Seated across the room, Brother Thomas glowered at Joan. This priesthood is mine, he thought bitterly. I was Raban’s choice; didn’t he say as much only a few weeks ago?
John Anglicus’s cure of the leper woman had changed everything. It was infuriating. Madalgis was a nobody, a slave, or little better. What difference did it make if she went to the leprosarium—or lived or died for that matter?
That the prize should go to John Anglicus was bitter gall. From the very first, Thomas had hated him—hated the quickness of his wit, of which he had often felt the barb, hated the ease with which he had mastered his lessons. Such things did not come easily to Thomas. He had had to slave to learn the forms of Latin and memorize the chapters of the rule. But what Thomas lacked in brilliance he made up for in persistence, and in the effort he put into the outward forms of faith. Whenever he finished with his meal, Thomas took care to lay his knife and spoon down perpendicularly, in tribute to the Blessed Cross. He never drank his wine straight down like the others but partook of it reverently, three sips at a time, in pious illustration of the miracle of the Trinity. John Anglicus didn’t trouble himself with such acts of devotion.
Thomas glared at his rival, so angelic looking with his fine halo of white-gold hair. May Hell dry him up with its flames, him and the God-cursed womb that engendered him!
THE refectory, or monks’ dining hall, was a masonry-walled structure forty feet wide and one hundred feet long, built large to accommodate all three hundred and fifty of the Fulda brethren at once. With seven tall windows on the south wall and six on the north, letting in direct sunlight year-round, it was one of the most cheerful of all the cloister buildings. The wide wooden beams and purlins supporting the rafters were colorfully painted with scenes from the life of Boniface, patron saint of Fulda; these added to the impression of brightness and light, so the room was as cheerful and pleasant now, in the cold, short days of Heilagmanoth, as it was in summertime.
It was noontime, and the brothers were assembled in the refectory for dinner, the first of the day’s two meals. Abbot Raban sat at a long U-shaped table centered on the east wall, flanked by twelve brothers on his left and twelve on his right, representing Christ’s apostles. The long planked tables bore simple plates of bread, pulse, and cheese. Mice scurried about on the earthen floor beneath, in furtive search of fallen crumbs.
In accordance with the Rule of St. Benedict, the brothers always took their meal without speaking. The strict silence was broken only by the clink of metal knives and cups and the voice of the lector for the week, who stood at the pulpit reading from the Psalms or the Lives of the Fathers. “As the mortal body partakes of earthly food,” Abbot Raban liked to say, “so let the soul derive spiritual sustenance.”
The regula taciturnitis, or rule of silence, was an ideal, commended by all but observed by few. The brothers had worked out an elaborate scheme of hand signs and facial gestures with which they communicated during meals. Entire conversations could be carried on in this manner, especially when, as now, the reader was poor. Brother Thomas read in a harsh, heavily accented voice that completely missed the lilting poetry of the Psalms; oblivious to his shortcomings, Thomas read loudly, his voice grating on the brethren’s ears. Abbot Raban often asked Brother Thomas to read, preferring him to the monastery’s more skilled readers, for, as he said, “too sweet a voice invites demons into the heart.”
“Pssst.” A muted hissing drew Joan’s attention. She looked up from her plate to see Brother Adalgar signaling her across the table.
He held up four fingers. The number signified a chapter from the Rule of St. Benedict, a frequent vehicle for this kind of brotherly communication, which favored enigmatic references and circumlocutions.
Joan recalled the opening lines of chapter four: “Omnes supervenientes hospites tamquam Christus suscipiantur,” it read. “Let all who come be received like Christ.”
Joan took Brother Adalgar’s meaning at once. A visitor had come to Fulda—someone of note, or Brother Adalgar would not have troubled to mention it. Fulda received upward of a dozen visitors a day, rich and poor, fur-robed pilgrims and ragged paupers, weary travelers who came knowing that they would not be sent away, that here they would find a few days’ rest, shelter, and food before continuing on their way.
Joan’s curiosity was piqued. “Who?” she responded by a slight lift of her eyebrows.
At that moment Abbot Raban gave the sign, and the brothers rose from the table in unison, lining up in order of seniority. As they exited the refectory, Brother Adalgar turned to her.
“Parens,” he signed, and pointed at her emphatically. “Your parent.”
WITH the calm, measured step and placid mien befitting a monk of Fulda, Joan followed the brethren out of the refectory. Nothing in her outward appearance betrayed her profound agitation.
Could Brother Adalgar be right? Had one of her parents come to Fulda? Her mother or her father? Parens, Adalgar had said, which could mean either. What if it was her father? He would not expect to see her but rather her brother, John. The idea filled Joan with alarm. If her father discovered her imposture, he would surely denounce her.
But perhaps it was her mother who had come. Gudrun would not betray her secret. She would understand that such a revelation would cost Joan her life.
Mama. It had been ten years since Joan had seen her, and they had parted badly. Suddenly, more than anything, Joan wanted to see Gudrun’s familiar, beloved face, wanted to hold and be held by her, to hear her speak the lilting rhythms of the Old Tongue.
Brother Samuel, the hospitaler, intercepted her as she was leaving the refectory.
“You are excused from your duties this afternoon; someone has come to see you.”
Torn between hope and fear, Joan said nothing.
“Don’t look so serious, Brother; it isn’t the Devil come for your immortal soul.” Brother Samuel laughed heartily. He was a good-hearted, jovial man, fond of jests and laughter. For years Abbot Raban had chastised him for these unspiritual qualities, then finally given up and appointed him hospitaler, a job whose worldly duties of greeting and caring for visitors suited Brother Samuel perfectly.
“Your father is here,” Samuel said cheerfully, glad to impart such good news, “waiting in the garden to greet you.”
Fear splintered Joan’s mask of self-control. She backed away, shaking her head. “I will not see him. I … I cannot.”
The smile disappeared from Brother Samuel’s lips. “Now, Brother, you don’t mean that. Your father’s traveled all the way from Ingelheim to speak with you.”
She would have to offer some explanation. “There is bad blood between us. We … argued … when I left home.”
Brother Samuel put his arm around her shoulders. “I understand,” he said sympathetically. “But he is your father, and he has come a long way. It will be an act of charity to talk to him, if only for a little while.”
Unable to disagree with this, Joan kept silent.
Brother Samuel took this for acquiescence. “Come. I will take you to him.”
“No!” She shook off his encircling arm.
Brother Samuel was startled. This was no way to address the hospitaler, one of the seven obedientiary officers of the abbey.
“Your soul is troubled, Brother,” he said sharply. “You need spiritual guidance. We will discuss this in chapter tomorrow.”
What can I do? Joan thought in dismay. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to keep her true identity from her father. But a discussion in chapter could also be ruinous. There was no excuse for her behavior. If she was found to be disobedient, like Gottschalk …
“Forgive me, Nonnus”—she used the address of respect due a senior brother—“for my lack of temperance and humility. You took me by surprise, and in my confusion, I forgot my duty to you. I ask your pardon, most humbly.”
It was a pretty apology. Brother Samuel’s stern look dissolved into a smile; he was not a man to hold a grudge.
�
�You have it, Brother, most freely. Come. We will walk together to the garden.”
AS THEY made their way from the cloister past the livestock barns, the mill, and the drying kilns, Joan quickly calculated her chances. The last time her father had seen her, she had been a child of twelve. She had changed greatly in the ensuing ten years. Perhaps he would not recognize her. Perhaps …
They reached the garden with its neat rows of raised planting beds—thirteen in all, the number carefully selected to symbolize the holy congregation of Christ and the Twelve Apostles at the Last Supper. Each bed was exactly seven feet wide; this was also significant, for seven was the number of gifts of the Holy Ghost, signifying the wholeness of all created things.
In the rear of the garden, between beds of pepperwort and chervil, her father stood with his back to them. His short, squat body, thick neck, and resolute stance were immediately familiar. Joan pulled her head deep inside her voluminous cowl so the heavy material hung down in front, covering her hair and face.
Hearing their approach, the canon turned. His dark hair and beetling brows, which had once struck such terror in Joan, had gone completely gray.
“Deus tecum.” Brother Samuel gave Joan an encouraging pat. “God be with you.” Then he left them.
HER father crossed the garden haltingly. He was smaller than she remembered; she saw with surprise that he used a stick to walk. As he drew near, Joan turned away and, without speaking, gestured him to follow. She led him out of the sharp glare of the midday sun into the windowless chapel adjoining the garden, where darkness would provide better concealment. Inside, she waited for him to take a seat on one of the benches. Then she seated herself at the far end, keeping her head low so the cowl hid her profile.
“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctficetur nomen tuum …” Her father began the Lord’s Prayer. His folded hands shook with palsy; he spoke in the quavering, brittle tones of an old man. Joan joined her voice to his, their mingled words echoing through the tiny, stonewalled chamber.
The prayer completed, they sat for a while in silence.
“My son,” the canon said at last, “you have done well. Brother Hospitaler tells me you are to be a priest. You have brought honor to our family, as I once hoped your brother would.”
Matthew. Joan fingered the medallion of St. Catherine that hung around her neck, the one Matthew had given her so long ago.
Her father caught the gesture. “My eyesight has grown thick. Is that your sister Joan’s medallion?”
Joan let go of it, cursing her stupidity; she had not thought to hide it.
“I took it as a remembrance … afterwards.” She could not bring herself to speak of the horror of the Norsemen’s attack.
“Did your sister die without … dishonor?”
Joan had a sudden image of Gisla, screaming in pain and fear while the Norsemen took turns with her.
“She died inviolate.”
“Deo gratias.” The canon crossed himself. “It was God’s will, then. Headstrong and unnatural child, she could never have been at peace in this world; it is better so.”
“She would not have said so.”
If the canon caught the irony in her voice, he did not reveal it. “Her death was a very great grief to your mother.”
“How fares my mother?”
For a long moment the canon did not respond. When at last he did, his voice was shakier than before.
“She is gone.”
“Gone?”
“To Hell,” the canon said, “to burn for all eternity.”
“No.” Understanding crowded the edges of Joan’s consciousness. “No.”
Not Mama with the beautiful face, the kind eyes, the gentle hands that brought kindness and comfort—Mama, who had loved her.
“She died one month ago,” the canon said, “unshriven and unreconciled to Christ, calling upon her heathen gods. When the midwife told me she would not live, I did everything I could, but she would not accept the Blessed Sacrament. I put the Sacred Host in her mouth, and she spat it out at me.”
“The midwife? You don’t mean …” Her mother was over fifty, well past childbearing years; she had begotten no more children after Joan was born.
“They would not let me bury her in the Christian cemetery, not with the unbaptized babe still in her womb.” He began to cry, great, choking sobs that shook his entire body.
Did he love her, then? He’d had an odd way of displaying it, with his brutal rages, his cruelty, and his lust, his selfish lust that had killed her in the end.
The canon’s sobs slowly quieted, and he began the prayer for the dead. This time Joan did not join in. Quietly, under her breath, she began to recite the Oath, invoking the sacred name of Thor the Thunderer, just as Mama had taught her so long ago.
Her father cleared his throat uncomfortably. “There is one thing, John. The mission in Saxony … do you think … that is, could the brothers use my help, in their work with the heathens?”
Joan was perplexed. “What about your work in Ingelheim?”
“The fact is, my position in Ingelheim has become difficult. The recent … misfortune … with your mother …”
At once Joan understood. The strictures against married clergy, only feebly enforced during the reign of Emperor Karolus, had tightened under the reign of his son, whose religious zeal had earned him the title Louis the Pious. The recent synod in Paris had strongly reinforced both the theory and practice of clerical celibacy. Gudrun’s pregnancy, visible evidence of the canon’s lack of chastity, could not have come at a worse time.
“You have lost your position?”
Reluctantly, her father nodded. “But Deo volente, I have the strength and skill to do God’s work yet. If you could intercede for me with Abbot Raban …?”
Joan did not reply. She was overfull with grief, anger, and pain; there was no room left in her heart for compassion toward her father.
“You do not answer me. You have grown proud, my son.” He stood, his voice taking on something of its old commanding tone. “Remember, it was I who brought you to this place, and to your current position in life. Contritionem praecedit superbia, et ante ruinam exaltatio spiritus,” he remonstrated sternly. “Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall. Proverbs, chapter sixteen.”
“Bonum est homini mulierem non tangere,” Joan retorted. “It is well for a man not to touch a woman, First Corinthians, chapter seven.”
Her father raised his cane to strike her, but the movement caused him to lose his balance, and he fell. She put out her hand to help him, and he pulled her down to him, holding her fast.
“My son,” his voice pleaded tearfully in her ear, “my son. Do not desert me. You are all I have.”
Repelled, she pulled back so violently that her cowl slipped off her head. Hastily she pulled it on again, but it was too late.
Her father’s face held an expression of horrified recognition. “No,” he said, aghast. “No, it cannot be.”
“Father—”
“Daughter of Eve, what have you done? Where is your brother, John?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Killed by Norsemen, in the church at Dorstadt. I tried to save him, but—”
“Witch! Mooncalf! Demon from Hell!” He traced the sign of the cross in the air before him.
“Father, please, let me explain—” Joan pleaded desperately. She had to calm him before his raised voice drew the others.
He retrieved his stick and struggled awkwardly to his feet, his whole body trembling. Joan moved to assist him, but he warded her off and said accusingly, “You killed your elder brother. Could you not have spared the younger?”
“I loved John, Father. I would never have harmed him. It was the Norsemen, they came without warning, with swords and axes.” She tightened her throat against mounting sobs; she had to keep talking, make him understand. “John tried to fight, but they killed everyone, everyone. They—”
He turn
ed toward the door. “I must put a stop to this, to you, before you do any further harm.”
She grabbed hold of his arm. “Father, don’t, please, they will kill me if—”
He rounded on her fiercely. “Changeling devil! You should have died in your heathen mother’s womb before ever you were born!” He struggled to free himself, his face purpling alarmingly. “Let me go!”
Desperately she held on. If he walked through that door, her life was forfeit.
“Brother John?” A voice sounded from the doorway. It was Brother Samuel, his kindly face creased with concern. “Is anything wrong?”
Startled, Joan loosed her grip on her father’s arm. He pulled free and went to Brother Samuel.
“Take me to Abbot Raban. I must … I mush—” He broke off suddenly with a look of puzzled surprise.
He looked strange. His skin had gone an even deeper purple; his face twisted grotesquely, the right eye drooping lower than the left, the mouth crooked peculiarly to one side.
“Father?” She approached hesitantly, holding out her hand.
He lunged for her, his right arm flapping wildly as if no longer under his control.
Terrified, Joan backed away.
He shouted something unrecognizable, then fell forward like a hewn tree.
Brother Samuel called for help. Immediately five brethren materialized in the doorway.
Joan knelt beside her father and supported him in her arms. His head lay heavy and unresisting against her shoulder, his thin gray hair twined between her fingers. Looking into his eyes, Joan was shocked by the malignant hatred she saw there.
His lips worked with a ghastly determination. “M … m … m … !”
“Don’t try to speak,” Joan said. “You are not well.”
He blazed at her with savage fury. With one last, explosive effort, he spat out a single word: “M … m … m … Mulier!”
Woman!
His head turned convulsively to the side and froze there, his eyes set in their baleful glare.
Joan bent over him, seeking any sign of breath from the stretched lips, any pulse from the wasted neck. After a moment, she closed the staring eyes. “He is dead.”
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