Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘How can he find heretics if there are none?’

‘Look around you. He’ll say that Ebrima is a Muslim.’

‘Ebrima is a Christian!’ Carlos protested.

‘They will say he has gone back to his original religion, which is the sin of apostasy, much worse than never having been a Christian in the first place.’

Barney thought Betsy was probably right: the dark colour of Ebrima’s skin would throw suspicion on him regardless of the facts.

Betsy nodded towards Jerónima and her father. ‘Pedro Ruiz reads the books of Erasmus and disputes with Archdeacon Romero about the teachings of the Church.’

Carlos said: ‘But Pedro and Ebrima are here, attending Mass!’

‘Alonso will say they practise their heathen rites at home after dark, with the shutters closed tightly and the doors locked.’

‘Surely Alonso would need evidence?’

‘They will confess.’

Carlos was bewildered. ‘Why would they do that?’

‘You would confess to heresy if you were stripped naked and bound with cords that were slowly tightened until they burst through your skin and began to strip the flesh from your body—’

‘Stop it, I get it.’ Carlos shuddered.

Barney wondered how Betsy knew about the tortures of the inquisition.

Alonso reached his climax, calling for every citizen to join in a new crusade against the infidels right here in their midst. When he had finished, communion began. Looking at the faces of the congregation, Barney thought they seemed uneasy about the sermon. They were good Catholics but they wanted a quiet life, not a crusade. Like Aunt Betsy, they foresaw trouble.

When the service ended and the clergy left the nave in procession, Carlos said to Barney: ‘Come with me while I speak to Villaverde. I feel the need of friendly support.’

Barney willingly followed him as he approached Francisco and bowed. ‘May I beg a moment of your time, Señor, to discuss a matter of great importance?’

Francisco Villaverde was the same age as Betsy: Valentina was the daughter of his second wife. He was sleek and self-satisfied, but not unfriendly. He smiled amiably. ‘Of course.’

Barney saw that Valentina looked bashful. She could guess what was about to happen, even if her father could not.

Carlos said: ‘A year has passed since my father died.’

Barney expected the murmured prayer that his soul would rest in peace that was a conventional courtesy whenever a dead relative was mentioned, but to his surprise Francisco remained silent.

Carlos went on: ‘Everyone can see that my workshop is well run and the enterprise is prospering.’

‘You are to be congratulated,’ said Francisco.

‘Thank you.’

‘What’s your point, young Carlos?’

‘I’m twenty-two, healthy and financially secure. I’m ready to marry. My wife will be loved and cared for.’

‘I’m sure she will. And...?’

‘I humbly ask your permission to call at your house, in the hope that your wonderful daughter, Valentina, might consider me as a suitor.’

Valentina flushed crimson. Her brother gave a grunt that might have been indignation.

Francisco Villaverde’s attitude changed instantly. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said with surprising force.

Carlos was astonished. For a moment he could not speak.

‘How dare you?’ Francisco went on. ‘My daughter!’

Carlos found his voice. ‘But... may I ask why?’

Barney was asking himself the same question. Francisco had no reason to feel superior. He was a perfume maker, a trade that was perhaps a little more refined than that of metal worker; but still, like Carlos, he manufactured his wares and sold them. He was not nobility.

Francisco hesitated, then said: ‘You are not of pure blood.’

Carlos looked baffled. ‘Because my grandmother is English? That’s ridiculous.’

The brother bristled. ‘Have a care what you say.’

Francisco said: ‘I will not stand here to be called ridiculous.’

Barney could see that Valentina was distraught. Clearly she, too, had been astonished by this angry refusal.

Carlos said desperately: ‘Wait a minute.’

Francisco was adamant. ‘This conversation is over.’ He turned away. Taking Valentina’s arm, he moved towards the west door. The mother and brother followed. There was no point in going after them, Barney knew: it would only make Carlos look foolish.

Carlos was hurt and angry, Barney could see. The accusation of impure blood was silly, but probably no less wounding for that. In this country, ‘impure’ usually meant Jewish or Muslim, and Barney had not heard it used of someone with English forebears; but people could be snobbish about anything.

Ebrima and Betsy joined them. Betsy noticed Carlos’s mood immediately, and looked enquiringly at Barney. He murmured: ‘Valentina’s father rejected him.’

‘Hell,’ said Betsy.

She was angered but did not seem surprised, and the thought crossed Barney’s mind that somehow she had expected this.

Ebrima felt sorry for Carlos, and wanted to do something to cheer him up. When they got home, he suggested trying out the new furnace. This was as good a time as any, he thought, and it might take Carlos’s mind off his humiliation. It was forbidden for Christians to work or do business on a Sunday, of course, but this was not really work: it was an experiment.

Carlos liked the idea. He fired up the furnace while Ebrima put the ox into the harness they had devised and Barney mixed crushed iron ore with lime.

There was a snag with the bellows, and they had to redesign the mechanism driven by the ox. Betsy abandoned her plans for an elegant Sunday dinner, and brought out bread and salt pork, which the three men ate standing up. The afternoon light was fading by the time they had everything working again. When the fire was burning hot, fanned by the twin bellows, Ebrima started shovelling in the iron ore and lime.

For a while nothing seemed to be happening. The ox walked in a patient circle, the bellows puffed and panted, the chimney radiated heat, and the men waited.

Carlos had heard about this way of making iron from two people, a Frenchman from Normandy and a Walloon from the Netherlands; and Barney had heard something similar talked of by an Englishman from Sussex. They all claimed the method produced iron twice as fast. That might be an exaggeration, but even so it was an exciting idea. They said that molten iron would emerge from the bottom of the furnace, and Carlos had duly built a stone chute to carry the flow to ingot-shaped depressions in the earth of the courtyard. But no one had been able to draw a plan of the furnace, so the design was guesswork.

Still no iron emerged. Ebrima began to wonder what might have gone wrong. Maybe the chimney should be taller. Heat was the key, he thought. Perhaps they should have used wood charcoal, which burned hotter than coal, though it was expensive in a country where all the trees were needed to build the king’s ships.

Then it began to work. A half-moon of molten iron appeared at the outlet of the furnace and inched into the stone chute. A hesitant protuberance became a slow wave, then a gush. The men cheered. Elisa came to look.

The liquid metal was red at first, but quickly turned grey. Looking hard at it, Ebrima thought it was more like pig iron, and would need to be smelted again to refine it, but that was not a major problem. On top of the iron was a layer like molten glass which was undoubtedly slag, and they would have to find a way to skim that off the top.

But the process was fast. Once it got started, the iron came out as if a tap had been turned. All they had to do was keep putting coal, iron ore and lime into the top of the furnace, and liquid wealth would pour out the other end.