Pope Joan

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by Donna Woolfolk Cross


  Inside the gate, Gerold said to Joan and John, “Hold out your hands.” Into each of their outstretched palms, he placed a silver denarius. “Spend it wisely.”

  Joan stared at the shiny coin. She had seen denarii only once or twice before, and those at a distance, for in Ingelheim trade was accomplished by barter; even her father’s income, the décima tithed from the peasants of his parish, had been offered in goods and foodstuffs.

  A whole denarius! It seemed a fortune beyond measure.

  They wandered down the narrow, crowded passageways between the stalls. All around vendors hawked their merchandise, customers bargained hotly over prices, and performers of every kind—dancers, jugglers, acrobats, bear and monkey trainers—plied their trades. The din of innumerable deals, jests, and arguments surrounded them on every side, conducted in a hundred dialects and tongues.

  It was easy to get lost in the jostling crowds. Joan took John’s hand—to her surprise, he did not protest—and kept close to Gerold’s side. Luke stayed right behind them, inseparable, as always, from Joan. Their small group was soon parted from Richild and the others, who had walked more slowly. Halfway down the first row of stalls, they stopped and waited for the others to catch up. Off to their left, a woman stood screaming at a pair of merchants pulling at either end of a piece of linen cloth laid out beside a long wooden ruler measuring exactly one ell.

  “Stop!” the woman shouted. “You dunderheads! You are stretching it!” And indeed, it appeared as if the men would rip the cloth in half to make the most of its measure.

  There was a loud burst of shouting and laughter from a crowd circling a small open enclosure a short distance ahead.

  “Come on.” John pulled on Joan’s arm. She hesitated, not wanting to leave Gerold, but he saw what John wanted and good-naturedly shooed them in that direction.

  Another great shout rose from the crowd as they drew close. Joan saw a man fall to his knees in the center of the enclosure, clutching his shoulder as if it were hurt. Quickly he got back up to his feet, and now Joan could see that in his other hand he held a thick, sturdy birch bough. Another man stood in the ring, similarly armed. The two of them circled each other, swinging the heavy sticks with ferocious abandon. There was an odd, high-pitched squeal as a blood-spattered pig ran frantically between the two men, its stubby legs pumping like matched butter churns. The two men swung at the pig, but their aim was wild; the one who had just fallen shrieked as he took a solid hit on his nether parts. The crowd roared with laughter.

  John laughed along with the others, his eyes lit with interest. He tugged on the sleeve of a short, pockmarked peasant who stood beside them. “What’s going on?” he asked excitedly.

  The man grinned down at him, the holes in his face widening as the skin creased. “Why, they’re after the pig, lad, d’ye see? Him as kills it, takes it home for his table.”

  Odd, Joan thought, as she watched the two men compete for the prize. They swung their sticks forcefully, but their blows were random and undirected, falling on thin air or on each other more often than on the hapless pig. There was something strange about the appearance of the man facing her. She looked more closely and saw a milky whiteness where his pupils should have been. Now the other man turned to face her; his eyes looked normal enough, but they stared out fixedly into space, vacant and unfocused.

  The men were blind.

  Another blow found its mark, and the milky-eyed man staggered sideways, clutching his head. John jumped up, clapping his hands and shouting with laughter along with the rest of the crowd. His eyes glittered with a strange excitement.

  Joan turned away.

  “Psst! Young mistress!” a voice called out to her. Across the way, a vendor was gesturing at her. She left John cheering on the bizarre combat and went to the man’s stall, fronted by a long table displaying an assortment of religious relics. There were wooden crosses and medallions of every kind and description, as well as holy relics of several locally popular saints: a strand of hair from St. Willibrord, a fingernail of St. Romaric, two teeth of St. Waldetrudis, and a scrap of cloth from the robe of the virgin martyr St. Genovefa.

  The man pulled a vial from his leather scrip.

  “Know what this holds?” His voice was so low she could barely hear him over the surrounding din. She shook her head.

  “Several drops of the milk”—his voice dropped still further—“of the Holy Virgin Mother.”

  Joan was stunned. So great a treasure! Here? Surely it should be enshrined in some great monastery or cathedral.

  “One denarius,” the man said.

  One denarius! She fingered the silver coin in her pocket. The man held the vial out to her, and she took it, its surface cool in her hand. She had a brief vision of the look on Odo’s face when she returned with such a prize for the cathedral.

  The man smiled, holding out his hand, fingers waggling to coax the coin from her.

  Joan hesitated. Why would this man sell so great a treasure for such a sum? It was worth a fortune to some great abbey or cathedral in need of a holy relic for pilgrims to venerate.

  She lifted the cap off the vial and peered inside. Halfway down the length of the tube, the pale surface of the milk shimmered smooth and blue-white in the sunlight. Joan reached down and touched it with the tip of her little finger. Then she looked up, her keen eyes scanning the area around the stall. She laughed, lifted the vial to her lips, and drank.

  The man gasped. “Are you woodly?” His face was contorted with anger.

  “Delicious,” Joan said, recapping the vial and handing it back to him. “My compliments to your goat.”

  “Why, you … you …,” the man sputtered, unable to find the words to express his rage and frustration. For a moment it seemed as if he might come round the table after her. There was a low growl; Luke, who until then had been sitting quietly, moved in front of Joan, a deep line furrowing the length of his muzzle, lifted at the sides to reveal a row of menacing white teeth.

  “What is that?” The vendor stared at Luke’s glittering eyes.

  “That,” a voice said behind Joan, “is a wolf.”

  It was Gerold. He had come up quietly during her interchange with the vendor. He stood loosely, his arms at his sides, his body relaxed, but his eyes were hard with warning. The vendor turned away, mumbling something under his breath. Gerold put his arm around Joan’s shoulders and led her away, calling to Luke, who growled at the vendor one more time, then ran to join them.

  Gerold didn’t speak. They walked together in silence, Joan quickening her pace to keep up with his long strides.

  He is angry, she thought, her high spirits quenched as suddenly as a smothered hearth fire.

  What was worse, she knew he was right. She had acted recklessly with the merchant. Hadn’t she promised to be more careful? Why did she always have to question and challenge things? Why couldn’t she learn it: Some ideas are dangerous.

  Maybe I am woodly.

  She heard a low rumble of sound; Gerold was laughing.

  “The look on the man’s face when you lifted the vial and drank! I shall never forget it!” He pulled her close in a warm hug. “Ah, Joan, you are my pearl! But tell me, how did you know that it wasn’t the Virgin’s milk?”

  Joan grinned, relieved. “I was mistrustful from the first, for if the thing were truly holy, why would it fetch so small a price? And why did the vendor keep his goat tethered behind the stall, where it couldn’t be seen? If it was received in barter, surely there was no need to hide it.”

  “True. But to actually drink the stuff”—there was another burst of laughter from Gerold—“surely you must have known something else.”

  “Yes. When I uncapped the vial, the milk was uncurdled and perfectly fresh, as if produced this morning, though the Virgin’s milk would be over eight hundred years old.”

  “Ah”—Gerold smiled, his eyebrows arched, testing her—“but perhaps its great holiness kept it pure and uncorrupted.”

  “True,�
� Joan admitted. “But when I touched the milk, it was still warm! So holy a thing might perhaps remain uncorrupted, but why should it be warm?”

  “A pretty observation,” Gerold said appreciatively. “Lucretius himself could have done no better!”

  Joan beamed. How she loved to please him!

  They had walked almost to the end of the long row of stalls, where the huge wooden cross of St.-Denis marked the boundary of the fair, protecting the holy tranquillity of the abbey brothers. This was where the parchment merchants had set up their stalls.

  “Look!” Gerold spied them first, and they hurried over to inspect the merchandise, which was of very high quality. The vellum, in particular, was extraordinary: the flesh side of the skin was perfectly even, the color whiter than Joan had ever seen; the other side was, as usual, somewhat yellower, but the pittings where the calf’s hair had been rooted were so tiny and shallow as to be almost invisible.

  “What a pleasure it must be to write on such sheets!” Joan exclaimed, fingering them gently.

  Gerold immediately called one of the merchants over. “Four sheets,” he ordered, and Joan gasped, overwhelmed at his extravagance. Four sheets! It was enough for an entire codex!

  While Gerold paid for his purchase, Joan’s attention wandered to a few sheets of ragged-looking parchment scattered untidily toward the rear of the stall. The edges of the sheets were torn, and there was writing on them, very faint and obliterated in places by ugly brown stains. She bent close to read the writing better, then flushed with excitement.

  Seeing her interest, the merchant hurried over.

  “So young, and already a fine eye for a bargain,” he said unctuously. “The sheets are old, as you see, but still good for their purpose. Look!”

  Before she could speak, he took a long, flat tool and scraped it quickly across the page, effacing several letters.

  “Stop!” Joan spoke sharply, remembering a different piece of parchment and a different knife. “Stop!”

  The merchant looked at her curiously. “You needn’t worry, lass, it’s only pagan writing.” He pointed proudly to the page. “See? Nice and clean and ready to write on!” He lifted the tool to demonstrate the trick again, but Joan grabbed his hand.

  “I’ll give you a denarius for them,” she said tersely.

  The man feigned being insulted. “They’re worth three denarii, at least.”

  Joan took the coin from her scrip and held it out to him. “One,” she repeated. “It’s all I have.”

  The merchant hesitated, searching her face assessingly. “Very well,” he said testily. “Take them.”

  Joan thrust the coin at him and gathered up the precious parchment before he could change his mind. She ran to Gerold.

  “Look!” she said excitedly.

  Gerold stared at the pages. “I don’t recognize the letters.”

  “It’s written in Greek,” Joan explained. “And it’s very old. An engineering text, I think. See the diagrams?” She pointed to one of the pages, and Gerold studied the drawing.

  “Some kind of hydraulic device.” His interest was kindled. “Fascinating. Can you provide a translation of the text?”

  “I can.”

  “Then I might be able to rig it up.”

  They smiled at each other, conspirators in a fine new scheme.

  “Father!” Gisla’s voice pierced the noise of the crowd. Gerold turned, searching for her. He was taller by a head than anyone around him; in the sun his thick, red hair gleamed like colored gold. Joan’s heart jumped unevenly in her chest as she watched him. You are my pearl, he had said. She grasped the papers tightly as she watched him, holding on to the moment.

  “Father! Joan!” Gisla finally appeared, pushing her way through the crowd, followed by one of the household servants, his arms laden with goods. “I’ve been looking everywhere!” she remonstrated good-naturedly. “What have you got there?” Joan started to explain, but Gisla waved her aside. “Oh, just more of your silly old books. Look what I found,” she enthused. She dangled a length of multicolored cloth. “For my wedding dress! Isn’t it perfect?”

  The cloth shimmered as Gisla displayed it. Examining it more closely, Joan saw that it was woven through with slender, perfect threads of gold and silver.

  “It’s astonishing,” she said sincerely.

  Gisla giggled. “I know!” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed Joan’s arm and started toward a stall some distance ahead. “Oh, look,” she said, “a slave auction! Let’s go see!”

  “No.” Joan hung back. She had seen the slave traders passing through Ingelheim, their human cargo bound together with heavy ropes. Many of them were Saxons, like her mother.

  “No,” she said again, and would not budge.

  “Aren’t you a goose!” Gisla tweaked Joan playfully. “They’re only heathens. They don’t have feelings, at least not like us.”

  “I wonder what’s in here?” Joan said, anxious to distract her. She led Gisla toward a tiny stall at the end of the row. It was dark and sealed, every panel closed. Luke circled it, sniffing curiously at the walls.

  “How strange,” Gisla said.

  In the bright afternoon sun, with business in full swing all around, the quiet, darkened stall was an oddity. Her curiosity piqued, Joan tapped gently on the closed shutter.

  “Come in,” a cracked voice spoke from within. Gisla jumped at the sound but did not back away. The two girls circled to the side of the stall and pushed cautiously on the planked timber door, which creaked and groaned as it opened inward, spilling slanting rays of light into the gloom.

  They stepped inside. A strange smell pervaded the stall, cloying and sweet, like fermented honey. In the center of the enclosure, a tiny figure sat cross-legged—an old woman, dressed simply in a loose, dark robe. She appeared unbelievably ancient, perhaps seventy winters or more; her hair was gone, save for some fine white strands at her crown, and her head shook constantly as if she were afflicted with the ague. But her eyes shone alertly in the darkness, focusing on Joan and Gisla with shrewd assessment.

  “Pretty little doves,” she croaked. “So pretty and so young. What do you want of Old Balthild?”

  “We just wanted to—to—” Joan faltered as she searched uneasily for an explanation. The old woman’s gaze was unsettling.

  “To find out what is for sale here,” Gisla finished boldly.

  “What’s for sale? What’s for sale?” The old woman cackled. “Something that you want but will never own.”

  “What?” Gisla asked.

  “Something that is already yours though you have it not.” The old woman grinned at them toothlessly. “Something beyond price and yet it can be bought.”

  “What is it?” Gisla said sharply, impatient with the old woman’s riddles.

  “The future.” The old woman’s eyes glittered in the dimness. “Your future, my little dove. All that will be and is not yet.”

  “Oh, you’re a fortune-teller!” Gisla clapped her hands together, pleased to have deciphered the puzzle. “How much?”

  “One solidus.”

  One solidus! It was the price of a good milking cow, or a pair of fine rams!

  “Too dear.” Gisla was in her element now, confident and assured, a shrewd customer looking to strike a bargain.

  “One obole,” she offered.

  “Five denarii,” the old woman countered.

  “Two. One for each of us.” Gisla withdrew the coins from her scrip and held them out on her palm for the woman to see.

  The old woman hesitated, then took the coins, motioning the girls to the floor beside her. They sat; the woman clasped Joan’s strong young hands in her shaking grasp and fixed her odd, disquieting gaze upon her. For a long time, she said nothing; then she began to speak.

  “Changeling child, you are what you will not be; what you will become is other than you are.”

  This made little sense, unless it meant simply that she would soon be a woman grown. But then why had the old wo
man called her a “changeling”?

  Balthild continued, “You aspire to that which is forbidden.” Joan started with surprise, and the old woman tightened her clasp. “Yes, changeling, I see your secret heart. You will not be disappointed. Greatness will be yours, beyond your dreams, and grief, beyond your imaginings.”

  Balthild dropped Joan’s hands and turned toward Gisla, who winked at Joan with an expression that said, Wasn’t that fun?

  The old woman took Gisla’s hands, her bent, gnarled fingers curling around Gisla’s smooth, pink ones.

  “You will marry soon, and richly,” she said.

  “Yes!” Gisla giggled. “But, old woman, I did not pay you to tell me what I already know. Will the union be a happy one?”

  “No more than most, but no less either,” Balthild said. Gisla raised her eyes to the ceiling in mock despair.

  “A wife you shall be, though never a mother,” Balthild crooned, swaying with the rhythm of the words, her voice singsong, melodic.

  Gisla’s smile vanished. “Shall I be barren, then?”

  “The future lies before you all dark and empty.” Balthild’s voice rose in a keening wail. “Pain shall be yours, and confusion, and fear.”

  Gisla sat transfixed, like a stoat held fast by the stare of a snake.

  “Enough!” Joan pried Gisla’s hands from the old woman’s grasp. “Come with me,” she said. Gisla obeyed, compliant as a babe.

  Outside the stall, Gisla began to cry.

  “Don’t be silly,” Joan soothed. “The old woman’s mad, pay no attention to her. There is no truth in such fortune-telling.”

  Gisla would not be comforted. She cried and cried; finally, Joan led her to the sweetmeat stalls, where they bought honeyed figs and gorged themselves until Gisla felt somewhat better.

  THAT night, when they told Gerold what had happened, he was furious.

 

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