Geoffrey, in torment himself, understood the logic. Ferron, as a man of God, wasn’t supposed to draw blood. And nor was he supposed to allow his victims to die. This punishment with water, which would leave no mark, was a method devised with stunning ingenuity to fit this contradictory logic perfectly. It was even cheap, for the cloth and metal frame could be used again.

A full hour after it had begun, still Agnes would not speak. So Ferron nodded to the brothers, who lifted up the ladder, with the girl’s broken body still fixed to it, and turned it so her feet were higher than her head. As her bloated belly pressed on her heart and lungs, through her crammed throat Agnes let out an animal roar of pain and terror.

Geoffrey could stand it no more. He lunged at Ferron. ‘You monster, Ferron! How can you imagine that this serves the purposes of Christ? . . .’ But a brother grabbed him, pinning his arms.

XXII

XXII

On the morning of the execution of Agnes Wooler, Geoffrey Cotesford came early to the place of burning. It was another grim February day.

Eight years after the first auto-da-fé, the burning place outside the walls of Seville had come to be known as the quemadero. A platform had been set down here, with blunt stone pillars, strong and reusable. On the four sides of the platform statues of prophets stood, glaring sternly at those brought here. This morning, wood was piled up around each of the pillars.

From this place hundreds of souls had already been despatched, wisping to heaven or hell like the greasy smoke from their owners’ crisping bodies.

As the morning brightened, others gathered for the show, men, women, even some children. Geoffrey had expected that. But the mood among these onlookers was not as he had anticipated. They seemed dull, almost numbed. Perhaps the Inquisition had dug too deep into the vitals of the nation. You came to watch, but not with relish, for you could not be sure you were safe yourself.

At last the procession reached the quemadero. The crowd murmured and shuffled, and some crossed themselves. Led by Ferron and other inquisitors and flanked by soldiers of the Holy Brotherhood, there were perhaps twenty of the condemned. All carried lit candles. The men walked barefoot, and their feet were white from the cold. But the women were stripped naked, and though their bodies were shrivelled from their captivity they had to suffer taunts from the crowd.

It was this type of detail, this repulsive lasciviousness at a place of death, that convinced Geoffrey that whatever motivated the Inquisition it was nothing to do with God. If Christ were here, He would surely have stepped forward to protect these suffering ones, even if it meant He had to die in their place. But Christ was not here. Only Geoffrey Cotesford, weak, cold, ashamed.