“Nevertheless …”
“I remind you, Eminence, that I am mistress of Villaris, and the girl has been placed in my care. I am fully capable of making this decision in my husband’s absence. Indeed, I am better suited to make it. To speak frankly, Gerold’s partiality for the girl clouds his judgment where she is concerned.”
“I see,” Fulgentius said, and this time he did, only too well.
Richild said quickly, “My concern is strictly monetary, you understand. Gerold has spent a small fortune obtaining books for the girl— a wasteful expense, since she has no possible future as a scholar. Someone must provide for her future; now I have done so. You must see that the match is a good one.”
“Yes,” Fulgentius admitted.
“Good. Then you agree to release her?”
“My apologies, dear lady, but my decision must attend upon the count’s return. I assure you I will discuss the matter fully with him. And with the girl. For though the match is … advantageous, as you say, I am loath to commit her to it against her will. If the match proves agreeable to all, we will proceed with dispatch.”
She started to speak, but he cut her off. “I know you believe the match will be compromised if it is not concluded immediately. But, forgive me, lady, I cannot agree. A fortnight, or even a month, will make little difference.”
Again she tried to object, and again he silenced her. “I am quite decided. There is no point in further discussion.”
Her cheeks burned with the insult. High-handed fool! Who does he think he is to dictate to me? My family was living in royal palaces while his was still tilling fields!
She eyed him levelly. “Very well, Eminence, if that is your decision, I must accept it.” She began to pull on her riding gloves as if preparing to leave.
“By the way”—she kept her tone deliberately casual—“I have just had a letter from my cousin, Sigimund, Bishop of Troyes.”
The bishop’s face registered a gratifying respect. “A great man, a very great man.”
“You know that he is to lead the synod which convenes in Aachen this summer?”
“So I had heard.”
Now that she had ceased pressing him, his manner was once again relentlessly cheerful.
“Perhaps you have also heard what is to be the chief topic of discussion at this gathering?”
“I should be interested to learn,” he responded politely. He obviously guessed nothing of where she was leading.
“Certain … irregularities”—she baited the trap carefully—“in the conduct of the episcopacy.”
“Irregularities?”
He did not take her meaning. She would have to be plainer.
“My cousin plans to address the question of adherence to episcopal vows, especially”—she looked him directly in the eyes—“the vow of chastity.”
The color drained from his face. “Indeed?”
“Apparently he means to make great issue of it at the synod. He’s gathered a good deal of evidence about the Frankish bishoprics, which he finds most disturbing. But he is not so familiar with episcopacies in this part of the Empire and must therefore rely on local reports. In his letter he specifically requests me to share any information I may have about your episcopacy, Eminence.” She used the title with open scorn and was gratified to see him flinch.
“I intended to reply before now,” she went on smoothly. “But the details of the girl’s betrothal kept me far too busy. Indeed, the plans for the wedding feast would make it impossible for me to respond at all. Of course, now that the wedding is to be delayed …” She let the end of the thought hang delicately.
He sat like a stone, silent, noncommittal. She was mildly surprised. He was going to be better at this than she had anticipated.
Only one thing gave him away. Deep inside his sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes, there was a tiny, unmistakable spark of fear.
Richild smiled.
JOAN sat on a rock, troubled and sad. Luke lay down in front of her and put his head in her lap, staring up at her with his opalescent eyes.
“You miss him too, don’t you, boy?” she said, gently ruffling the young wolf’s white fur.
She was alone now, except for Luke. Gerold had been gone for over a week. Joan missed him with an ache that surprised her with its physicality. She could put her hand over the exact spot in her chest where the pain was most acute; it felt as if her heart had been removed from her body, beaten, and replaced.
She knew why he had gone. After what passed between them at the riverbank, he had to go. They needed time apart, time to let heads clear and passions cool. She understood, yet her heart rebelled.
Why? she asked for the thousandth time. Why must it be this way? Richild did not love Gerold, nor he her.
She reasoned with herself, rehearsing the arguments why this must be so, why it might even be for the best, but in the end she always came back to one unalterable fact: she loved Gerold.
She shook her head, angry with herself. If Gerold was strong enough to do this for her sake, could she be less so? What could not be changed must somehow be endured. She fixed her mind on a new resolve: when Gerold returned, things would be different. She would be content just to be near him, to talk and laugh as they always had … before. They would be like teacher and student, priest and nun, brother and sister. She would erase from her mind the memory of his arms around her, of his lips on hers …
Wido, the steward, came up suddenly beside her. “My lady wants to speak with you.”
Joan followed him through the gated palisade into the forecourt, Luke trotting by her side. When they reached the main courtyard, Wido pointed to Luke. “Not the wolf.”
Richild disliked dogs and forbade them to come inside the house walls, as they did on other manses.
Joan told Luke to lie down and wait in the courtyard.
The guard led her through the covered portico into the great hall, teeming with servants preparing the afternoon meal. They pushed their way through to the solar, where Richild was waiting.
“You sent for me, lady?”
“Sit down.” Joan started for a nearby chair, but Richild motioned imperiously toward a wooden stool set before a small writing table. Joan sat down.
“You will take a letter.”
Like all the noblewomen in this part of the Empire, Richild could neither read nor write. Wala, the Villaris chaplain, was usually her scribe. Wido could also write a little and sometimes served Richild in this capacity.
Why, then, has she sent for me? Joan wondered.
Richild tapped her foot impatiently. With a practiced eye, Joan surveyed the quills on the desk and selected the sharpest. She took a leaf of fresh parchment, dipped the quill in the inkwell, and nodded at Richild.
“From Richild, Countess, doyenne of the estate of Villaris,” Richild dictated.
Joan wrote quickly. The scratching of the quill grated in the stony silence of the room.
“To the canon of the village of Ingelheim, Greetings.”
Joan looked up. “My father?”
“Continue,” Richild commanded in a tone that indicated she would tolerate no questions. “Your daughter, Joan, having attained almost fifteen years, and thus being of a marriageable age, will no longer be permitted to continue her studies at the schola.”
Joan stopped writing altogether.
“As the girl’s guardian, ever vigilant for her welfare,” Richild continued, keeping up the pretense of dictation, “I have arranged an advantageous match with Iso, son of the farrier of this town, a prosperous man. The wedding will take place in two days. The terms of the arrangement are as follows—”
Joan jumped up, knocking over her stool. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I choose to.” A small, malicious smile lifted the corners of Richild’s mouth. “And because I can.”
She knows, Joan thought. She knows about Gerold and me. The blood rose into her neck and face so suddenly it felt as if her skin were on fire.
“Y
es. Gerold told me everything about that pitiful little interlude by the riverbank.” Richild laughed mirthlessly. She was enjoying this. “Did you really believe your clumsy kisses would please him? We laughed about them together that very night.”
Joan was too shocked to respond.
“You are surprised. You shouldn’t be. Did you think you were the only one? My dear, you are only the latest bead in Gerold’s long necklace of conquests. You shouldn’t have taken him so seriously.”
How does she know what passed between us? Did Gerold tell her? Joan felt suddenly cold, as if caught in a chance wind.
“You do not know him,” she said staunchly.
“I am his wife, you insolent child.”
“You do not love him.”
“No,” she admitted. “But neither do I mean to be … discomforted by the worthless daughter of coloni!”
Joan tried to steady her thoughts. “You cannot do this without Bishop Fulgentius’s approval. He brought me to the schola; you cannot remove me without his permission.”
Richild held out a sheet of parchment, marked with Fulgentius’s seal.
Joan read it quickly, then once again slowly, to be sure she had not made a mistake. There was no room for doubt; Fulgentius had terminated her studies at the schola. The document bore Odo’s signature as well. Joan could imagine the pleasure it must have given him to pen it.
Richild’s heart rejoiced as she watched Joan read. The arrogant little nobody was discovering just how insignificant she was. She said, “There is no point in further arguing. Sit down and finish taking the letter to your father.”
Joan replied defiantly, “Gerold will not let you do this.”
“Foolish child, it was his idea.”
Joan thought quickly. “If this marriage were Gerold’s idea, why did you wait until he left to arrange it?”
“Gerold is tenderhearted … to a fault. He lacks the heart to tell you. I have seen it happen before, with the others. He asked me to take care of the problem for him. And so I have.”
“I don’t believe you.” Joan backed away, fighting back tears. “I don’t believe you.”
Richild sighed. “The matter is settled. Will you finish taking the letter, or shall I call Wala?”
Joan whirled and ran from the room. Before she reached the great hall, she heard the tinkle of Richild’s bell, calling for her chaplain.
LUKE was waiting where she had left him. Joan flung herself to her knees beside him. His body pressed against hers affectionately, his large head resting on her shoulder. His warm, comforting presence helped calm Joan’s seething emotions.
I mustn’t panic. That’s just what she wants me to do.
She had to think, to plan what to do. But her thoughts spun round unproductively, all leading to the same place.
Gerold.
Where is he?
If he were here, Richild could not do this. Unless of course she was telling the truth, and the marriage was Gerold’s idea.
Joan banished the traitorous thought. Gerold loved her; he would not let her be married off against her will to a man she didn’t even know.
He might still return in time to stop it. He might—
No. She could not let her future hang on so slim a reed of chance. Joan’s mind, numbed by shock and fear, was yet clear enough to understand that.
Gerold is not due back for two more weeks. The wedding will take place in two days.
She had to save herself. She could not go through with this marriage.
Bishop Fulgentius. I must get to him, talk to him, persuade him that this wedding cannot take place.
Joan was sure Fulgentius had not signed that document with a happy heart. Through dozens of small kindnesses, he had made it plain that he liked Joan and took pleasure in her achievements at the schola—particularly since they were so effective a thorn in Odo’s side.
Richild must have some hold over him to have gotten him to agree to this.
If Joan could speak to him, she might convince him to call off the wedding—or at least delay it until Gerold’s return.
But perhaps he will not see me. However he had been won round to the marriage, he would be reluctant—even embarrassed—to meet with her now. If she requested an audience, she would probably be denied.
She fought down fear, forcing herself to think logically. Fulgentius will lead the high mass on Sunday. He will ride in procession to the cathedral beforehand. I’ll approach him then, throw myself at his feet if I have to. I don’t care. He will stop and hear me; I will make him.
She looked at Luke. “Will it work, Luke? Will it be enough to save me?”
He tilted his head inquisitively, as if trying to understand. It was a mannerism that always amused Gerold. Joan hugged the white wolf, burying her face in the thick fur ringing his neck.
THE notaries and other clerical officers came into view first, walking in stately procession toward the cathedral. Behind them, on horseback, rode the officials of the Church, the deacons and subdeacons, all splendidly attired. Odo rode among them, dressed in plain brown robes, his narrow face haughty and disapproving. As his gaze fell on Joan, standing with the group of beggars and petitioners awaiting the bishop, his thin lips parted in a malevolent smile.
At last the bishop appeared, robed in white silk, riding a magnificent steed caparisoned in crimson. Immediately behind rode the chief dignitaries of the episcopal palace: the treasurer, the controller of the wardrobe, and the almoner. The procession halted as ragged beggars pressed in eagerly all around, crying out for alms in the name of St. Stephen, patron saint of the indigent. Wearily the almoner distributed coins among them.
Joan moved quickly to where the bishop waited, his horse pawing the ground impatiently.
She fell to her knees. “Eminence, hear my plea—”
“I know this case,” the bishop interrupted, not looking at her. “I have already rendered judgment. I will not hear this petitioner.”
He spurred his horse, but Joan leapt up and grabbed the bridle, staying him. “This marriage will be my ruin.” She spoke quickly and quietly, so no one else would hear. “If you can do nothing to stop it, will you at least delay it for a month?”
He made as if to ride on again, but Joan kept tight hold of the bridle. Two of the guards rushed over and would have pulled her away, but the bishop checked them with a wave of his hand.
“A fortnight?” Joan pleaded. “I entreat you, Eminence, give me a fortnight!” Mortifyingly, for she had resolved to be strong, she began to sob.
Fulgentius was a weak man, with many faults, but he was not hard-hearted. His eyes softened with sympathy as he reached down to pat Joan’s white-gold hair.
“Child, I cannot help you. You must resign yourself to your fate, which is, after all, natural enough for a woman.” He bent down and whispered, “I have inquired after the young man who is to be your husband. He’s a comely lad; you will not find your lot difficult to bear.”
He signaled the guards, who pried Joan’s hands from the bridle and shoved her back into the crowd. A path opened for her. As she passed through, trying to hide her tears, she heard the villagers’ whispered laughter.
In the rear of the crowd, she saw John. She went to him, but he backed off.
“Stay away!” He scowled. “I hate you!”
“Why? What have I done?”
“You know what you’ve done!”
“John, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I have to leave Dorstadt!” he cried. “Because of you!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Odo told me, ‘You don’t belong here.’” John mimicked the schoolmaster’s nasal intonation. “‘We only let you stay because of your sister.’”
Joan was shocked. She had been so involved in her own dilemma that she had not thought of the consequences for John. He was a poor student; they’d kept him on only because of his kinship to her.
“This marriage is not of my choosing, John.”
“You’ve always spoiled things for me, and now you’re doing it again!”
“Didn’t you hear what I said to the bishop just now?”
“I don’t care! It’s all your fault. Everything’s always been your fault!”
Joan was puzzled. “You hate book studies. Why do you care if they send you from the schola?”
“You don’t understand.” He looked behind her. “You never understand.”
Joan turned and saw the boys of the schola huddled together. One of them pointed and whispered something to the others, followed by muffled laughter.
So they already know, Joan thought. Of course. Odo would not spare John’s feelings. She regarded her brother with sympathy. It must have been difficult, almost unbearable, for him to be separated from his friends because of her. He had often joined with them against her, but Joan understood why. John never wanted anything more than to be accepted, to belong.
“You’ll be all right, John,” she said soothingly. “You’re free to go home now.”
“Free?” John laughed harshly. “Free as a monk!”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m to go to the monastery at Fulda! Father sent instructions to the bishop after we first arrived. If I failed at the schola, I was to be sent to join the Fulda brotherhood!”
So this was the source of John’s anger. Once consigned to the brotherhood, he would not be able to leave. He would never be a soldier now, nor ride in the Emperor’s army as he had dreamed.
“There may still be a way out,” Joan said. “We can petition the bishop again. Perhaps if we both plead with him, he will—”
Her brother glared at her, his mouth working as he searched for words strong enough to express what he felt. “I … I wish you’d never been born!” He turned and ran.
Dispiritedly, she started back toward Villaris.
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