Pope Joan
Page 12
Halfway down the line she saw John. He was laughing and shouting insults along with the others. She met his eyes; he flushed and looked away.
She kept walking. Too late she saw the flash of blue cloth near the floor. She tripped and fell clumsily, landing heavily on her side.
John, she thought. He tripped me.
She got to her feet, wincing as a sharp pain shot down her side. The disgusting slime oozed from under the hood onto her face. She wiped at it, trying to keep it out of her eyes, but it was no use. It slid glutinously over her eyebrows onto her lids, gumming her eyelashes, making it impossible to see clearly.
Laughing, the boys crowded in, shoving her back and forth, trying to make her fall again. She heard John’s voice among the others, calling out insults. Through the thick film that covered her eyes, the room spun dizzyingly in alternating patterns of light and color. She could no longer make out the door.
She felt a sudden sting of tears.
Oh no, she thought. That was what they wanted—to make her weep and plead for mercy, to show some weakness, so they could mock her as a coward of a girl.
They shall not have that. I will not give them that.
She held herself straight, willing herself not to cry. This display of self-control only inflamed them, and they began to hit harder. The biggest of the boys struck her forcefully on the neck. The blow staggered her, and she fought to keep her feet.
A man’s voice shouted in the distance. Had Odo come at last to put an end to this?
“What is happening here?”
This time she recognized the voice. Gerold. There was a tone in his voice she had never heard before. The boys backed away from her so suddenly she almost fell again.
Gerold’s arm was around her shoulder, steadying her. She leaned into him gratefully.
“Well, Bernhar.” Gerold addressed the biggest boy, the one who had hit her on the neck. “Wasn’t it just last week I watched you at weapons practice, trying so desperately to keep out of range of Eric’s sword that you could not manage a single strike? Yet I see that you have no difficulty fighting when your opponent is a defenseless girl.”
Bernhar stammered an explanation, but Gerold cut him off.
“You may tell that to His Lordship the bishop. He will send for you when he learns of this. Which he will, this very day.”
The silence around them was absolute. Gerold lifted Joan in his arms. She felt with some surprise the rippling power of his arms and back. He was so tall and lean, she had not realized he was so strong. She tilted her head away so the disgusting slime that covered her would not mar his tunic.
Halfway to his mount, Gerold turned. “One thing more. From what I have witnessed, she is braver than any of you. Yes, and smarter too, for all that she is a girl.”
Joan felt the start of tears in her eyes. No one had ever spoken for her like that save Aesculapius.
Gerold was—different.
The bud of a rose grows in darkness. It knows nothing of the sun, yet it pushes at the darkness that confines it until at last the walls give way and the rose bursts forth, spreading its petals into the light.
I love him.
The thought was as startling as it was sudden. What could it mean? She could not be in love with Gerold. He was a nobleman, a great lord, and she was a canon’s daughter. He was a mature man of twenty-eight winters, and Joan knew he thought of her as a child, though in fact she was almost thirteen and would soon be a woman grown.
Besides, he had a wife.
Joan’s mind was a whirl of confusing emotions.
Gerold lifted her onto his horse and mounted behind. The boys stood huddled before the door, not daring to speak. Joan leaned back into Gerold’s arms, feeling his strength, drawing upon it.
“Now,” Gerold said, spurring the horse into a canter, “I will take you home.”
9
COUNT Gerold, grafio vir illuster of this far northeastern march of the imperial realm, flicked his new chestnut into a gallop as he neared the motte on which his manor stood. The horse responded smartly, anticipating a warm stable and a pile of fresh hay. Beside him, the horse carrying Osdag, Gerold’s venery servant, also lengthened its stride, though the weight of the slaughtered stag tied across its back caused it to lag.
It had been a good day’s hunt. On a whim, for usually a hunting sortie consisted of six or more men, Gerold had gone out with only Osdag and two of the brachet hounds as companions. Luck had been with them; almost immediately they found deer’s spoor, which Osdag scooped up in his hunting horn and scrutinized with a trained eye. “A hart,” he announced, “and a big one.” They tracked him for the better part of an hour until they sighted him in a small clearing. Gerold lifted his ivory oliphant to his lips and blew a series of soft, one-pitch notes, and the brachet hounds leapt eagerly to the chase. It had not been easy bringing the beast to bay with only two men and two dogs, but they had cornered it at last, and Gerold had dispatched it with one quick thrust of his lance. It was, as Osdag had predicted, a fine, large beast; with winter coming on, it would make a welcome addition to the Villaris larder.
Some distance away, Gerold spied Joan sitting cross-legged on the grass. He sent Osdag ahead to the stables and rode toward her. He had grown surprisingly attached to the girl over the past year. She was a strange one, there was no denying it—too much alone, too solemn for her years, but with a good heart and a keen intelligence that Gerold found very appealing.
Drawing near to where Joan sat still as one of the reliefs on the cathedral door, Gerold dismounted and led the chestnut forward. Joan was so deep in concentration that he got within ten yards of her before she saw him. Then she rose to her feet, blushing. Gerold was amused. She was incapable of disguise—a trait Gerold found quite charming, as it was so different from … what he was used to. There was no mistaking her childlike infatuation with him.
“You were deep in thought,” he said.
“Yes.” She rose and came over to admire the chestnut. “Did he handle well?”
“Perfectly. He’s a fine mount.”
“Oh yes.” She stroked the chestnut’s shining mane. She had an excellent appreciation of horses, perhaps because she had grown up without them. From what Gerold had been able to make out, her family had lived as poorly as any coloni, though her father was a canon of the Church.
The horse nuzzled her ear, and she laughed delightedly. An attractive girl, Gerold thought, though she would never be a beauty. Her large, intelligent eyes were set deep, her strong jaw and wide, straight shoulders gave her a boyish appearance, heightened now by the short white-gold hair that curled around her face, reaching barely to the tops of her ears. After that episode at the schola, they had been obliged to cut her hair down to the scalp; there had been no other way to remove the gum arabic smeared through every strand.
“What were you thinking about?”
“Oh. Just something that happened at the schola today.”
“Tell me.”
She looked at him. “Is it true that the cubs of the white wolf are born dead?”
“What?” Gerold was accustomed to her odd questions, but this one was stranger than usual.
“John and the other boys were talking. There’s going to be a hunt for the white wolf, the one in the forest of Annapes.”
Gerold nodded. “I know the one. A bitch, and a savage one—it hunts alone, apart from any pack, and knows no fear. Just last winter it attacked a band of travelers and carried off a small child before anyone could lift hand to bow to stop it. They say it now has a belly full of kits—I suppose they mean to kill it before it gives birth?”
“Yes. John and the others are excited, for Ebbo said his father promised to take him along on the hunt.”
“So?”
“Odo was adamant against it. He would personally see the hunt called off, he said, for the white wolf is a holy beast, a living manifestation of Christ’s resurrection.”
Gerold’s eyebrows lifted skeptically.
“What did you say to that?” Gerold asked. He knew her well enough by now to know that she would have had something to say.
“I asked how this was known to be true, if it had never been witnessed.”
Gerold laughed out loud. “I’ll wager our schoolmaster did not appreciate the question!”
“No. It was irreverent, he said. And also illogical, for the moment of the Resurrection was also never witnessed, yet no one doubts its truth.”
Gerold laid a hand on Joan’s shoulder. “Never mind, child.”
There was a pause, as if she were debating whether to say anything further. Suddenly she looked up at him, her young face intent and deeply earnest. “How can we be sure of the truth of the Resurrection? If no one ever witnessed it?”
He was so startled that he jerked on the reins, and the chestnut started. Gerold placed a hand on the russet flank, gentling him.
Like most of his peers in this northern part of the Empire, landed magnates who had reached their manhood under the reign of old Emperor Karolus, who held to the old ways, Gerold was a Christian in the loosest sense. He attended mass, gave alms, and was careful to keep the feasts and outward observances. He followed those teachings of church doctrine that did not interfere with the execution of his manorial rights and duties, and ignored the rest.
But Gerold understood the way of the world, and he recognized danger when he saw it.
“You did not ask that of Odo!”
“Why not?”
“God’s teeth!” This could mean trouble. Gerold had no liking for Odo, a little man of narrow ideas and even narrower spirit. But this was exactly the kind of weapon Odo needed to embarrass Fulgentius and force Joan from the schola. Or—it did not bear thinking of— even worse.
“What did he say?”
“He did not answer. He was very angry, and he … reprimanded me.” She flushed.
Gerold let out his breath in a soft whistle. “Well, what did you expect? You are old enough now to know that there are some questions one does not ask.”
“Why?” The large, gray-green eyes, so much deeper and wiser than other children’s, fixed on him intently. Pagan eyes, Gerold thought, eyes that would never look down before man or God. It troubled him to think what must have gone into the making of those eyes.
“Why?” she asked again, insistent.
“One simply doesn’t, that’s all.” He was irritated by her prodding. Sometimes the girl’s intelligence, which so far outpaced her physical growth, was unsettling.
Something—hurt, or was it anger?—flared briefly in her eyes and then was masked. “I should return to the house. The tapestry for the hall is nearing completion, and your lady may need help with the finishing.” Chin lifted, she turned to go.
Gerold was amused. So much wounded dignity in one so young! The thought of Richild, his wife, requiring Joan’s help with the tapestry was absurd. She had frequently complained to him about Joan’s clumsiness with the needle; Gerold himself had witnessed the girl’s frustrated efforts to force her awkward fingers to obey, and seen the sorry results of her labors.
His irritation dissipated, he said, “Don’t be offended. If you wish to get on in the world, you must have more patience with your betters.”
She peered at him sideways, assessing his words, then threw her head back and laughed. The sound was delightful, full throated and musical, wholly infectious. Gerold was charmed. The girl could be stubborn and quick to anger, but she had a warm heart and a ready wit.
He cupped her chin. “I did not mean to be harsh,” he said. “It’s just that you surprise me sometimes. You are so wise about some things, and so stupid about others.”
She started to speak, but he held a finger to her lips. “I don’t know the answer to your question. But I know the question itself is dangerous. There are many who would say such a thought is heresy. Do you understand what that means, Joan?”
She nodded gravely. “It is an offense against God.”
“Yes. It is that, and more than that. It could mean the forfeit of your hopes, Joan, of your future. Of—your very life.”
There. He had said it. The gray-green eyes regarded him unwaveringly. There was no going back now. He would have to tell her all of it.
“Four winters ago a group of travelers was stoned to death, not far from here, in the fields bordering the cathedral. Two men, a woman, and a boy, not much older than you are now.”
He was a seasoned soldier, a veteran of the Emperor’s campaigns against the barbarian Obodrites, yet his flesh crawled, remembering. Death, even horrible death, held no surprises for him. But he had recoiled from this killing. The men were unarmed, and the other two … The dying had taken a long time, the woman and the boy suffering the longest, since the men had tried to shield them with their bodies.
“Stoned?” Joan’s eyes were wide. “But why?”
“They were Armenians, members of the sect known as Paulicians. They were on their way to Aachen, and they were unfortunate enough to pass through just after a hailstorm struck the vineyards. In less than an hour, the entire crop was lost. In such times, people seek a reason for their troubles. When they looked around, there they were— strangers, and of a suspect set of mind. Tempestarii, they were called, who had used enchantments to unchain the violent storm. Fulgentius tried to defend them, but they were questioned and their ideas found to be heretical. Ideas, Joan”—he fixed her with a level gaze—“not so very different from the question you asked Odo today.”
She fell silent, staring off into the distance. Gerold said nothing, giving her time.
“Aesculapius once said something like that to me,” she said at last. “Some ideas are dangerous.”
“He was a wise man.”
“Yes.” Her eyes softened with remembrance. “I will be more careful.”
“Good.”
“Now,” she said, “tell me. How do we know that the story of the Resurrection is true?”
Gerold laughed helplessly. “You”—he rumpled the cropped white-gold hair—“are incorrigible.” Seeing that she still waited for an answer, he added, “Very well. I’ll tell you what I think.”
Her eyes lit with eager interest. He laughed again.
“But not now. Pistis needs tending. Come find me before vespers and we will talk.”
Joan’s admiration shone undisguised in her eyes. Gerold stroked her cheek. She was hardly more than a child, but there was no denying that she moved him. Well, his own marital bed was cold enough, God knew, for him to enjoy the warmth of such innocent affection without too great a burden of conscience.
The chestnut nuzzled Joan. She said, “I have an apple. May I give it to him?”
Gerold nodded. “Pistis deserves a reward. He did well today; he’ll make a first-rate hunter one day, or I’m much mistaken.”
She reached into her scrip, withdrew a small greenish red apple, and held it out to the chestnut, who lipped it gently, then took the whole fruit into his mouth. As she withdrew her hand, Gerold saw a flash of red. She realized he had seen and tried to hide the hand, but he caught it and held it up to the light. A deep furrow of torn flesh and drying blood scored the tender inside of the palm, cut clear across.
“Odo?” Gerold said quietly.
“Yes.” She winced as he gently fingered the edges of the wound. Odo had obviously used the rod more than once, and with considerable force; the wound was deep and needed immediate tending to prevent corruption from setting in.
“We must see to this right away. Return to the house; I will meet you there.” It was an effort to keep his voice steady. He was surprised at the intensity of his emotion. Odo had undeniably been within his rights to discipline her. Indeed, it was probably for the best that he had struck her, for, having vented his anger in this way, he was less li
kely to carry the matter further. Nevertheless, the sight of the wound roused in Gerold a strong, unreasoning fury. He would have liked to throttle Odo.
“It is not so bad as it looks.” Joan was watching him closely with those wise, deep eyes.
Gerold checked the wound again. It was deep, centered right in the most sensitive part of the hand. Any other child would have wept and cried out with pain. She had not said a word, even when questioned.
Yet just a few weeks ago, when they had to cut her hair to get the gum arabic out, she had screamed and fought like a Saracen. Later, when Gerold asked why she had resisted so, she could offer no clearer explanation than that the sound of the knife ripping through her hair had frightened her.
A strange girl, no doubt of it. Perhaps that was why he found her so intriguing.
“Father!” Dhuoda, Gerold’s younger daughter, burst into view, running down the hill of the motte toward where Joan and he stood among the trees. They waited till she drew up to them, flushed and panting from her run. “Father!” Dhuoda raised her arms expectantly, and Gerold grabbed her and swung her up and around while she squealed exuberantly. When he thought she had had enough, he set her down.
Flushed and excited, Dhuoda tugged on his arm. “Oh, Father, come see! Lupa has given birth to five pups. May I have one for my own, Father? Can it sleep on my bed?”
Gerold laughed. “We’ll have to see. But first”—he held her firmly, for she had already turned to race back to the house ahead of him— “first take Joan back to the house; her hand is injured and needs looking after.”
“Her hand? Show me,” she demanded of Joan, who held out her hand with a rueful smile. “Ooooooh.” Dhuoda’s eyes widened in horrified fascination as she examined it. “How did it happen?”
“She can tell you on the way back,” Gerold interrupted impatiently. He did not like the look of that wound; the sooner it was seen to, the better. “Hurry now, and do as I told you.”
“Yes, Father.” Dhuoda said to Joan sympathetically, “Does it hurt very much?”
“Not enough to keep me from reaching the gate first!” Joan replied, and broke into a run.