate their meals in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The innkeeper returned with the warm water and carried away the tray, leaving only the pitcher of fresh water.

If you need any more fresh water, I could bring some, the intruder offered.

It’ll be enough till the morrow.

A good night, Your Holinesses. On the morrow, I shall have a meal prepared for whenever you may arise.

A good night, master innkeep, Marcus answered, cutting him off.

Without another word, the innkeeper disappeared, pulling the door closed behind him.

Reluctantly, Miguel and Marcus freshened up using the warm water and wiped themselves dry with towels found in the room. Then they prepared for their much-awaited rest. Marcus opened the window and threw out the water they’d used for washing. The gesture caused an unexpected bath for the inn’s guard dog.

My dear Inquisitor of Second Rank, I daresay your conduct is indicative of an acute lack of refinement. One would think you lived in the sticks.

"My dear Grand Inquisitor of Spain, with all due solemnity, I wish to advise you that we are in the sticks," Marcus replied, closing the window back again.

The two friends chuckled between themselves as Marcus began mixing Miguel’s draft.

After he’d downed it, Miguel looked with disgust at the empty vessel.

I should kick that Madrid doctor. Besides not being any use, it’s got this horrible taste. Let us go to sleep. I’ve got a new nightmare to get through, and tomorrow is a long day.

Good night, Miguel!

Good night, Marcus!

2

The windowless cell was small and dark, lit by just four torches, one on each wall. The air felt fresh, a sign that there was an opening somewhere. Against the back wall stood three large oak cabinets. The one on the left held poisons and their antidotes. Its four shelves were all crowded with flasks of various sizes, each one affixed with a label. The middle cupboard held all kinds of condiments and substances.

On the left wall were arrayed pliers of varied shapes, hammers in a range of sizes, knives laid out in increasing lengths, cudgels, and muzzles.

The right wall held nails, spikes, a few funnels, ropes, nooses, five saws, and miscellaneous smaller implements. Below, under them all, were lined up in order a number of pots and metal containers. Into the ceiling were attached a number of pulleys, chiefly used for the garrucha,¹ but for other things as well.

All these objects were meant to pull, crush, tear, and cut. In a word, to destroy any unfortunate creature with the misfortune of finding itself in the chair or tied to the pulleys.

In the middle of the cell was a drain. By the drain, a metal chair, very deftly constructed. It