JOAN sat by the stream where she and Gerold had embraced only a few weeks ago. An eternity had passed since then. She looked at the sun; it lacked only an hour or two until sext. By this time tomorrow, she would be wed to the farrier’s son.
Unless …
She studied the line of trees marking the edge of the woods. The forest surrounding Dorstadt was dense and broad; a person could hide in there for days, even weeks, without being discovered. It would be a fortnight or more before Gerold returned. Could she survive for that long?
The forest was dangerous; there were wild boars, and aurochs, and … wolves. She remembered the savage violence of Luke’s dam as she fought against the bars of her cage, her sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight.
I’ll take Luke with me, she thought. He will protect me, and help me hunt for food as well. The young wolf was already a skilled hunter of rabbits and other small game, which were plentiful this time of year.
John, she thought. What about John? She couldn’t just run off without letting him know where she had gone.
He can come with me! Of course! It was the solution to both their problems. They would hide together in the woods and await Gerold’s return. Gerold would set everything right—not only for her but for her brother.
She must get word to John. Tell him to meet her in the forest tonight, bringing his lance and bow and quiver.
It was a desperate plan. But she was desperate.
SHE found Dhuoda in the dortoir. Though she was only ten, she was a big girl, well developed for her age. Her resemblance to her sister Gisla was unmistakable. She greeted Joan excitedly. “I’ve just heard! Tomorrow is your wedding day!”
“Not if I can prevent it,” Joan responded bluntly.
Dhuoda was surprised. Gisla had been so eager to wed. “Is he old, then?” Her face lit with childish horror. “Is he toothless? Does he have scrofula?”
“No.” Joan had to smile. “He’s young and comely, I am told.”
“Then why—”
“There’s no time to explain, Dhuoda,” Joan said urgently. “I’ve come to ask a favor. Can you keep a secret?”
“Oh, yes!” Dhuoda leaned forward eagerly.
Joan pulled a piece of rolled parchment from her scrip. “This letter is for my brother, John. Take it to him at the schola. I would go myself, but I am expected in the solar to have a new tunic fit for the wedding. Will you do this for me?”
Dhuoda stared at the piece of parchment. Like her mother and sister, she could not read or write.
“What does it say?”
“I can’t tell you, Dhuoda. But it’s important, very important.”
“A secret message!” Her face was aglow with excitement.
“It’s only two miles to the schola. You can go and come in an hour if you hurry.”
Dhuoda grabbed the parchment. “I’ll be back before that!”
DHUODA hurried through the main courtyard, dodging to avoid the servants and craftsmen who always filled the place this time of day. Her senses were alive with an intimation of adventure. She felt the cool smoothness of the parchment in her hand and wished she knew what was written on it. Joan’s ability to read and write filled her with awe.
This mysterious errand was a welcome change from the boredom of her daily routine at Villaris. Besides, she was glad to help Joan. Joan was always nice to her; she took time to explain all kinds of interesting things—not like Mama, who was so often short-tempered and angry.
She was almost to the palisade when she heard a shout.
“Dhuoda!”
Mama’s voice. Dhuoda kept going as if she hadn’t heard, but as she passed through the gate, the porter grabbed her and forced her to wait.
She turned to face her mother.
“Dhuoda! Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.” Dhuoda thrust the parchment behind her. Richild caught the sudden movement, and her mouth set with suspicion.
“What is that?”
“N-nothing,” Dhuoda stammered.
“Give it to me.” Richild held out her hand imperiously.
Dhuoda hesitated. If she gave Mother the parchment, she would betray the secret Joan had entrusted her with. If she resisted …
Her mother glared at her, her dark eyes reflecting a building anger.
Looking into those eyes, Dhuoda knew she had no choice.
FOR this last night before Joan’s wedding, Richild had insisted that she sleep in the small warming room adjoining her own chamber—a privilege customarily reserved only for sick children or favored servants. It was a special honor accorded to the bride-to-be, Richild said, but Joan was sure that she simply wanted to keep her under close observation. No matter. Once Richild was asleep, Joan could slip out of this room just as easily as the dortoir.
Ermentrude, one of the serving girls, came into the little room, carrying a wooden cup filled with spiced red wine. “From the Lady Richild,” she said simply. “To honor you on this night.”
“I don’t want it.” Joan waved it away. She would not accept favors from the enemy.
“But the Lady Richild said to stay while you drink it and then take the cup away.” Ermentrude was anxious to do things right, being only twelve and new to household service.
“Have it yourself, then,” Joan said irritably. “Or empty it on the ground. Richild will never know.”
Ermentrude brightened. The idea had not occurred to her. “Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.” She turned to go.
“A moment.” Joan called her back, reconsidering. The wine brimmed the cup, rich and thick, shimmering in the dim light. If she was going to survive for a fortnight in the forest, she would need all the sustenance she could get. She could not afford foolish gestures of pride. She took the cup and gulped the warm wine greedily. It mustached her lips, leaving a strange sour taste. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, then handed the cup to Ermentrude, who hurriedly left.
Joan blew out the candle and lay on the bed in the dark, waiting. The feather mattress surrounded her with alien softness; she was accustomed to the thin straw on her bed upstairs in the dortoir. She wished Richild had let her sleep in her own bed, beside Dhuoda. She had not seen Dhuoda since handing her the message, having been cloistered in Richild’s chambers all afternoon while the serving women fussed over her wedding dress and assembled the clothing and personal items that would go with her as dowry.
Had Dhuoda given John the message? There was no way to be sure. She would wait for John in the forest clearing; if he did not come, she and Luke would go on alone.
In the adjoining room, she heard Richild’s deep, slow breathing. Joan waited another quarter of an hour, to be sure Richild was asleep. Then she slipped silently from under the blankets.
She stepped through the door into Richild’s chamber. Richild lay still, her breathing regular and deep. Joan slipped along the wall and out the door.
As soon as she had gone, Richild’s eyes flew open.
JOAN moved soundlessly through the halls until at last she reached the open air of the courtyard. She breathed deeply, feeling a bit giddy.
All was still. A single guard sat with his back to the wall near the gate, his head on his chest, snoring. Her lengthened shadow spilled across the moonlit earth, grotesquely huge. She moved her hand, and a giant gesture mocked her.
Joan whistled softly to Luke. The guard stirred and shifted in his sleep. Luke did not come. Keeping to the shadows, she started toward the corner where Luke usually slept; she would not risk waking the guard by making any further sound.
Suddenly, the ground seemed to shift beneath her. She felt a rise of nausea and dizzily held on to a post to steady herself. Benedicite. I can’t be sick now.
Fighting the giddiness, she made her way across the courtyard. In the far corner she saw Luke. The young wolf lay on his side, his opalescent eyes staring blindly into the night, his tongue lolling limply out of his mouth. She bent to touch him and felt the coldness of his body beneath the soft white fur. She gasped and drew
back. Her eyes fell on a half-eaten piece of meat on the ground. She stared at it dazedly. A fly settled on the bloody wetness surrounding the meat. It remained there, drinking, then flew upward, circling erratically before it dropped abruptly to the ground. It did not move again.
There was a loud humming in Joan’s ears. The air seemed to undulate around her. She backed away, turning to run, but again the ground lurched and shifted, then rose suddenly to meet her.
She did not feel the arms that lifted her roughly from where she lay and carried her back inside.
THE creaking of the wheels kept melancholy rhythm with the clopping of horses’ hooves as the cart bumped along the road toward the cathedral, carrying Joan to her wedding mass.
She had been dragged awake this morning, too dazed to realize what had happened. She stood numbly while the servants fussed over her, putting on her wedding dress and fixing her hair.
But the effects of the drug were wearing off, and Joan began to remember. It was the wine, she thought. Richild put something in the wine. Joan thought of Luke, lying cold and alone in the night. A lump rose in her throat. He had died without comfort or companionship; Joan hoped he had not suffered long. It must have given Richild pleasure to poison his meat; she had always hated him, sensing the bond he represented between Gerold and Joan.
Richild was riding in the cart just ahead. She was magnificently dressed in a tunic of gleaming blue silk, her black hair coiled elegantly around her head and secured with a silver tiara set with emeralds. She was beautiful.
Why, Joan wondered dully, didn’t she just kill me too?
Sitting in the cart drawing her ever closer to the cathedral, sick in body and heart, with Gerold far away and no way of escape, Joan wished that she had.
THE wheels clattered noisily onto the uneven cobblestones of the cathedral forecourt, and the horses were reined to a stop. Immediately, two of Richild’s retainers appeared alongside. With elaborate obsequiousness, they helped Joan from the cart.
An enormous crowd was gathered outside the cathedral. It was the Feast of the First Martyrs, a solemn religious holiday, as well as Joan’s wedding mass, and the entire town had turned out for the occasion.
In front of the crowd Joan caught sight of a tall, ruddy, big-boned boy standing awkwardly beside his parents. The farrier’s son. She noted his sullen expression and the dejected set of his head. He doesn’t want me for a wife any more than I want him for a husband. Why should he?
His father prodded him; he came toward Joan and held out his hand. She took it, and they stood side by side as Wido, Richild’s steward, read the list of items composing Joan’s dowry.
Joan looked toward the forest. She could not possibly run and hide there now. The crowd encircled them, and Richild’s men stood close beside her, eyeing her warily.
In the crowd Joan saw Odo. Gathered around him were the boys of the schola, whispering together as usual. John was not among them. She searched the crowd and found him standing off to one side, ignored by his companions. They were both alone now, except for each other. Her eyes sought his, seeking and offering comfort. Surprisingly, he did not look away but returned her gaze, his face openly registering his pain.
They had been strangers for a long time, but in that moment they were two again, brother and sister, leagued in understanding. Joan kept her eyes fixed on him, reluctant to break the fragile bond.
The steward stopped reading. The crowd waited expectantly. The farrier’s son led Joan into the cathedral. Richild and her household swept in behind them, followed by the townspeople.
Fulgentius was waiting by the altar. As Joan and the boy came toward him, he motioned them to sit. First the holy feast would be celebrated, then the wedding mass.
Omnipotens sempiterne Deus qui me peccatoris. As usual, Fulgentius was mangling the Latin service, but Joan hardly noticed. He signaled an acolyte to prepare for the offertory and began the oblation prayer. Suscipe sanctum Trinitas … Beside her, the farrier’s son bent his head reverently. Joan tried to pray, too, bowing her head and mouthing the words, but there was no substance to the form; inside her there was only emptiness.
The mixing of the water with the wine began. Deus qui humanae substantiae …
The doors of the cathedral burst open with a loud crack. Fulgentius abandoned his struggles with the Latin mass and stared incredulously at the entrance. Joan craned her neck, trying to make out the source of this unprecedented intrusion. But the people behind her blocked her view.
Then she saw it. An enormous creature, manlike but taller by a head than any man, stood outlined in the blinding light of the doorway, its shadow spilling into the dim interior. Its face was curiously expressionless and shone with a metallic gleam, the eyes so deep in their dark sockets that Joan could not make them out.
Somewhere in the crowded assembly, a woman screamed.
Woden, Joan thought. She had long ago ceased to believe in her mother’s gods, but here was Woden, exactly as her mother had described him, striding boldly up the aisle right toward her.
Has he come to save me? she thought wildly.
As he drew closer, she saw that the metallic face was a mask, part of an elaborate battle helmet. The creature was a man and no god. From the back of his head, where the helmet ended, long golden hair curled down to his shoulders.
“Norsemen!” someone shouted.
The intruder continued past without breaking stride. Reaching the altar, he raised a heavy, two-sided broadsword and brought it down with savage force on the bald tonsure of one of the assisting clerics. The man dropped, blood spurting from the deep cleft where his head had been.
Everything erupted into chaos. All around Joan people were screaming and shoving to get away. Joan was dragged along with the crowd, packed so tightly between struggling bodies that her feet lost contact with the floor. The wave of terrified villagers swept toward the doors, then abruptly halted.
The exit was blocked by another intruder, dressed for battle like the first, except that he carried an ax instead of a sword.
The crowd swayed uncertainly. Joan heard shouting outside, and then more of the Norsemen—a dozen at least—piled through the doors. They came in at a run, shouting hoarsely and swinging enormous iron axes over their heads.
The villagers fought and climbed over one another to get out of the way of the murderous blades. Joan was pushed hard from behind and fell to the ground. She felt feet on her sides and back, and she threw up her arms to protect her head. Someone stepped heavily on her right hand, and she cried out in pain. “Mama! Help me! Mama!”
Struggling to extricate herself from the crush of bodies, she crawled sideways until she reached an open area. She looked toward the altar and saw Fulgentius surrounded by Norsemen. He was striking at them with the huge wooden cross that had hung behind the altar. He must have pried it from the wall, and now he swung it around with fierce strength as his attackers darted back and forth, attempting to strike him with their swords but unable to get inside the circle of his defense. As she watched, Fulgentius dealt one Norseman a blow that sent him flying halfway across the room.
She crawled through the noise and the smoke—was there a fire?—searching for John. All around her were shrieks, war cries, and howls of pain and terror. The floor was littered with overturned chairs and sprawled bodies, wet with spilled blood.
“John!” she called. The smoke was thicker here; her eyes burned, and she could not see clearly. “John!” She hardly heard her own voice over the din.
A rush of air on the back of her neck warned her, and she reacted instinctively, hurling herself to the side. The Norseman’s blade, aimed for her head, tore a gash in her cheek instead. The blow threw her to the floor, where she rolled in agony, clutching her wounded face.
The Norseman stood above her, his blue eyes murderous through the appalling mask. She crawled backwards, trying to get away, but she could not move fast enough.
The Norseman raised his sword for the death blow. Joan shielded
her head with her arms, turning her face aside.
The blow did not come. She opened her eyes to see the sword drop from her attacker’s hands. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth as he sank slowly to the floor. Behind him stood John, grasping the reddened blade of Father’s bone-handled knife.
His eyes glittered with a strange exhilaration. “I took him right through the heart! Did you see? He would have killed you!”
The horror of it flooded her. “They will kill us all!” She clutched at John. “We must get away, we must hide!”
He shrugged her off. “I got another one. He came at me with an ax, but I got inside and took him through the throat.”
Joan looked round frantically for somewhere to hide. A few feet ahead was the reredos. It was wrought of wood, fronted with gilded panels depicting the life of St. Germanus. And it was hollow. There might just be enough room …
“Quickly,” she shouted to John. “Follow me!” She grasped the sleeve of his tunic, pulling him down beside her on the floor. Motioning him to follow, she crawled to the side of the reredos. Yes! There was an interstice, just big enough to squeeze through.
It was dark inside. Only a thin stream of light trickled in from the seam in front where the panels were inexpertly joined.
She squatted in the far corner, tucking her legs under to leave room for John. He did not appear. She crawled back to the opening and peered out.
A few feet away she saw him, bending over the body of the Norseman he had killed. He was pulling at the man’s clothes, trying to pry something loose.
“John!” she shouted. “In here! Hurry!”
He stared at her, a mad, glittering gaze, his hands still working under the Norseman’s body. She didn’t dare shout again for fear she would reveal the precious hiding place. After a moment he gave an exultant yell and stood, holding the Norseman’s sword. She gestured for him to join her. He lifted the sword in mocking salute and ran off.
Shall I go after him? She edged toward the opening.
Someone—a child?—screamed nearby, a hideous shriek that hung in the air, then abruptly ceased. Fear overwhelmed her, and she drew back. Tremulously she put an eye to the seam between the panels and peered out, searching for John.
Pope Joan Page 18