A Pagan's Inquisition

Our town was Pagan, and consisted of gypsies and other groups of nomads. My name was Yndira. I was half-French and half-Indian (my mom was white enough and knew French) and a redhead. Our town was in France, but close to the border with England. There was a city there that ruled our town. The guards they sent were cold and unwelcome. They wore red and yellow tabards with Crusaders’ crosses on them, which meant they were sent by their bishops. They had armor under their tabards and carried spears. I certainly never welcomed them.

One day, when I refused to let one of them rape me, they took me off to be tortured. As though his seed were some sort of gift.

The first chamber didn’t seem that bad. There was a cot and a straw mat in the middle and they fed me three times a day. I even had water with my meals. I didn’t know how they expected me to “break” under such conditions.

I knew some English, but learned a lot more while I was there.

“Enjoy those rays of sunlight, because they’ll be the last you’ll see for a long time!” was the last thing I heard before being dragged to and shut in a sunless dungeon. I remember feeling stone stairs, knowing they were stone by the cold under my bare feet. I had that same sack over my head, the one they’d used when they’d dragged me to my first cell.

I found myself cuffed to a wall by both wrists. At first, a handsome bishop came in and asked me some things in English, then switched to French, asking if I’d accept Jesus as my savior. I simply said, “I’m Pagan.” He smiled sadly, left, and shook his head as he closed the door. Then, an ugly and cruel-looking fat bishop with small, cruel eyes and a crueler grin came in. He already started in French, having been apprised of the fact that I didn’t know English too well. He sneered at me, already knowing that I found him ugly.

“My dear, it will be easier for you if you simply submit to the Lord.” He said.

The only lord I could think of was some feudal lord, and those had been done away with years ago for our town, so I didn’t know who he was talking about.

He laughed, I guess because he’d seen the confusion on my face. He then got up and asked for a Bible from someone outside the door, then came back with it in his hands. He translated it for me, and all I could get from it was that a bunch of “sinning”/wrongdoing people had externalized to this poor Jesus Christ fellow to somehow Cleanse/“absolve” them of their “sins.” I felt sorry for him and angry with those people. It acted as even more of a deterrent from such beliefs.

“So will you accept Jesus Christ as your savior?” He finally asked after describing what that poor man went through for those morons.

I adamantly shook my head. “No, but I certainly feel sorry for him.”

The ugly bishop laughed to himself on his way out. At least I’d done that.

The handsome bishop returned, looking confused. He asked me, “So will you accept Jesus Christ as your savior?”

I shook my head again, then looked at him like I wanted to say more.

He waited.

"No, but I feel sorry for him."

He stifled a laugh and headed out, then laughed more fully once the door was closed. I felt proud of myself for making them laugh, though I didn’t quite understand why it was so funny to them.

From what I gleaned in between tortures, they took this externalization to him very seriously and literally.

I didn’t understand the tortures, since they were martyr name-coded and in English. Each dungeon door had a name on it instead of a number or torture title. It was very confusing up until they’d drag me in.

I ate no more food in that first dungeon. All they passed me was water. Then, the name on the door made sense: Peter.

They waited until I’d lost a lot of weight.

They switched me into what they called an iron maiden. It didn’t even poke me. The ugly bishop would’ve been suited to it, though.

The first day out, they let me drink from a bowl while they poured water on me. They looked at another bishop, who shook his head. I found out later that meant they weren’t baptizing me. Once I found out what that meant, I was grateful. Apparently, I had to willingly accept that Jesus Christ they mentioned.

After that, they brought in mini-banquets of food for me to eat. It was in the Peter cell for some reason. All I know is that the handsome bishop gave me a wink and I started eating like crazy. I stopped when they brought in a fully-cooked hog with an apple in his mouth. The face was still on. At home, I’d never eaten anything with its face still on. I found it too unnerving to eat.

That night, I slept on a cot in the Peter dungeon.

When I woke up, I was already in pain and didn’t know why until I looked down. I was on a rack that was angled like a table. I felt disturbingly taller and unable to steadily walk once it was done. I only got a drink of water and felt a towel being pressed around temple-level of my head, where it hurt and I felt weak a little before I fell unconscious.

When I next woke up, I was tied to a giant wooden X with nails sticking out toward my hands and feet. They stuck the nails through my right, then my left hand upon noticing I was awake. As they dragged me past one of the doors to that dungeon, I read the name Andrew on it.

The rack and the Andrew were the hottest ones. There was no sunlight, only torches. I didn’t know why they didn’t stab my feet.

I think they were going to dehydrate me next, but the handsome bishop must’ve insisted that I have some water, that my system couldn’t take it.

After that, they did the dehydration, and didn’t bother moving me out of the Peter.

“Will you now please accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior?”

“I’m…Pagan.”

I panted it out, facing down to the floor. I wouldn’t move.

I woke up in a very hot place. I looked around and noticed it was a small man-sized metal box/chamber. There was a cot and there was the straw mat I found myself on when I woke up. The cot was along a wall and the mat was on the middle floor of the chamber. There was one window in the corner of the box, at the head of the cot. The sun was meant to cook the box and the person inside it. The safest place was the cot. Since it had straw and a cloth cover over that, I covered myself in the cloth and lay on the straw. I saw one name on that door: Lawrence.

They were angrily dumbfounded by me at that point.

As I was finishing sipping from the cup of water they let me have, they stood me up and dragged me out and started digging a hole in the same courtyard that had that box-chamber I’d been in. I sometimes felt too weak to stay conscious and finally woke up buried to my neck in the dirt. The less humane bishops were the ones who threw any of the stones. The handsome bishop and the third bishop looked sad and like they wanted to vomit. It only stopped once the city’s Pope arrived. He looked down at me, then looked angrily at them. As he was shouting at them, a prisoner threw a stone at my head that struck me unconscious.

They had me in the same chamber in which I’d sipped the water and were twisting coil around my fingers until they bled. They then poured me a glass of water, not allowing anyone else to hold it up to me. I pushed through the numbness and watched my hands grasp and lift the cup. I got most of it down.

I rested on the cot made up in the Peter.

They took me back to the water-drinking room and started cutting off my nipples, then areolae, then finally my entire breasts from behind them. I hadn’t even noticed anyone ripping my cloth dress open that I’d been wearing that whole time. I saw “Agatha” on that door.

Afterwards, they bandaged my chest and turned my dress around on me. I fell asleep.

I woke up to pain between my legs. They were cutting off my maidenhead. I simply bit and screamed into the pillow.

Once I’d slept and healed, they took me through a door that said “Augustine” on it. I saw a pile of dead bodies in a mini-courtyard. They laid me on it.

After a few days of their piling more bodies on it, a man off in the distance looked at me. I managed to blink. He held his finger to his lips. Hours later, he pulled me from the pile and we ran away.

I remember the Agatha the most. I always will. I was a woman, and still came out looking like a child. I looked younger than I had when I went in. I was twelve when I went in and twenty when I left.

I learned archery to distract myself. I’d keep myself busy with walks, knitting, some sewing, a bit of reading. I didn’t go to town much since I didn’t look a woman. It was best not to bring it up. I would pick herbs while they were out so we’d have flavors to cook with. I would sometimes draw versions of what I saw around me: grass, birds; I wasn’t much good at trees. We would sometimes stuff lavender stalks inside the clothing drawers in between washings. I got to see what a full-size loom looked like. Unless one worked at one, one didn’t get to very often.

The cottage we lived in was of stucco with wood roofing. The floors were wood too. There was no lighting. It was all candles. We had no cats, so we had to sweep bugs and vermin out of the house ourselves. We had plenty of fresh-caught fish. Chicken and red meat were bought at market. We grew our own vegetables. Fruit was bought at market. The out house was to the back-left of the house as it faced out. Facing the house, the woods were to the right and a field was on the left.

There was my first rescuer, the seed thief. There was the fisherman and his wife, the homemaker. There was a lady who came over to wash her clothes with her. There was the blacksmith in town who would give us a discount or barter with us.

The only time I did go into town after I returned, I saw the guards acting more like townspeople. I also noticed how many women had breasts while I had none.