Pope Joan

by Donna Woolfolk Cross

  It was no use. The discomforts of her present situation kept intruding. She was tired and hungry, and she missed Matthew. She wondered why she did not cry. There was a sensation of pressure in her throat and chest, but the tears would not come.

  She stared at the small wooden crucifix that hung on the wall before the altar. The canon had brought it with him from his native England when he had arrived to carry out his missionary work among the heathen Saxons. Fashioned by a Northumbrian artist, the Christ figure had more power and precision than most Frankish work. His body stretched on the cross, all elongated limbs and emaciated ribs, the lower half twisted to emphasize His mortal agony. His head was fallen back, so that the Adam’s apple bulged—a strangely disconcerting reminder of His human maleness. The wood was deeply etched to reveal the tracks of blood from His many wounds.

  The figure, for all its power, was grotesque. Joan knew she should be filled with love and awe at Christ’s sacrifice, but instead she felt revulsion. Compared with the beautiful, strong gods of her mother, this figure seemed ugly, broken, and defeated.

  Beside her, John started to whimper. Joan reached out and took his hand. John took punishment hard. She was stronger than he was, and she knew it. Though he was ten years old, and she only seven, she found it entirely natural that she should nurture and protect him, rather than the other way around.

  Tears started to form in his eyes. “It’s not fair,” he said.

  “Don’t cry.” Joan was worried that the noise might bring Mama—or worse yet, Father. “Soon the penance will be over.”

  “That’s not it!” he responded with wounded dignity.

  “What’s the matter, then?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Father will want me to take over Matthew’s studies. I know he will. And I can’t do it; I can’t.”

  “Perhaps you can,” said Joan, though she understood why her brother was worried. Father accused him of laziness and beat him when he did not progress in his studies, but it was not John’s fault. He tried to do well, but he was slow; he always had been.

  “No,” John insisted. “I’m not like Matthew. Did you know that Father planned to take him to Aachen, to petition for his acceptance in the Schola Palatina?”

  “Truly?” Joan was astonished. The Palace School! She had no idea that her father’s ambitions for Matthew had reached so high.

  “And I can’t even read Donatus yet. Father says that Matthew had mastered Donatus when he was only nine, and I am almost ten. What will I do, Joan? What will I do?”

  “Well …” Joan tried to think of something comforting to quiet him, but the strain of the last two days had driven John into a state past all caring.

  “He will beat me. I know he will beat me.” Now John started to wail in earnest. “I don’t want to be beaten!”

  Gudrun appeared in the doorway. Nervously casting a glance into the room behind her, she hurried over to John. “Stop it. Do you want your father to hear you? Stop it, I tell you!”

  John rocked clumsily off the altar, threw his head back, and bawled. Oblivious to his mother’s words, he continued to wail, tears streaming down red-blotched cheeks.

  Gudrun gripped John’s shoulders and shook him. His head flopped wildly, back to front; his eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. Joan heard the sharp click of teeth as his mouth snapped shut. Startled, John opened his eyes and saw his mother.

  Gudrun hugged him to her. “You will not cry anymore. For your sister’s sake, and mine, you must not cry. All will be well, John. But now you will be quiet.” She rocked him, soothing and remonstrating at the same time.

  Joan watched thoughtfully. She recognized the truth in what her brother said. John was not smart. He could not follow in Matthew’s footsteps. But— Her face flushed with excitement as a thought struck with the force of revelation.

  “What is it, Joan?” Gudrun had seen the odd expression on her daughter’s face. “Are you unwell?” She was concerned, for the demons that carried the flux were known to linger in a house.

  “No, Mama. But I have an idea, a wonderful idea!”

  Gudrun groaned inwardly. The child was full of ideas that only got her into trouble.

  “Yes?”

  “Father wanted Matthew to go to the Schola Palatina.”

  “I know.”

  “And now he will want John to go in Matthew’s place. That is why John is crying, Mama. He knows he cannot do it, and he’s afraid that Father will be angry.”

  “Well?” Gudrun was puzzled.

  “I can do it, Mama. I can take over Matthew’s studies.”

  For a moment Gudrun was too shocked to respond. Her daughter, her baby, the child she loved best—the only one with whom she had shared the language and the secrets of her people—she to study the sacred books of the Christian conquerors? That Joan would even consider such a thing was deeply wounding.

  “What nonsense!” Gudrun said.

  “I can work hard,” Joan persisted. “I like to study and learn about things. I can do it, and then John won’t have to. He isn’t good at it.” There was a muffled sob from John, whose head was still buried in his mother’s chest.

  “You are a girl; such things are not for you,” Gudrun said dismissively. “Besides, your father would never approve.”

  “But, Mama, that was before. Things have changed. Don’t you see? Now Father may feel differently.”

  “I forbid you to speak of this to your father. You must be lightheaded from lack of food and rest, like your brother. Otherwise you would never speak so wildly.”

  “But, Mama, if I could only show him—”

  “No more, I say!” Gudrun’s tone left no room for further discussion.

  Joan fell silent. Reaching inside her tunic, she clasped the medallion of St. Catherine that Matthew had carved for her. I can read Latin, and John cannot, she thought stubbornly. Why should it matter that I am a girl?

  She went to the Bible on the little wooden desk. She lifted it, felt its weight, the familiar grooves of the gilt-edged tracings on the cover. The smell of wood and parchment, so strongly associated with Matthew, made her think of their work together, of all he had taught her, all she still wanted to learn. Perhaps if I show Father what I have learned … perhaps then he will see I can do it. Once again, she felt a rise of excitement. But there could be trouble. Father might be very angry. Her father’s anger frightened her; she had been struck by him often enough to know and fear the force of his rage.

  She stood uncertainly, fingering the smooth surface of the Bible’s wooden binding. On an impulse, she opened it; the pages fell open to the Gospel of St. John, the text Matthew had used when he first taught her to read. It is a sign, she thought.

  Her mother was sitting with her back to Joan, cradling John, whose sobs had subsided into forlorn hiccuping. Now is my chance. Joan held the book open and carried it into the next room.

  Her father was hunched in a chair, head bowed, hands covering his face. He did not stir as Joan approached. She halted, suddenly afraid. The idea was impossible, ridiculous; Father would never approve. She was about to retreat when he took his hands from his face and looked up. She stood before him with the open book in her hands.

  Her voice was nervously unsteady as she began to read, “In principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud Deum et verbum erat Deus …”

  There was no interruption; she kept on, gaining confidence as she read. “All things were made by Him; and without Him was not any thing made that was made. In Him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shone in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.” The beauty and power of the words filled her, leading her onward, giving her strength.

  She came to the end, flushed with success, knowing she had read well. She looked up and saw her father staring at her.

  “I can read. Matthew taught me. We kept it a secret so no one would know.” The words spilled out in a breathless jumble. “I c
an make you proud, Father, I know I can. Let me take over Matthew’s studies and I—”

  “You!” Her father’s voice rumbled with anger. “It was you!” He pointed at her accusingly. “You are the one! You brought God’s wrath down upon us. Unnatural child! Changeling! You murdered your brother!”

  Joan gasped. The canon came toward her with arm raised. Joan dropped the book and tried to run, but he caught her and spun her round, bringing his fist down on her cheek with a force that sent her reeling. She landed against the far wall, striking her head.

  Her father stood over her. Joan braced herself for another blow. None came. Moments passed, and then he began to make hoarse, guttural noises in his throat. She realized he was crying. She had never seen her father cry.

  “Joan!” Gudrun hurried into the room. “What have you done, child?” She knelt beside Joan, taking note of the swelling bruise under her right eye. Keeping her body between her husband and Joan, she whispered, “What did I tell you? Foolish girl, look what you’ve done!” In a louder voice, she said, “Go to your brother. He needs you.” She helped Joan up and propelled her quickly toward the other room.

  The canon watched Joan darkly as she went to the door.

  “Forget the girl, Husband,” Gudrun said to distract him. “She’s of no importance. Do not despair; remember, you have yet another son.”

  3

  IT WAS Aranmanoth, the wheat-blade month, in the autumn of her ninth year, when Joan first met Aesculapius. He had stopped at the canon’s grubenhaus on his way to Mainz, where he was to be teaching master at the cathedral schola.

  “Be welcome, sir, be welcome!” Joan’s father greeted Aesculapius delightedly. “We rejoice in your safe arrival. I trust the journey was not too arduous?” He bowed his guest solicitously through the door. “Come refresh yourself. Gudrun! Bring wine! You do my humble home great honor, sir, with your presence.” From her father’s behavior, Joan understood that Aesculapius was a scholar of some standing and importance.

  He was Greek, dressed in the Byzantine manner. His fine white linen chlamys was clasped with a simple metal brooch and covered with a long blue cloak, bordered with silver thread. He wore his hair short, like a peasant, and kept it smoothly oiled back from his face. Unlike her father, who shaved in the manner of the Frankish clergy, Aesculapius had a long, full beard—white, like his hair.

  When her father called her over to be presented, she suffered a fit of shyness and stood awkwardly before the stranger, her eyes fixed on the intricate braid work of his sandals. At last the canon intervened and sent her off to help her mother prepare the evening meal.

  When they sat down at the table, the canon said, “It is our custom to read from the Holy Book before we partake of food. Would you do us the honor of reading this night?”

  “Very well,” said Aesculapius, smiling. Carefully he opened the wooden binding and turned the fragile parchment pages. “The text is Ecclesiastes. Omnia tempus habent, et momentum suum cuique negotio sub caelo …”

  Joan had never heard Latin spoken so beautifully. His pronunciation was unusual: the words were not all run together, Gallic style; each was round and distinct, like drops of clear rainwater. “For everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted …” Joan had heard her father read the same passage many times before, but in Aesculapius’s reading, she heard a beauty she had not previously imagined.

  When he was finished, Aesculapius closed the book. “An excellent volume,” he said appreciatively to the canon. “Written in a fair hand. You must have brought it with you from England; I have heard that the art still flourishes there. It is rare these days to find a manuscript so free from grammatical barbarisms.”

  The canon flushed with pleasure. “There were many such in the library at Lindisfarne. This one was entrusted to me by the bishop when he ordained me for the mission in Saxony.”

  The meal was splendid, the most lavish the family had ever prepared for a guest. There was a haunch of roast salted pork, cooked till the skin crackled, boiled barley-corn and beetroot, pungent cheese, and loaves of crusty bread freshly baked under the embers. The canon brought out some Frankish ale, spicy, dark, and thick as country soup. Afterward, they ate fried almonds and sweet roasted apples.

  “Delicious,” Aesculapius pronounced at the end of the meal. “It has been a long while since I have dined so well. Not since I left Byzantium have I tasted pork so sweet.”

  Gudrun was pleased. “It is because we keep our own pigs, and fatten them before the slaughter. The meat of the black forest pigs is tough and unappetizing.”

  “Tell us about Constantinople!” John said eagerly. “Is it true the streets are paved with precious stones, and the fountains spew liquid gold?”

  Aesculapius laughed. “No. But it is a marvelous place to behold.” Joan and John listened gape-mouthed as Aesculapius described Constantinople, perched on a towering promontory, with buildings of marble domed in gold and silver rising several stories high, overlooking the harbor of the Golden Horn, in which ships from all over the world lay at anchor. It was the city of Aesculapius’s birth and youth. He had been forced to flee when his family had become embroiled in a religious dispute with the basileus, something to do with the breaking of icons. Joan did not understand this, though her father did, nodding with grave disapproval as Aesculapius described his family’s persecution.

  Here the discussion turned to theological matters, and Joan and her brother were trundled off to the part of the house where their parents slept; as an honored guest, Aesculapius was to have the big bed near the hearth all to himself.

  “Please, can’t I stay and listen?” Joan pleaded with her mother.

  “No. It is well past time for you to be asleep. Besides, our guest is done with telling stories. This schoolroom talk will not interest you.”

  “But—”

  “No more, child. Off to bed with you. I will need your help in the morning; your father wishes us to prepare another feast for his visitor tomorrow. Any more such guests,” Gudrun grumbled, “and we will be ruined.” She tucked the children into the straw pallet, kissed them, and left.

  John was quickly asleep, but Joan lay awake, trying to hear what the voices were saying on the other side of the thick wooden partition. Finally, overcome with curiosity, she got out of bed and crept over to the partition, where she knelt, peering out from the darkness to where her father and Aesculapius sat talking by the hearth fire. It was chilly; the warmth of the fire did not reach this far, and Joan was wearing only a light linen shift. She shivered but did not consider returning to the bed; she had to hear what Aesculapius was saying.

  The talk had turned to the cathedral schola. Aesculapius asked the canon, “Do you know anything of the library there?”

  “Oh yes,” said the canon, obviously pleased to have been asked. “I have spent many hours in it. It houses an excellent collection, upwards of five and seventy codices.” Aesculapius nodded politely, though he did not appear impressed. Joan could not imagine so many books all in one place.

  The canon said, “There are copies of Isidore’s De scriptoribus ecclesiasticus and Salvianus’s De gubernatione Dei. Also the complete Commentarii of Jerome, with wondrously skilled illustrations. And there is a particularly fine manuscript of the Hexaëmeron by your countryman St. Basil.”

  “Are there any manuscripts of Plato?”

  “Plato?” The canon was shocked. “Certainly not; his writing is no fit study for a Christian.”

  “Ah? You do not approve of the study of logic, then?”

  “It has its place in the trivium,” the canon replied uneasily, “with the use of proper texts such as those of Augustine and Boethius. But faith is grounded in the authority of Scripture, not the evidence of logic; out of foolish curiosity men do sometimes shake their faith.”

  “I see your point.” Aesculapius’s words were spoken more out of
courtesy than agreement. “Perhaps, however, you can answer me this: How does it happen that man can reason?”

  “Reason is the spark of the divine essence in man. ‘So God created man in His own image; In the image of God created He him.’”

  “You have a good command of Scripture. So you would agree, then, that reason is God-given?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  Joan crept closer, moving out from behind the shadow of the partition; she did not want to miss what Aesculapius said next.

  “Then why fear to expose faith to reason? If God gave it to us, how then should it lead us from Him?”

  The canon shifted in his seat. Joan had never seen him look so uncomfortable. He was a missionary, trained to lecture and to preach, unaccustomed to the give-and-take of logical debate. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.

  “Indeed,” Aesculapius went on, “is it not lack of faith that leads men to fear the scrutiny of reason? If the destination is doubtful, then the path must be fraught with fear. A robust faith need not fear, for if God exists, then reason cannot help but lead us to Him. ‘Cogito, ergo Deus est,’ argues St. Augustine, ‘I think, therefore God is.’”

  Joan was following the argument so intently that she forgot herself and exclaimed aloud in appreciative understanding. Her father looked sharply toward the partition. She darted back into the shadows and waited, scarcely breathing. Then she heard the hum of voices again. Benedicite, she thought, they did not see me. She crept softly back to the pallet, where John lay snoring.

  Long after the voices ceased, Joan lay awake in the dark. She felt incredibly lighthearted and free, as if an oppressive weight had been lifted from her. It was not her fault that Matthew had died. Her desire to learn had not killed him, despite what her father said. Tonight, listening to Aesculapius, she had discovered that her love of knowing was not unnatural or sinful but the direct consequence of a God-given ability to reason. I think, therefore God is. In her heart, she felt the truth of it.