would reach out a comforting hand, but Balaerik’s look froze him in place.
“All this evil,” Izquierdo moaned. “In the wilderness outposts— here in my beloved city. And you say I can expect still more.”
The donado smiled benignly and held up a hand. “All attended to in its place. Read His Holiness’ missive and edict. His instructions will comfort you. I shall return tomorrow night to plan strategy with you. There is, I believe, to be a conclave here in Toledo soon? On the coming feast which…I am of course unable to mention? Attending will be the Duke of Lerma, other leaders of the Inquisition from Salamanca, from—” Balaerik paused, his voice waxing conspiratorial. “If I may stoop to speak of political matters, I believe it would be advantageous for you to bring this heathen scourge before the Burning Court as soon as possible. You are, I gather, only in temporary charge of the High Office?”
The bishop nodded gravely. No reply was necessary. It was common knowledge. Less commonly known was Bishop Izquierdo’s fervent desire to inscribe his name in the annals of history as the most successful of all prosecutors of the Inquisition’s aims, greater than Torquemada himself.
“Your immediate attention to this matter might earn the esteem of His Holiness,” said the donado . And without another word between them, Balaerik departed.
Father de la Cenza stared after the strange messenger for a long time before speaking.
“Your Eminence—”
“Martin, I know what you must say. I have enough to consider.”
“I don’t like him. He’s wrong. It’s all wrong. What do you know about this Brother Balaerik now that you didn’t know before you ever saw him?”
Izquierdo sighed wearily. “I’ll know more once I’ve read the papers.”
“The papers,” de la Cenza fairly spat.
“Respect! They bear the seal of the pontiff himself!”
“And what of that?” de la Cenza rasped, his expression one of almost childlike daring. “These days one ought best to place his faith in people before…things.”
“Mind me, Martin. It’s heretical ground you tread.” The bishop leveled an accusing finger at the prelate.
“Forgive me, Your Eminence, por favor. But that man—I fear he may evoke the worst qualities in you. May God alone guide your decisions.” This last was uttered in a rush, and then de la Cenza was gone, the oaken door shushing behind him.
The Grand Inquisitor pondered his words for a time before reverently handling the papal packet, which soon consumed his eager curiosity.
Lauds followed matins, in due course. Unmindful of the murmured breviary prayers issuing from without, Izquierdo considered the amazing things he read, curled back into his own mind and soul, where he found a roiling unease. And, being as devout as he was ambitious and zealous, he took his troubles at last to his God.
The novice who came to clean his office in the pre-dawn gloom found him still prostrate and trembling before the large gold crucifix that adorned one wall. The boy slipped back out, holding his breath, apple-cheeked, until he had tiptoed far down the hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The buffeting night wind tamed to a whisper as a gray dawn broke over the town of Barbaso.
Capt. Hernando Salguero pushed open the portico door of the late magistrate’s house— his house now, for all intents and purposes—and welcomed the blast of cold air, though he wore no coat or wrap over his jerkin. It was exhilarating, cleansing. He took a sip of rum from the pewter mug he carried.
Down the snow-packed street, toward the square to the north, the smaller houses of rude stone and brick were mounded by drifts on one side. They seemed lifeless, uninhabited. Nothing stirred at the square; the stalls of the great bazaar, hidden by the rooftops, sounded still but for the barking of stray dogs. In the farther distance, Salguero fancied that he could hear herdsmen moving their animals to winter fodder.
No troopers in sight. The
“All this evil,” Izquierdo moaned. “In the wilderness outposts— here in my beloved city. And you say I can expect still more.”
The donado smiled benignly and held up a hand. “All attended to in its place. Read His Holiness’ missive and edict. His instructions will comfort you. I shall return tomorrow night to plan strategy with you. There is, I believe, to be a conclave here in Toledo soon? On the coming feast which…I am of course unable to mention? Attending will be the Duke of Lerma, other leaders of the Inquisition from Salamanca, from—” Balaerik paused, his voice waxing conspiratorial. “If I may stoop to speak of political matters, I believe it would be advantageous for you to bring this heathen scourge before the Burning Court as soon as possible. You are, I gather, only in temporary charge of the High Office?”
The bishop nodded gravely. No reply was necessary. It was common knowledge. Less commonly known was Bishop Izquierdo’s fervent desire to inscribe his name in the annals of history as the most successful of all prosecutors of the Inquisition’s aims, greater than Torquemada himself.
“Your immediate attention to this matter might earn the esteem of His Holiness,” said the donado . And without another word between them, Balaerik departed.
Father de la Cenza stared after the strange messenger for a long time before speaking.
“Your Eminence—”
“Martin, I know what you must say. I have enough to consider.”
“I don’t like him. He’s wrong. It’s all wrong. What do you know about this Brother Balaerik now that you didn’t know before you ever saw him?”
Izquierdo sighed wearily. “I’ll know more once I’ve read the papers.”
“The papers,” de la Cenza fairly spat.
“Respect! They bear the seal of the pontiff himself!”
“And what of that?” de la Cenza rasped, his expression one of almost childlike daring. “These days one ought best to place his faith in people before…things.”
“Mind me, Martin. It’s heretical ground you tread.” The bishop leveled an accusing finger at the prelate.
“Forgive me, Your Eminence, por favor. But that man—I fear he may evoke the worst qualities in you. May God alone guide your decisions.” This last was uttered in a rush, and then de la Cenza was gone, the oaken door shushing behind him.
The Grand Inquisitor pondered his words for a time before reverently handling the papal packet, which soon consumed his eager curiosity.
Lauds followed matins, in due course. Unmindful of the murmured breviary prayers issuing from without, Izquierdo considered the amazing things he read, curled back into his own mind and soul, where he found a roiling unease. And, being as devout as he was ambitious and zealous, he took his troubles at last to his God.
The novice who came to clean his office in the pre-dawn gloom found him still prostrate and trembling before the large gold crucifix that adorned one wall. The boy slipped back out, holding his breath, apple-cheeked, until he had tiptoed far down the hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The buffeting night wind tamed to a whisper as a gray dawn broke over the town of Barbaso.
Capt. Hernando Salguero pushed open the portico door of the late magistrate’s house— his house now, for all intents and purposes—and welcomed the blast of cold air, though he wore no coat or wrap over his jerkin. It was exhilarating, cleansing. He took a sip of rum from the pewter mug he carried.
Down the snow-packed street, toward the square to the north, the smaller houses of rude stone and brick were mounded by drifts on one side. They seemed lifeless, uninhabited. Nothing stirred at the square; the stalls of the great bazaar, hidden by the rooftops, sounded still but for the barking of stray dogs. In the farther distance, Salguero fancied that he could hear herdsmen moving their animals to winter fodder.
No troopers in sight. The
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