When researching a late sixteenth-century plague a few years ago, I found references in Basque city council minutes to women called frailas who were in charge of the shrines of San Roque, the plague saint. I was intrigued, as the women clearly were not nuns, so I made a note to myself to follow it up. Amanda Scott's excellent book clears up the mystery, which I never did follow up. The women in question were almost certainly seroras, laywomen who tended to local Basque churches and shrines. They were similar to beatas or beguines but enjoyed more flexibility, prestige, authority, and advantages, among the latter a salary paid by their town. The women had their own little house next to the church and lifetime employment. They submitted to religious discipline while retaining some freedom. It was a very good job.

Though Scott can get a bit repetitive in pointing to how these women straddled two worlds, that is probably the most remarkable thing about them. Their loyalties to their towns and their families coexisted with obedience to the church. A good example of this, which Scott narrates in her engaging and scholarly fashion, is the moment when the serora assumed her new job. She and the townspeople gathered on the church steps while she explained why she wished to be hired, and her neighbors then voted, a nice juxtaposition of sacred and secular. Once church authorities confirmed she was of good moral character, she physically took possession of the church, touching the liturgical objects one by one, opening and closing all doors and windows. She would care for them all.

Naturally there were occasional cases of bad behavior, notably one in which the lady in question seemed to be running what Scott nicely calls a party house. Scott is a good storyteller, and she has wonderful material to work with. (See, for example, her article in Renaissance Quarterly 73.2 on priests who insisted on bullfighting.) There also were accusations of witchcraft and illicit sexual relations; in other words, the usual for anyone accustomed to early modern Spanish records and general suspicion of women on their own. The fact that they were on their own points to interesting folds in the Tridentine fabric. Reformers in the diocese of Pamplona, which has magnificent archival records, had to regulate not only the women themselves but also their parish churches and towns, which both claimed authority over seroras. Church authorities did not want any excessive disruption in Basque towns and hit upon a way for everyone to attain some satisfaction: seroras, who, strictly speaking, should not have existed, were allowed to continue on, but they had to be licensed. Thus some control would be exercised, but the very licensing process itself legitimized the unusual office. Not only that, but the now officially sanctioned seroras actually proved to be helpful disciplinarians as diocesan authorities tried to rein in problematic clergy.

The party came to an end, not surprisingly, with the Bourbons, who finished off what Trent had begun. They undertook what Scott calls a “drastic reorganization of local religious life” (150) involving consolidation and severe cost cutting, essentially eliminating the seroras altogether. Men took over; though sacristans did not bring a dowry, as seroras did, they were “perceived as a better value for the price” (154). In 1769 the elimination of seroras was formalized in a royal order aimed at housecleaning and thrift.

But belying her statement that the Bourbons brought about the end of the vocation, Scott, who clearly loves the Basque towns she writes about, has managed to track down some survivors. In recent years the Spanish Catholic Church aggressively has sought to claim properties that over the centuries had drifted into secular hands. The most notable and scandalous example is the great mosque of Córdoba, but a more humble case was a Navarrese shrine, Nuestra Señora de Muskilda, which still had a serora in 2017. Scott was present at the trial after the town of Ochagavía sued to reclaim its shrine; the town won. As far as I can tell from Google, the diocese did not appeal, so at least one serora is still caring for a Basque shrine.