Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

The three men congratulated one another. Elisa brought them a bottle of wine. They stood with cups in their hands, drinking and staring in delight at the iron as it hardened. Carlos looked more cheerful: he was recovering from the shock of his rejection. Perhaps Carlos would choose this celebratory moment to tell Ebrima that he was a free man.

After a few minutes Carlos said: ‘Stoke the furnace, Ebrima.’

Ebrima put down his cup. ‘Right away,’ he said.

The new furnace was a triumph for Carlos, but not everyone was happy about it.

The furnace worked from sunrise to sunset, six days a week. Carlos sold the pig iron to a finery forge, so that he did not have to refine it himself, and could concentrate on production, while Barney secured the increased supplies of iron ore they needed.

The king’s armourer was pleased. He struggled constantly to buy enough weapons for warfare in France and Italy, for sea battles with the Sultan’s fleet, and for protection against pirates for galleons from America. The forges and workshops of Seville could not produce enough, and the corporations opposed any expansion of capacity, so the armourer had to buy much of what he needed from foreign countries — which was why the American silver that came into Spain went out again so quickly. He was thrilled to see iron being produced so fast.

But other iron makers in Seville were not so glad. They could see that Carlos was making twice as much money as they were. Surely there was a rule against this? Sancho Sanchez lodged an official complaint with the corporation. The council would have to make a decision.

Barney was worried, but Carlos said the corporation could not possibly go against the king’s armourer.

Then they were visited by Father Alonso.

They were working in the courtyard when Alonso marched in, followed by a small entourage of younger priests. Carlos leaned on his shovel and stared at the inquisitor, trying to look unworried, but failing, Barney thought. Aunt Betsy came out of the house and stood with her big hands on her broad hips, ready to take Alonso on.

Barney could not imagine how Carlos could be accused of being a heretic. On the other hand, why else would Alonso be here?

Before saying anything, Alonso looked slowly around the courtyard with his narrow, beaked nose in the air, like a bird of prey. His gaze rested on Ebrima, and at last he spoke. ‘Is that black man a Muslim?’

Ebrima answered for himself. ‘In the village where I was born, Father, the gospel of Jesus Christ had never been heard, nor had the name of the Muslim prophet ever been spoken. I was raised in heathen ignorance, like my forefathers. But throughout a long journey God’s hand guided me, and when I was taught the sacred truth here in Seville I became a Christian, baptized in the cathedral, for which I thank my heavenly father every day in my prayers.’

It was such a good speech that Barney guessed Ebrima must have made it before.

But it was not enough for Alonso. He said: ‘Then why do you work on Sundays? Is it not because your Muslim holy day is Friday?’

Carlos said: ‘No one here works on Sundays, and we all work all day every Friday.’

‘Your furnace was seen to be lit on the Sunday I preached my first sermon in the cathedral.’

Barney cursed under his breath. They had been caught out. He surveyed the surrounding buildings: the courtyard was overlooked by numerous windows. One of the neighbours had made the accusation — probably a jealous metal worker, perhaps even Sancho.

‘But we weren’t working,’ said Carlos. ‘We were conducting an experiment.’

It sounded thin, even to Barney.

Carlos went on, with a note of desperation: ‘You see, Father, this type of furnace has air blown in at the bottom of the chimney—’

‘I know all about your furnace,’ Alonso interrupted.

Aunt Betsy spoke up. ‘I wonder how a priest would know all about a furnace? Perhaps you’ve been talking to my grandson’s rivals. Who denounced him to you, Father?’

Barney could see from Alonso’s face that Aunt Betsy was right, but the priest did not answer the question. Instead he went on the offensive. ‘Old woman, you were born in Protestant England.’

‘I most certainly was not,’ Betsy said with spirit. ‘The good Catholic King Henry the Seventh was on the throne of England when I was born. His Protestant son, Henry the Eighth, was still pissing in his bed when my family left England and brought me here to Seville. I’ve never been back.’

Alonso turned on Barney, and Barney felt the deep chill of fear. This man had the power to torture and kill people. ‘That’s certainly not true of you,’ Alonso said. ‘You must have been born and raised Protestant.’

Barney’s Spanish was not good enough for a theological argument, so he kept his response simple. ‘England is no longer Protestant, nor am I. Father, if you search this house, you will see that there are no banned books here, no heretical texts, no Muslim prayer mats. Over my bed is a crucifix, and on my wall a picture of St Hubert of Liège, patron saint of metal workers. It was St Hubert who—’

‘I know about St Hubert.’ Clearly Alonso was offended by any suggestion that someone else might have something to teach him. However, Barney thought he might have run out of steam. Each of his accusations had been parried. All he had was men doing something that might or might not count as working on a Sunday, and Carlos and his family were surely not the only people in Seville who bent that rule. ‘I hope everything you have said to me today is the pure truth,’ Alonso said. ‘Otherwise you will suffer the fate of Pedro Ruiz.’

He turned to go, but Barney stopped him, concerned for Jerónima and her father. ‘What happened to Pedro Ruiz?’

Alonso looked pleased to have shocked him. ‘He was arrested,’ he said. ‘In his house I found a translation of the Old Testament into Spanish, which is illegal, and a copy of the heretical Institutes of the Christian Religion by John Calvin, the Protestant leader of the abominable city of Geneva. As is normal, all the possessions of Pedro Ruiz have been sequestrated by the Inquisition.’

Carlos did not seem surprised by this, so Alonso must be telling the truth when he said it was normal, but Barney was shocked. ‘All his possessions?’ he said. ‘How will his daughter live?’

‘By God’s grace, as we all do,’ said Alonso, and then he walked out, followed by his entourage.

Carlos looked relieved. ‘I’m sorry about Jerónima’s father,’ he said. ‘But I think we got the better of Alonso.’

Betsy said: ‘Don’t be so sure.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Carlos asked.

‘You don’t remember your grandfather, my husband.’

‘He died when I was a baby.’

‘Rest his soul. He was raised Muslim.’

All three men stared at her in astonishment. Carlos said incredulously: ‘Your husband was a Muslim?’

‘At first, yes.’

‘My grandfather, José Alano Cruz?’

‘His original name was Youssef al-Khalil.’

‘How could you marry a Muslim?’

‘When they were expelled from Spain he decided to convert to Christianity rather than leave. He took instruction in the religion and was baptized as an adult, just like Ebrima. José was his new name. To seal his conversion, he decided to marry a Christian girl. That was me. I was thirteen.’

Barney said: ‘Did many Muslims marry Christians?’

‘No. They married within their community, even after converting. My José was unusual.’

Carlos was more interested in the personal side. ‘Did you know he had been raised Muslim?’

‘Not at first, no. He had moved here from Madrid and told no one. But people come here from Madrid all the time, and eventually there was someone who had known him as a Muslim. After that it was never quite secret, though we tried to keep it quiet.’