“What now, sorcery? Joan and Gisla, you will take me to this stall tomorrow. I have some words to say to this old woman who frightens young girls. In the meantime, Gisla, you must not give heed to such nonsense. Why did you even seek such false counsel?” To Joan he said reproachfully, “I would have thought that you, at least, would have known better.”
Joan accepted the chastisement. Still, there was a part of her that wanted to believe in Balthild’s powers. Hadn’t the old woman said that she would realize her secret desire? If she was right, then Joan would achieve greatness, despite the fact that she was a girl, despite what everyone else believed possible.
But if Balthild was right about Joan’s future, then she was also right about Gisla’s.
When they returned to the stall with Gerold the next day, it was empty. No one could tell them where the old woman had gone.
IN WINNEMANOTH, Gisla was married to Count Hugo. There had been some difficulty finding a date suitable for the immediate consummation of the marriage. The Church forbade all marital relations on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, as well as for forty days before Easter, eight days after Pentecost, and five days before the taking of communion, or on the eve of any great feast or rogation day. In all, on some two hundred and twenty days of the year sexual intercourse was prohibited; when these, as well as Gisla’s monthly bleeding time, were taken into account, there were not many dates left to choose from. But at last they settled on the twenty-fourth of the month, a date that pleased everyone save Gisla, who was impatient for the festivities to begin.
At last the great day arrived. The entire household rose before prime to fuss over Gisla. First she was helped into her long-sleeved, yellow linen undertunic. Over this was placed the resplendent new tunic fashioned from the shimmering silver and gold fabric purchased at the St.-Denis fair. It draped from her shoulders to the floor in graceful folds that were echoed in the wide sleeves opening out at her elbows. Around her hips was fastened a heavy kirtle set with good-luck stones—agate to guard against fever, chalk to defend against the evil eye, bloodstone for fertility, jasper for safe delivery in childbirth. Finally a delicate, finely worked silken veil was fastened on her head. It billowed to the ground, covering her shoulders and completely hiding her auburn hair. Standing there in her wedding dress, hardly able to move or even sit for fear of crumpling it, she looked, Joan thought, like an exotic game bird, stuffed and trussed and ready for carving.
Not I, Joan vowed. She did not mean to wed, although in seven months she would be fifteen, a more than marriageable age. In three more years, she would be an old maid. It was incredible to her that girls her age were so eager for marriage, for it immediately plunged a woman into a state of serflike bondage. A husband had absolute control of his wife’s goods and property, her children, even her life. Having endured her father’s tyranny, Joan meant never to give any man such power over her again.
Gisla, simple creature that she was, went to her bridegroom with eager enthusiasm, all blushes and nervous giggles. Count Hugo, magnificent in a tunic and mantle edged with ermine, waited for her at the sacred portal to the cathedral. She took his proffered hand and stood proudly while Wido, the steward of Villaris, publicly recited all the lands, servants, animals, and goods that Gisla brought as dowry. Then the wedding party entered the cathedral, where Fulgentius waited before the altar to perform the solemn wedding mass.
“Quod Deus conjunxit homo non separet.” The Latin words issued haltingly from Fulgentius’s tongue. He had been a soldier before inheriting the bishopric late in life; having begun book study tardily, the proper forms of Latin were forever beyond him.
“In nomine Patria et Filia …” Joan winced as Fulgentius mangled the blessing, confusing his declensions so that instead of “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit” it came out “In the name of the Country and the Daughter.”
Finishing with this part of the mass, Fulgentius turned, with obvious relief, to Theodisk.
“May this woman be amiable as Rachel, faithful as Sarah, fertile as Leah.” He rested his hand kindly on Gisla’s head. “May she bring forth many sons to bring honor to her husband’s house.”
Joan saw Gisla’s shoulders shake and knew she was repressing a giggle.
“Let her copy the behavior of a dog who always has his heart and his eye upon his master; even if his master whip him and throw stones at him, the dog follows, wagging his tail.” This seemed hard to Joan, but Fulgentius was regarding Gisla with a benign, even affectionate expression and obviously did not mean to offend. “Wherefore for a better and stronger reason,” he continued, “a woman should have a perfect and indestructible love for her husband.”
He turned to Count Hugo. “May this man be brave as David, wise as Solomon, strong as Samson. May his lands increase even as his fortune. May he be a just lord to this lady, never administering to her more than reasonable punishments. May he live to see his sons do honor to his name.”
They began the exchange of vows. Count Hugo gave his promise first, then placed a ring of Byzantine turquoise on Gisla’s fourth finger, which contained the vein leading to the heart.
It was Gisla’s turn. Joan listened to Gisla recite her marriage vows. Her voice was high and merry, her mind untroubled by doubt, her future seemingly assured.
What, Joan wondered, does my future hold?
She could not continue at the schola forever—at most, she had another three years. She let herself daydream, picturing herself as teaching master at one of the great cathedral scholas, Rheims, perhaps, or even the Schola Palatina, her days spent exploring the wisdom of the ages with minds as eager and inquisitive as her own. The daydream was, as always, intensely pleasing.
But—the thought struck like a loosed shaft—that would mean leaving Villaris. Leaving Gerold.
She knew she would have to leave Villaris one day. But over the past few months, she had put that thought away, content to live in the present, in the joy of being with Gerold every day.
She let her gaze rest upon him. His profile was strong and well chiseled, his form tall and straight; his red hair curled thickly to his shoulders.
The handsomest man I have ever seen, she thought, not for the first time.
As if he had read her mind, he turned toward her. Their eyes met. Something in his expression—a momentary softening, a tenderness— thrilled her. In an instant the look had vanished, before she was even sure of it, but its warmth lingered.
I am wrong to worry, she thought. Nothing needs to be decided yet.
Three years was a long time.
A lot could happen in three years.
RETURNING from the schola the following week, Joan found Gerold waiting for her on the portico.
“Come with me.” His tone indicated that he had a surprise in store. He motioned to her and started toward the foregate. Passing through the gated palisade, they followed the road for several miles, then abruptly turned aside into the woods, emerging a short time later into a small clearing, in the midst of which was a sunken hut. No longer inhabited, it had fallen into disrepair. But it must once have been a snug freeman’s dwelling, for the wattle-and-daub walls still appeared tight, and the door was made of sturdy oak. It reminded Joan of her own home in Ingelheim, though this grubenhaus was far smaller and its thatched roof was holed with rot.
They stopped before it. “Wait here,” Gerold commanded. Joan watched curiously as he circled the structure once, then returned and stood beside her, facing the door.
“Behold,” Gerold said with feigned solemnity. Raising his hands above his head, he clapped loudly three times.
Nothing happened. Joan looked questioningly at Gerold, who stared at the hut expectantly. Evidently something was supposed to happen. But what?
With a loud groan, the heavy oak door began to swing open— slowly at first, then more quickly, exposing the vacant darkness within. Joan peered into the hut. No one was there. The door had moved on its own.
Astounded, Joan gaped at the door.
A dozen questions thronged her brain, but only one found its way out. “How?”
Gerold raised his eyes to Heaven in mock piety. “A holy miracle.”
Joan snorted.
He laughed. “Sorcery, then.” He eyed her challengingly, enjoying the game.
Joan took up the challenge. She marched to the door and examined it. “Can you close it?” she asked.
Gerold raised his hands again. He clapped three times. After a pause, the door groaned and began to swing inward on its hinges. Joan followed as it moved, studying it. The heavy wooden panels were smooth and tightly jointed—no sign of anything unusual there. There was nothing unusual about the plain wooden handle, either. She examined the hinges. They were ordinary iron hinges. It was infuriating. She could not fathom what was making the door move.
The door was fast closed once more. It was a mystery.
“Well?” Gerold’s indigo eyes were lit with amusement.
Joan hesitated, unwilling to forfeit the game.
Just as she was about to admit defeat, she heard something, a slender thread of sound coming from somewhere above her. At first she could not place it; the noise was familiar yet strangely out of place.
Then she recognized it. Water. The sound of trickling water.
She said excitedly, “The hydraulic device! The one in the manuscript from the St.-Denis fair! You built it!”
Gerold laughed. “Adapted it, rather. For it was designed to pump water, not to open and close doors!”
“How does it work?”
Gerold showed her the mechanism, located just under the decaying roof of the hut a full ten feet from the door, which was why she had not seen it. He demonstrated the complicated system of levers, pulleys, and counterweights, connected to two slender iron rods attached to the inside of the door so that they were barely visible. By stepping on a rope when he had circled the hut, Gerold had activated the device.
“Amazing!” she said when he finished explaining. “Do it again.” Now that she understood how the device worked, she wanted to observe it in action.
“I can’t. Not without fetching more water.”
“Then let’s fetch it,” she said. “Where are the buckets?”
Gerold laughed. “You are incorrigible!” He pulled her close in an affectionate hug. His chest was hard and firm, his arms strong around her. Joan felt as if her insides were melting.
Abruptly, he let her go. “Come on, then,” he said gruffly. “The buckets are over here.”
They carried the empty buckets to the stream a quarter of a mile away, filled them, carried them back, poured them into the receptacle, then returned to fetch more. Three times they made the trip, and by the third they were feeling somewhat giddy. The sun was warm, the air full of spring promise, and their spirits high from the excitement of their project and the joy of each other’s company.
“Gerold, look!” Joan called, standing knee-deep in the cool water of the stream. When he turned to her, she playfully slung the water from her bucket at him, wetting the front of his tunic.
“You imp!” he roared.
He filled his bucket and doused her in turn. So they continued, splashing each other in a flurry of sparkling spray, until Joan was hit by a stream of water from Gerold’s bucket just as she was bending over to fill her own. Caught off balance, she slipped and fell heavily into the stream. The cool water closed over her head, and for a brief moment she panicked, unable to find her footing on the shifting pebbles of the riverbed.
Then Gerold’s arms were around her, pulling her up, setting her on her feet.
“I’ve got you, Joan, I’ve got you.” His voice, close to her ear, was warm and reassuring. Joan felt her whole body thrum to its cadence. She clung to him. Their wet clothes stuck to each other, molding their bodies together in unambiguous intimacy.
“I love you,” she said simply. “I love you.”
“Oh, my dearest, my perfect girl,” Gerold murmured thickly, and then his mouth was on hers, and she was kissing him back, their passion fueled by the sudden release of emotions long held in check.
The very air seemed to hum in Joan’s ears. Gerold, it sang. Gerold.
Neither of them guessed that from behind the little copse of trees on the crest of the hill, someone was watching.
ODO had been on his way to Héristal to pay a visit to his uncle, one of the holy brothers of that abbey, when his mule had chanced to stray from the path in pursuit of a particularly succulent-looking patch of clover. He cursed the mule, pulling on its bridle and whipping it with a willow rod, but it was stubborn and would not be dissuaded. He had no choice but to leave the road and follow the stupid beast. Then he looked up, toward the stream, and saw.
A learned woman is never chaste. St. Paul’s words, or were they Jerome’s? No matter. Odo had always believed it to be true, and now he had the proof with his own eyes!
Odo patted the mule’s flank. You shall have an extra portion of feed tonight, he thought. Then he reconsidered. Feed was expensive, and besides, the beast had only served as God’s instrument.
Odo hurried back to the road. His errand would have to wait. First he must get to Villaris.
A short time later, the towers of Villaris loomed ahead. In his excitement, he had walked more quickly than usual. He passed through the gated palisade and was greeted by a guardsman.
Odo waved aside the greeting. “Take me to Lady Richild,” he commanded. “I must speak with her at once.”
GEROLD removed Joan’s arms from his neck and stepped back. “Come,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion, “we must go back.”
Woolly-headed with love, Joan moved to embrace him again.
“No,” Gerold said firmly. “I must take you home now, while I have the will to do so.”
Joan stared at him dazedly. “You don’t … want me?” She lowered her head before he could answer.
Gerold cupped her chin gently, forcing her eyes to meet his. “I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman.”
“Then why …?”
“God’s teeth, Joan! I am a man, with a man’s desires. Do not tempt me beyond my limits!” Gerold sounded almost angry. Seeing the start of tears to her eyes, he gentled his tone. “What would you have me do, my love? Make you my mistress? Ah, Joan, I would take you right here on this sward if I thought it would make you happy. But it would spell your ruin, can’t you see that?”
Gerold’s indigo eyes held hers commandingly. He was so handsome that it took her breath away. All she wanted was for him to take her in his arms again.
He stroked her white-gold hair. She began to speak, but her voice broke. She breathed deeply, trying to steady her emotions, sick with shame and frustration.
“Come.” Gerold took Joan’s hand, folding it into his tenderly. She did not protest as he led her back to the road. Wordlessly, hand in hand, they walked the long, comfortless miles toward Villaris.
11
LADY Richild, Countess of Villaris,” the herald announced as Richild swept regally into the bishop’s reception hall.
“Eminence.” She made a graceful reverence.
“Lady, you are welcome,” Fulgentius said. “What news from your lord? God grant he has not met with misfortune on his journey?”
“No, no.” She was pleased to find him so transparent. Of course he must wonder at the purpose of her visit! He must have thought— Gerold had been gone five days now, time enough to have met with some disaster on the dangerous roads.
“We have had no word of any difficulties, Eminence, nor do we expect any. Gerold took twenty men with him, well armed and well provisioned; he will not take any chances on the road, as he is on the Emperor’s business.”
“We heard as much. He is gone as missus—to Westphalia, is it?”
“Yes. To settle a dispute about wergeld. There are some minor matters of property to be settled as well. He will be away a fortnight or more.” Time enough, she thought, just time enough.
They spoke briefly of lo
cal affairs—the shortage of grain at the mill, the repair of the cathedral roof, the success of the spring calving. Richild was careful to observe the necessary courtesies, but nothing more. I am the scion of better stock than his. Just as well to remind him of that before coming to the matter of her visit. Obviously he suspected nothing. So much the better; surprise would be her ally in this day’s work.
Finally, she judged the time was right. “I have come to ask your help with a domestic matter.”
He looked gratified. “Dear lady, I am only too happy to help. What is the nature of your difficulty?”
“It is the girl Joan. She is no longer a child; she”—Richild chose her words delicately—“has now reached womanhood. It is no longer seemly for her to remain under our roof.”
“I see,” Fulgentius said, though it was apparent he did not. “Well, I should think we could find some other lodg—”
“I have arranged an advantageous match,” Richild interrupted. “With the son of Bodo, the farrier. He is a fine young man, well favored, and will be farrier himself when his father dies—there are no other sons.”
“This comes as a surprise. Has the girl expressed any inclination for marriage?”
“Surely that is not for her to decide. It is a far better marriage than she has any right to expect. Her family is poor as coloni, and her odd ways have given her something of a … reputation.”
“Perhaps,” the bishop replied amiably. “But she seems devoted to her studies. And she could not, of course, continue at the schola if she married the farrier’s boy.”
“That is why I have come. As it was you who contracted to bring her to the schola, you would have to agree to her release.”
“I see,” he said again, though he still did not, quite. “And how does the count feel about the match?”
“He does not know of it. The opportunity only just offered itself.”
“Well, then.” Fulgentius looked relieved. “We will wait till his return. There’s no need to rush the matter, surely.”
Richild persisted. “The opportunity may not be open long. The boy is reluctant—seems he’s taken a fancy to one of the town girls— but of course I have seen to it that this match will be far more beneficial for him. His father and I are agreed upon the dowry. The boy now says he will carry out his father’s wishes—but he is young and of a changeable disposition. Best if the wedding take place immediately.”
Pope Joan Page 16