Gypsy

“What is she?” “Look at that lass.” “Ah, now there’s a piece of meat, eh boys?” “Gypsy, they say. Harlot is more like it.” “I wonder what they’ll do with her.” “A fine specimen for any brothel.” “She’ll hang, no doubt. She killed a guard, didn’t you hear?” “You see that black hair? Sign of the devil, don’t you know? Serves her right. God will judge her.”

Her eyes were closed against the sight of the crowd, but she could still hear their words echoing loudly across the square. She kept still, her chin raised in defiance, hands folded with dignity before her. The white cloth her captors had forced her to dress in felt heavy against her skin.

“It’s about time that one of those people were punished for their sins.” “Filth.”

She wished distantly that she had never left the shelter of the camp the night before, for it had been her own folly that found her in a cast iron cage, displayed before the Magister and Captain of the Guard like the criminal they thought she was.

“Eyes as green as a cat’s. Surely a devil they’ve caught.” “They should burn her like the witch she is.”

She was not surprised that they would not listen to her story. She had been too stunned to run at the time, covered in blood from the fallen man. He had surprised her, attacked her, landed upon his own sword, and she had been foolish enough to try and help him. When they had taken her away, there had already been men and women alike vouching their word against her.

Maybe it was simply her lot in life: the Gypsy’s Lot. They were not ‘God’s People,’ whatever that might have meant. Perhaps this was her punishment.

“Gypsy, do you know why you are here?”

She opened her eyes to stare into muddy grey-blue, the Magister’s stern face glaring at her from beyond the iron bars. “I do,” she said quietly, staring right back and forcing her body to relax. The old man frowned, a long grey beard and hooked nose creating a bird-like facade.

“I see… And what have you to say on this?”

She debated her words, knowing that anything she said would be ignored or used against her. However, she could not help herself.

“Only that your God must weep greatly to see such injustice in his own followers. You Christians claim justice and righteousness, yet you know nothing but bigotry and hatred.” The scowl that appeared on the man’s face was strangely pleasing.

“Blasphemous Witch!”

She simply closed her eyes again, content. Death was nothing if it meant she was a better person than those who condemned her. She was, after all, nothing more than a Gypsy to them.

~ by eeratka on April 8, 2007.