4. The Inquisition Fights Back, with Fire
Some Spanish Protestants, moved by the dangers they faced in Spain, left the country to find freedom to follow their consciences in other states such as Geneva and Germany. The clergy in the Brussels court of Philip II were keeping a close watch on refugees from Spain.1 From their spies, these clerics learned late in 1557 that a large number of Protestant books had entered Spain and that heresy was spreading quickly.
The inquisitors soon discovered that Julian Hernandez2 had been active in bringing in these books and threw him in prison. Hernandez was ready to confess his views; he was glad to have helped to make the Scriptures available to the people of Spain. His superior knowledge of the Bible made him victorious in all his debates, even with educated men – and he was no scholar.
The inquisitors were anxious to obtain information from Hernandez about his fellow-Protestants; they hoped thus, in their own words, “at once to crush the viper’s nest” (quoted, p 240). They sent men to the prisoner who claimed to be sympathetic to the faith of the Reformation, but their ploys were unsuccessful. During the three years Hernandez was kept in prison, he was frequently tortured in horrific ways but gave nothing away.
However, through one of their spies, the Inquisition found out the information they were looking for. At Valladolid, they made use of Juan Garcia’s stoutly-Romanist wife. Garcia was a goldsmith who used to summon the Protestants to their services. He kept from his wife the place and times of meeting but her confessor persuaded her to follow her husband one night, which she did and told the Inquisition what she had seen. In Seville and the surrounding area, 200 Protestants were arrested in one day. Not all of them resisted the inquisitors’ questioning like Hernandez; so the number arrested there soon reached 800. In Valladolid 80 were imprisoned, and the Inquisition was similarly active in other parts of Spain. Some tried to escape and were pursued and captured; others were successful in reaching a Protestant country but were kidnapped by agents of the Inquisition and brought back to Spain. The inquisitors were particularly anxious to have Francisco Zaffra3 in their clutches, but in the confusion caused by a lack of accommodation for all the prisoners, he got away and escaped to Germany.
Reference was already made to the monks of San Isidro who had gone some way in adopting Protestant principles. Their difficulty was that if they reformed further, the Inquisition would at once arrest them; so they discussed leaving the monastery and fleeing the country. This option too was dangerous, and at first they decided to stay where they were and commit themselves and their safety to providence. No doubt it was when the providence of increasing danger spoke to their minds that they had a further discussion, the outcome of which was that each of them would do what seemed best to himself. Twelve of them departed and, following different routes for safety, escaped and met in Geneva, as planned, a year later. The storm of persecution burst just a few days later and caught up the monks who remained behind, as well as others who had connections with them. One of these refugees from the San Isidro monastery, Casiodoro de Reina, was responsible for the first complete Spanish Bible, which was printed in Basel in 1569.
The dying Charles V left a charge to Philip in which he expressed his persuasion, referring to Protestantism, that “the King his son would use every possible effort to crush so great an evil with all the severity and promptitude which it required” (quoted, p 253). Philip was entirely obedient to these wishes; he applied to the Pope to increase the authority of the Inquisition still further. In 1558 he charged Francisco Valdes, now the Inquisitor General in Spain, to prosecute and punish those guilty of heresy, whatever their rank – even archbishops, cardinals, dukes, kings and emperors might be investigated. Philip also passed a law that those who would read, or even possess, any book forbidden by the Inquisition would suffer capital punishment and have their goods confiscated.
The next year, the Pope strictly directed all confessors to charge those who came to them that they must denounce – again whatever their rank – all whom they knew were guilty of this fearful crime, on pain of the greater excommunication. And those confessors who neglected this duty were subject to the same punishment. Philip also renewed a previous statute which entitled informers to a quarter of the property of those found guilty of heresy; such legislation must have encouraged many a false accusation from those who might receive a significant boost to their possessions as a result. Further, anyone convicted of believing Luther’s doctrines, even if they would recant, was subject to capital punishment, and the penalty was applied, not only for future offences, but retrospectively.
Suspected Protestants would suffer prolonged imprisonment – most for two years, many for three – during which they were examined endlessly. The inquisitors might assure them one day that they would escape further punishment if they made an honest confession of all that they knew, and the next day they would be told that their confessions had only served to confirm the inquisitors’ suspicions of their sincerity. Intense pressure was applied to extract a recantation, so that this could be read at the public auto-da-fé4 before those convicted were burnt to death. The effort to persuade prisoners to recant was a cruel deceit; they were likely to be killed anyway.
Constantine Ponce de la Fuente was regarded as the ablest of those who promulgated the new doctrines. Though one of Charles V’s chaplains, he was among the first to be arrested in Seville; his popularity as a preacher no doubt aroused jealousy. He denied the charges against him and the inquisitors almost despaired of convicting him on any charge, but he was doomed when part of his library was fortuitously discovered.
The collection included various volumes deemed heretical, but perhaps most significant was a book in his own handwriting in which he discussed at length the points of controversy between Rome and the Protestants. “In it”, says M’Crie, “the author treated of the true Church according to the principles of Luther and Calvin and, by an application of the different marks which the Scriptures gave for discriminating it, showed that the papal Church had no claim to the title. In a similar way he decided the questions respecting justification, the merit of good works, the sacraments, indulgences and purgatory, calling this last the wolf’s head and an invention of the monks to feed idle bellies” (pp 264-5). Constantine acknowledged that the book was his and that these were his beliefs. He gave up his fight against conviction, but nothing could persuade him to inform on any Protestant.
For some reason the inquisitors did not subject him to torture – possibly because of Charles’ respect for him. Yet in the hope of inducing other prisoners to confess, they told them that Constantine had given information against them, even producing false witnesses who claimed to have heard his cries when being tortured on the rack. Such were the tactics of those who purported to be carrying out the will of God by attempting to preserve true religion in Spain.
Shortly after Charles’ death, Constantine was removed to a damp, unpleasant dungeon. There he was heard to cry out: “O my God, were there no Scythians, or cannibals, or pagans still more savage, that Thou hast permitted me to fall into the hands of these baptized fiends?” (quoted, p 265-6). In that foul hole, he contracted dysentery and soon died. Yet, in God’s kind providence, his cellmate was a young monk from San Isidro named Fernando, who looked after him as best he could during these last days of sickness. This monk was able to refute a report circulated by the inquisitors that Constantine had committed suicide. But even his death did not satisfy them; at an auto-da-fé in December 1560 his effigy and bones were displayed, so that he could be publicly condemned for his heresies.
The inquisitors were absolutely unscrupulous in the ways they sought to extract information. For example, a widow, three of her daughters and a married sister were arrested, but the Inquisition had no evidence against them, even after they were tortured. One of the daughters was promised that, if she made a full disclosure, she and her relations would be set free. She fell into the trap and confessed that they had discussed Protestant doctrines. She was at once brought to court and obliged to repeat her confession. Then, supposedly because her confession was not sufficiently full, she was again tortured. All these relatives were burnt, as were others who were implicated in the woman’s evidence.
Two years after the initial flurry of arrests, it was decided that it was time to bring these cases to a conclusion. Autos-da-fé were to be held throughout the land, but those in Seville and Valladolid, which were the main centres of Protestant activity, involved greater pomp than elsewhere. When there were a number of heretics, the auto-da-fé always took place on a Sabbath or a Roman holy day. All the clergy and civil authorities were required to attend and, to maximise the size of the crowd, a 40-day indulgence was granted to all who came to watch. All the spectators were obliged to take an oath binding them to live and die in communion with Rome and to uphold the Inquisition against all its adversaries.
The previous evening, the prisoners who were penitent and were to suffer a lesser punishment than death were informed of their sentence. At midnight a confessor came to each of the prisoners who were to be brought to the stake and told them their fate. He earnestly exhorted them to recant and die reconciled to the Church. Yet the only advantage of recanting was a quick death; the prisoner would be strangled before being burnt. In the morning the bells of all the churches began to ring. Convicted heretics were required to wear a sanbenito, a loose kind of tunic made from yellow cloth; if the heretic was to be strangled before being led to the stake, flames burning downwards would be painted on the sanbenito; if he was to burnt alive, the flames would appear burning upwards.
The inquisitors mounted a platform and the prisoners were led to another opposite it. Proceedings began with a sermon; then the sentences of the penitents were read and they, on their knees, repeated their confession. The punishments could include banishment, whipping, hard labour or imprisonment. Afterwards those condemned to death heard their sentences publicly read and were handed over to the secular authorities, who were to put them to death. At every auto-da-fé, the inquisitors obliged the magistrates to swear that they would faithfully execute the sentences passed against the heretics, without delay. Amazingly, as the prisoner was handed over, the inquisitors directed the state officials to treat him with compassion. A compassionate burning is somewhat difficult to understand! But the Inquisition was a thoroughly cynical system.5
The first of the autos-da-fé for burning Protestants took place in Valladolid in May 1559. A huge crowd attended, including Don Carlos, the heir to the Spanish throne, and his aunt. The presiding Inquisitor went to them to administer the oath to support the Inquisition and reveal to them everything opposed to the faith that might come to their notice – without respect of persons. This was the first time such an oath was laid on royalty, and Don Carlos, then just 14, is said to have had an implacable hatred to the Inquisition from that time. Thirty prisoners brought out on this occasion; 16 were reconciled to Rome; two were burnt alive and the other 14 were strangled first. The number who recanted may seem high; yet most of them would have been babes of the flock, if indeed they were truly converted; we know little about them and the pressures they were under.
Among those sentenced to death was Augustin Cazalla, pastor of the Protestant congregation in Seville, but previously Charles V’s chaplain. He was repeatedly examined by inquisitors, who hoped to get information against him and other prisoners. When about to be tortured, his courage failed and he promised to submit to his judges. He confessed that he had embraced Lutheran doctrine but denied that he had ever taught it to any who did not already believe it. When a monk came to inform him of his sentence, Cazalla was very anxious to know if there was any hope of escaping death. The monk told him, perhaps dishonestly, that he might be shown mercy if he would confess everything that the witnesses had said against him. It was then clear to Cazalla that his fate was sealed and replied, “Well then, I must prepare to die in the grace of God, but it is impossible for me to add to what I have said, without falsehood” (p 286). He was duly burnt after being strangled. In addition to the Protestants, there was a Portuguese man, who was condemned as a relapsed Jew.
One of the two who were burnt alive was an advocate, Antonio Herezeulo, who remained unbroken in spirit throughout the fearful experience of torture and burning.6 “The only thing that moved him on the day of the auto-da-fé,” says M’Crie, “was the sight of his wife in the garb of a penitent; and the look which he gave . . . as he passed her to go to the place of execution seemed to say, ‘This is hard to bear'” (p 288).
A Roman Catholic observer of the scene wrote, “He could not speak, but his mouth was gagged on account of the blasphemies which he had uttered; but his whole behaviour showed him to be a most resolute and hardened person who, rather than yield to believe with his companions, was determined to die in the flames. Though I marked him narrowly, I could not observe the least symptom of fear, or expression of pain; only there was a sadness in his countenance beyond anything I had ever seen. It was frightful to look on his face when one considered that in a moment he would be in hell with his associate and master, Luther” (quoted, pp 288-9).
The observer completely misunderstood the significance of what was happening before his eyes. But the martyr’s wife, Leanor, never forgot his last look. She was only 22 and may well have been told that her husband had recanted; such was the gross dishonesty of the Inquisition’s dealings with its victims. Besides, in common with many others who were arrested, she did not have much opportunity to become established in the faith of the Bible. Yet she soon resolved, in dependence on divine strength, to follow her husband’s example of faithfulness. She broke off the course of penance that she had begun and, as a result, had to endure eight years of imprisonment. Every effort was made to bring her to recant once more, but in vain.
The same observer describes her martyrdom at an auto-da-fé at Valladolid in 1568: “She suffered herself to be burnt alive, notwithstanding the great and repeated exertions made to bring her to a conviction of her errors. Finally she resisted what was sufficient to melt a stone, an admirable sermon preached at the auto of that day by . . . [the] Bishop of Zamora . . . . But nothing could move the impenetrable heart of that obstinate woman” (quoted, pp 290-1). What an unbelieving heart recognised as obstinacy was, in fact, the result of the sustaining power of divine grace.
1Last month’s article described real progress, with some individual congregations becoming established in Spain. Page references in the text are to Thomas M’Crie, The Reformation in Spain, 1824.
2See the previous article for a previous reference to Hernandez (May issue, p 137).
3A priest with Lutheran leanings (see May issue, p 138).
4A ritual of public penance by heretics; those who did not recant might be burnt to death.
5This cynicism is illustrated by a woodcut which depicts trying the guilt of a witch by casting her into the water. It is reproduced in Michael Baigen and Richard Leigh, The Inquisition, Penguin, 2000, with the caption: “If she drowned, she was presumed innocent; if she survived, it was presumed to be with the devil’s aid and so she would be burned”. Either way, she perished.
6The words of William C Robinson, in a piece entitled “Justification by Faith”, are relevant here. He states his conviction “that one cause for so much of our present loose theological thinking and for the diminution of the vitality and power of present Christianity is that too few of us have thought out just what this cardinal doctrine of the Reformation is. We have not the courage of our convictions, the transforming force in our lives, the faith that mocks the flames, which the Reformers had, because we have not felt the graciousness and blessedness of their doctrine of justification by faith” (David B Calhoun, Pleading for a Reformation Vision, Banner of Truth, 2014, p 176). The faith of these Spaniards rested on Christ alone, not on works, and so it mocked the flames.