The Bergamese Sect

T H E   B E R G A M E S E   S E C T

by

ALASTAIR GUNN

1
st
Edition

Wimbourne Books 2014

WB

All rights reserved

T H E   B E R G A M E S E   S E C T

First Publication Worldwide

Copyright © 2014 Alastair G. Gunn. All rights reserved.

Published by Wimbourne Books 2014

www.wimbourne.co.uk

ISBN 978-0-9929828-0-5

The right of Alastair G. Gunn to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author (apart from brief quotations for review purposes), nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Acknowledgements

The author is indebted to Emma San Jose and Alejandro Carión of the
Biblioteca de Castilla y Leon
for providing access to various sources concerning the historical and architectural details of 15th century Valladolid. The author would particularly like to thank Miguel Ángel Galguera who sacrificed an evening to guide him around the church of
Santa Maria la Antigua
and its surroundings. The author is also thankful to Sandro Buzzetti of the
Civica Biblioteca ‘Angelo Mai’
for supplying useful details concerning the non-extant 15th century monastery of
Santa Domenico e Stefano
, Bergamo. Any errors in the historical or architectural details in this book are entirely the author’s responsibility. The author would like to thank Maria Teresa Eibe and Alessandro Lanzafame for providing translations of some obscure Spanish and Italian texts during the research for this book. The author would also like to thank Simon Allan, Maura McLaughlin and Mark Roberts for useful comments on an earlier draft of this work.

For Polly

Prologue

Valladolid, Spain, October 1493

A woman’s wailing pierced through the fog, echoing around squalid huts, along the dank, dirty streets. The shrill cry shattered the early morning calm of the city. A stork, nestling on the church of
Santa Maria la Antigua,
craned its neck, inspecting the square below for the source of the scream. But the fog hid the muddy ground.

Alfonso de Morillo frowned. His dark eyes squinted from his shiny head, past the young man before him, searching for the commotion in the gloom. Suddenly, the woman’s howling was lost in the rumble of a jeering crowd.

The two monks watched as a throng emerged from the swirling mist, moving
en masse
into the square. People were shouting and whistling, running ahead of the mob to meet its approach.

Amid the frenzy, a middle-aged man with long, dark hair was bent over, shielding himself from the violent jostling. He wore nothing but a sulphur-yellow tunic, badly fitting, emblazoned with black crosses. Barefoot, he scraped over the sand and pebbles, his legs bruised and cut, his thin arms trying to cover his exposed lower torso. People struck at him, pushed him.

The wailing woman, dark-skinned and short, grasped the seam of his tunic, her eyes wet, pleading with the scrambling horde. To her skirts clung two small children, confused and frightened, dragging after the spectacle.

‘
Marrano
,’ Alfonso de Morillo whispered as the riot loomed nearer.

He turned to his companion. A pained expression was squeezing the young Italian’s face. His eyes glared wildly at the approaching horde, revulsion etched in the curve of his lips.

The people pushed the cowering man toward the church. The convert, suspected of hidden beliefs, had been sent for judgement. But the journey to the inquisitor’s halls was through a crowd keen to condemn. The fog seemed to part before them as the noisy riot rushed on.

Alfonso and the Italian stepped away as the crowd approached.

A dignitary, dressed in red and purple, appeared from within the huge church doorway and pushed forward through the throng. He began shouting a list of heresies at the crowd, pointing accusingly at the man. Cheers and further accusations flew up from the onlookers.

The impeached man was unmoved, concerned only with his wife and children. He tried to push the woman away, whispering some assurance to her. But she was inconsolable, her face red with terror.

Suddenly, something hard and pointed shot from the throng and hit the man on the shoulder. He fell to his knees, dropped his gaze to the ground. His hands went up, shielding his head from the kicks that rained down on him.

‘
Take him to the house of Zúñiga!’ a voice cried out. The crowd applauded.

Alfonso turned to the Italian, nudged him, and began walking away. From what he already knew of his companion, the flogging would not be to his liking. The young monk drew his wide eyes away and followed Alfonso across the square, glancing back once or twice with a frown on his face.

They stopped by a row of graves beneath the wall of the Collegiate Church, almost hidden in an untidy line of squalid huts. A vapour was rising from the nearby stream. It mingled with the acrid stench of decay along the slippery banks, dissolved into the dense fog. The rank odour made Alfonso swallow uncomfortably.

‘
We must leave them to their sport,’ he said.

The other man didn’t respond. His eyes remained on the excited mob, still visible through the wet dullness.

‘
So, Gaetano,’ Alfonso said, trying to distract the foreigner. ‘What is it that interrupts the
Consejo Supremo?
’

The Italian looked back. Alfonso thought he hadn’t heard the question, but then a respectful expression descended over the Italian.

‘
My lord,’ he replied in a thick accent, ‘apologies for diverting you from your work. My master, Abrazzo of Bergamo, has sent me on this errand. He invites you to become officiator for a new order of devotion.’

Alfonso raised his brows, inviting more explanation, but the Italian returned to inspecting the commotion. Two burly men now held the accused man up – people taking turns to strike him across the face.

‘
Come, Gaetano,’ Alfonso said, and tugged on the monk’s grey habit.

They strode quietly, circling around the unkempt graveyard, until the crowd was lost behind the heavy buttresses of the church. The occasional shout still erupted through the fog.

Alfonso stopped, looking up at the imposing building before them. The walls were strong, geometric, the stone grey and worn. Gargoyles huddled beneath the eaves, their bulging eyes cold and menacing. Above, a square tower thrust majestically skyward, its pyramidal roof tiled in bright terracotta, the summit almost lost in the vapours.

Alfonso looked back at his companion who was also staring up at the high tower. The Italian was lean, some would say thin, yet sturdy, resolute. His face was striking, yet dour in expression. Swathes of dark hair covered his head, the tonsured scalp tanned and shining.

Gaetano had arrived in Valladolid the previous day, presented himself before the High Council on the
Calle de Francos
and requested a meeting with Alfonso, an apostolic inquisitor in Torquemada’s entourage. The work of the tribunal took most of Alfonso’s time; poring over documents from dawn to dusk, travelling the length of Castile, sitting in judgement on men like the one now being beaten before the door of the church.

Alfonso wasn’t often inclined to relinquish his duties so freely. But the young Gaetano had seemed overly agitated by the possibility of refusal and Alfonso had agreed to meet him the following morning.

The inquisitor glanced briefly around. He pulled his black mantle around him. His tonsured head, of sixty or more years, was feeling a slight chill from the late autumn morning. He shook his shoulders to warm himself.

‘
So, Gaetano, a new order?’ he said. ‘You wish to divert me from the Dominican doctrine?’

There was a touch of sarcasm in the inquisitor’s voice but it seemed to pass over the other cleric. His face remained stern, as if questioning his worthiness. Alfonso watched his brown eyes, engaging in their deepness.

‘
No, my lord,’ Gaetano replied nervously. ‘Our doctrine is not changed, only our method of devotion.’ The young monk fell silent again and returned to inspecting the church.

Alfonso looked along the dirty street, eyeing the grimy peasants that scurried between the shacks. The road was busy, even under the dense morning fog that made everything wet. A farmer was casually whipping a small flock of sheep across the muddy ground. Baker’s boys ran about with consignments of bread and cakes, darting in and out of the dingy huts. Red-faced tradesmen shunted carts of goods toward the market. A man was carefully balancing a mountain of fruit by his feet.

Mingling with the merchants and peasants, clerics and councillors meandered through the city outskirts, trading in gossip, scandal and confession. It was the usual bustle of the mid-week, a semblance of normality.

But Alfonso noticed something was missing in the faces that passed by. The men were worried, fearful of each tap on their shuttered doors. Suspicions lay on every lip, but were not dared whispered. Even the devout and unblemished were concerned. The tribunal’s familiars lay in wait everywhere, ready to catch the merest whiff of the impenitent sinner, routing out the false converts. The faces were downcast.

The city’s most infamous son, Tomas de Torquemada, was among them again, sitting in judgement on the citizens of his homelands. It had been fifteen months since the Jews were expelled from the dominions. But the people hadn’t forgotten the upheaval of that sour alliance of church and state. Many argued Torquemada was devout, a saviour of pure Christian spirit, but the methods of the Holy Office were uncompromising and thorough in their fervour. It unnerved everyone.

Another muted roar from the hidden crowd broke the eerie silence. The merchants began scurrying toward its source, intrigued.

Disturbed, a stork began clacking its beak noisily. It stared out from an enormous, untidy nest that teetered on the pinnacle of a thick church buttress. Alfonso noticed the strange beast had cast a smile over the Italian’s face, but only briefly.

‘
What is this change in devotion that should interest me so?’ Alfonso asked.

He watched Gaetano carefully. Although young, a sense of great erudition hung about the man. It had not been undetected by the older monk. But the Italian seemed unaccustomed to speaking freely in so open a place and glanced across the busy road uneasily.

‘
A radical methodology of inquisition,’ Gaetano said, almost in a whisper.

Alfonso allowed himself a stilted smile and placed his hand gently on the monk’s shoulder. ‘Gaetano, the methodology of His Eminence’s Holy Inquisition is sublime. Do we not follow the inspiration of Bernardo Guido? You Venetians presume a new methodology is required? I see nothing wrong with the present one.’

Gaetano seemed displeased, or perhaps it was just nervousness. He shuffled about in the wet sand. ‘It doesn’t ensure faith, my lord,’ he replied solemnly.

‘
It is not meant to, Gaetano. The path we follow is paved many ways. It seeks to bring His Kingdom to fruition on Earth. It seeks to realise the
sangre limpia
. It seeks to turn souls from deviancy. Whether we follow the writ of Guido, or choose other, less empirical means, it is our success that is our justification.’

Alfonso hoped his response didn’t sound like a seminary lesson. The young monk was headstrong and educated, and Alfonso didn’t want to insult his pride or conviction. But Gaetano wasn’t moved by the correction. He remained stern, now looking the old inquisitor in the eye.

‘
We also wish to promote adherence,’ he said, ‘but does condemnation, excommunication, even execution bring about faith?’

The question was meant as a challenge, but Alfonso wasn’t alarmed. ‘They don’t seek to,’ he replied. ‘The Holy Office is merely a hunter of sin. Its pronouncements are the responsibility of the state. The
auto-de-fe
is purification, a ceremony through whose medium the impenitent reach absolution – eternal absolution. There’s no need to instil faith in the saved, for they reside in the heart of our Saviour.’