Sinner: A Prequel to the Mongoliad

Raphael wondered if the inquisitor would remember him.

Gerda was stirred from her reverie by a loud belch from the inquisitor. His chair scraped on the floor as he pushed himself back from the table, and when she turned her head slightly, she saw his leather boots. A thin metal band wrapped around the heel of each, bound across the instep and sole of the boot with leather ties. As the inquisitor shifted in the chair, she spied a short spike jutting from the back of one of the bands.

“Tell me about this woman,” the inquisitor said, and Gerda flinched, curling more tightly about her bound hands.

From behind her, she heard the thin, raspy voice of the town magistrate reply. “I thought you wanted to wait until tomorrow before…”

The inquisitor waved the magistrate silent. “My inquiries are not a mummer’s play for the rabble. She will be judged by me and God. We do not require an audience for our work. Nor do I require anything more of you than to simply speak when I tell you to and to answer the questions I ask.” The inquisitor tapped his fingers on the table. “Or is there someone more capable in this bewitched town to whom I should be addressing my questions?”

“She is Gerda. Her husband is-was-” The magistrate cleared his throat nervously. “He was a woodsman named Otto, as was his father before him.”

“Otto? Am I to understand that his head was found on her doorstep?”

“Yes, Father, Your-Your Grace.”

“And the body?”

Gerda heard the magistrate gulp noisily. Her hands tightened into fists, her ragged nails digging into her palms. She had somehow convinced herself that Otto might still be alive, even though she could not imagine how his body might have survived being separated from its head.

“The body has not…we do not know where it is. Though we did find-” The magistrate sighed, gathering his courage.

“We found blood and…”

Unwanted, an image surfaced in Gerda’s mind-the vision of Otto’s headless body lying in the woods, ravaged by wild animals-and she whimpered as she banged her head against the floor in a vain effort to drive the image from her being.

“And?” the inquisitor prompted. “Come now. Is there more to tell, or do I need to drag you and the woman out to this spot in the woods? Was there more than blood?”

“No, Fa-Your Grace. I mean, yes, Your Grace.”

“Which is it?”

Gerda started when the inquisitor slapped his palm against the table, rattling the numerous dishes set before him.

“The Devil walks among your citizens, Magistrate. It is my duty to flush the insidious serpent out, to drive evil from the hearts of all good Christians. He wants you to be fearful of him and the actions of his agents because, when you are, you are more liable to forget your Christian duty to fear God.” The inquisitor slapped the table again.

“Fear me, for it is my judgment, my duty, to destroy this blight upon your community. Wherever it may dwell.”

The magistrate gulped again. When he spoke, his voice was breathless and he stuttered. “There were signs that he had been…cleaned.”

“Cleaned?”

“Like a rabbit.”

Gerda tried to hold back the terror that had been building inside her, but at the magistrate’s words, she lost control. Her back arched and her mouth opened wide as her grief and fright tore out of her in a great wail. As her lungs emptied, her body began to shake uncontrollably.

“God help me,” the magistrate cried. “She is possessed.”

“Possessed by despair,” the inquisitor snapped. “Hold her still, you fools.”

As Gerda felt hands take hold of her legs and shoulders, she lashed out. She felt the wooden cuffs of her shackles connect with someone’s head, and the impact emboldened her even more. She sat up, eyes wide open and staring, filled with a sudden, desperate resolve. There were four men standing over her, men she did not know and whom she knew to be in the service of the inquisitor. As they tried to restrain her, she fought back savagely.

The woman’s scream brought an immediate reaction to the men in the common room. The babble died in an instant, leaving the weak voice of the minstrel as he fumbled to the end of his verse. Both Raphael and Andreas were already on their feet, shoving their way through the crowd toward the door that led to the private room. Andreas reached the door first, yanking it open; Raphael crowded right behind him.

Inside, they found several of the inquisitor’s men wrestling with a frenzied woman on the floor while the inquisitor and the magistrate looked on from behind a long table. The magistrate was leaning back, almost out of his chair, and as the Shield-Brethren entered the room, the inquisitor leaped to his feet.

“How dare you!” the inquisitor thundered, and because he had not clarified to whom he was speaking, everyone froze, thinking he was referring to them. Except for the woman, who continued to struggle. One of the inquisitor’s men sat across her body, his broad hands pinning her manacled hands to her stomach.

“Pardon us, Father,” Andreas said, bowing slightly to the inquisitor. His hand fell, not altogether accidentally, on the hilt of his sword. “We heard a scream and thought you might be in distress.”

The inquisitor’s face darkened at the suggestion in Andreas’s words, but he managed to choke back his initial response. “This is a private tribunal of the Holy Roman Catholic Church in matters of heresy and witchcraft,” he sputtered. “It does not concern men such as you.”

“No?” Andreas countered. “My companion and I are members of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, a holy order that has been officially recognized by the Church in matters martial and judicial. Are you certain the sanctity of these proceedings would not benefit from the eyewitness accounts of two Knight Initiates?”

The inquisitor stared over Andreas’s shoulder, his blue eyes blazing. “I know of your order,” he said icily, regaining his composure, “and it has no authority over matters pertaining to the Inquisition.”

Raphael’s hand touched Andreas’s elbow-a light grip, but firm nonetheless. “Our apologies, Father,” Raphael said, his voice flat and emotionless. “It was not our intention to intrude upon your holy duties. We simply wished to offer our assistance.”

“Which I do not require.”

Andreas, still feeling Raphael’s hand on his elbow, bowed again. “Very well, Father,” he said, preparing to allow himself to be led from the room. “Anyone else?” he tried, unwilling to simply walk away. “Does anyone wish to call for our aid?”

The inquisitor’s man sitting on the woman shifted his grip, putting his hand over her mouth and pressing her head against the floor. Andreas stared at the man’s back for a moment, his jaw working, and then he turned his gaze toward the magistrate. “No?” Andreas asked, and the magistrate would not meet his gaze as he shook his head.

The woman’s eyes bulged in her head as she tried to get Andreas’s attention by sheer force of will, and he met her gaze as Raphael opened the door behind them and gently pulled him away.

As soon as the door closed behind them and they were back in the common room, Andreas whirled on the older knight. “Explain yourself, Brother,” he snapped, standing too close.

“He’s right,” Raphael said quietly, not stepping back.

“He is an inquisitor of the Church. His power is absolute, should he desire it to be so. We cannot interfere.”

“I don’t-”

The door bumped into him as it opened, and Andreas turned to stare at a pair of the inquisitor’s men. His words turned into a snarl and he took a step toward the two men. They closed the door and one stayed, putting his back against the panel, and the other-offering a hostile glare at Andreas and Raphael-called for the innkeeper’s attention as he strode off.