Lothar was defeated. His troops, what remained of them, had scattered into the surrounding woods, seeking what cover they could find from the pursuing enemy.
Gerold rose, fighting down a wave of nausea. A few feet away he found his bay stallion, horribly wounded, his hind legs twitching. He had been speared from beneath; his innards spilled from the gaping wound in his belly. As Gerold moved toward him, a shape, small and furtive, started up defensively: a mangy, starveling dog, come to feast on the night’s rich banquet. Gerold waved his arms threateningly, and the dog skulked away, sidelong, resentful. Gerold knelt beside the bay, stroking his neck, murmuring to him; in response to the familiar touch, the anguished twitching slowed, but the eyes stared out in an agony of pain. Gerold took his knife from his belt. Pressing hard to be sure to sever the vein, he drew it across the bay’s neck. Then he held him, speaking soothingly into his ear, until at last the great legs ceased flailing and the smoothly muscled flank relaxed beneath his hands.
A murmur of voices sounded behind Gerold.
“Look! Here’s a helmet should fetch a solidus at least!”
“Leave it,” said another voice, lower and more authoritative. “It’s worthless, cleaved clean through at the back, can’t you see? This way, lads, there’s better pickings over here!”
Cutpurses. The aftermath of war drew such lawless types from the roads and byways that were their customary haunts, for the dead were easier prey than the quick. They moved furtively in the dark, stripping their victims of clothes, armor, weapons, and rings— whatever might be of value.
A voice sounded close by: “This one’s alive!”
There was the sound of a blow, and a cry that broke off abruptly.
“If there are others,” another voice said, “deal them the same. We want no witnesses to put a noose around our necks.”
In a moment they would be upon him. Gerold stood, swaying. Then, keeping well to the shadows, he slipped into the darkness of the woods beyond.
18
THE brethren of Fulda remained largely unaffected by the feud among the royal Frankish brothers. Like a stone cast into a pond, the Battle of Fontenoy created great waves in the centers of power, but here, in the eastern march of the Empire, it caused scarcely a ripple. True, some of the larger landholders in the region had gone to serve in King Ludwig’s army; according to law any freeman in possession of more than four manses had to answer the call to military service. But Ludwig’s quick and decisive victory meant that all save two of these local men returned safe and sound to their homes.
The days passed as before, woven together indistinguishably in the unchanging fabric of monastic life. A string of successful harvests had resulted in a time of unprecedented plenty. The abbey granaries were full to bursting; even the lean, stringy Austrasian pigs grew fat from good feeding.
Then, abruptly, disaster struck. Weeks of unrelenting rain ruined the spring sowing. The earth was too wet to dig the small furrows necessary for planting, and the seeds moldered in the ground. Most disastrous of all, the pervasive damp penetrated the granaries, rotting the stored grain where it lay.
The famine of the following winter was the worst in living memory. To the horror of the Church, some even turned to cannibalism. The roads became more dangerous, as travelers were murdered not only for the goods they carried but for the sustenance their dead bodies could provide. After a public hanging in Lorsch, the starving crowd mobbed the platform and tore down the gallows, fighting over the still-warm flesh.
Weakened by starvation, people were easy prey for disease. Thousands died of the plague. The symptoms were always the same: headache, chills, and disorientation, followed by high fever and a violent cough. There was little anyone could do but strip the sufferers and pack them with cool cloths to keep their temperature down. If they survived the fever, they stood a chance of recovery. But very few survived the fever.
Nor did the sanctity of the monastic walls offer any protection against the plague. The first to be taken ill was Brother Samuel, the hospitaler, whose position brought him into frequent contact with the outside world. Within two days, he was dead. Abbot Raban ascribed this misfortune to Samuel’s worldliness and immoderate fondness for jest; afflictions of the flesh, he affirmed, were only outward manifestations of moral and spiritual decay. Then Brother Aldoardus, acknowledged by all to be the embodiment of monkish piety and virtue, was struck down, followed in close order by Brother Hildwin, the sacristan, and several others.
To the surprise of the brethren, Abbot Raban announced that he was making a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Martin to pray for the holy martyr’s intervention against the plague.
“Prior Joseph will act for me in all things while I am gone,” Raban said. “Give him due obedience, for his word is even as my own.”
The abruptness of Raban’s announcement, and his precipitate departure, occasioned a good deal of talk. Some of the brethren praised the abbot for undertaking so arduous a journey on behalf of all. Others muttered darkly that the abbot had absented himself in order to escape the local danger.
Joan had no time to debate such matters. She was kept busy from dawn till dusk saying Mass, hearing confession, and administering the increasingly frequent rites of unctio extrema.
One morning she noticed that Brother Benjamin was absent from his choir stall at vigils. Devout soul that he was, he never missed the daily offices. As soon as the service ended, Joan hurried to the infirmary. Entering the long, rectangular room, she breathed the pungent aroma of goose grease and mustard, known specifics for diseases of the lungs. The room was crowded to bursting; beds and pallets were placed side by side, and every one was occupied. Between the beds, the brothers whose opus manuum was in the infirmary circulated, straightening blankets, offering sips of water, praying quietly beside those too far gone to accept any other comfort.
Brother Benjamin was propped up in bed, explaining to Brother Deodatus, one of the junior brothers, the best way to apply a mustard plaster. Listening to him, Joan recalled the long-ago day when he had first taught her that same skill.
She smiled fondly at the memory. Surely, she thought, if Benjamin was still capable of directing things in the infirmary, he could not be critically ill.
A sudden fit of coughing interrupted Brother Benjamin’s rapid flow of words. Joan hurried to his bed. Dipping a cloth in the bowl of rose-scented water that stood beside the bed, she held it gently to Benjamin’s forehead. His skin felt incredibly hot. Benedicite! How has he remained lucid with a fever so high?
At last he stopped coughing and lay with eyes closed, breathing harshly. His graying hair ringed his head like a faded halo. His hands, those wide, squat plowman’s hands possessed of such unexpected gentleness and skill, lay on the coverlet as open and helpless as a babe’s. Joan’s heart twisted at the sight.
Brother Benjamin opened his eyes, saw Joan, and smiled.
“You have come,” he said raspingly. “Good. As you see, I am in need of your services.”
“A bit of yarrow and some powdered willow-bark will have you right again soon enough,” Joan said, more cheerfully than she felt.
Benjamin shook his head. “It’s as priest, not as physician, that I need you now. You must help me into the next world, little brother, for I am done with this one.”
Joan took his hand. “I’ll not give you up without a fight.”
“You’ve learned everything I had to teach you. Now you must learn acceptance.”
“I won’t accept losing you,” she replied fiercely.
FOR the next two days, Joan battled determinedly for Benjamin’s life. She used every skill he had ever taught her, tried every medicine she could think of. The fever continued to rage. Benjamin’s large, well-fleshed body dwindled like the empty husk of a cocoon after the moth has flown. Beneath his feverish flush there appeared an ominous undertone of gray.
“Shrive me,” he pleaded. “I wish to be in full possession of my senses when I receive the Sacrament.”
“Quid me advocasti?” she began in the ceremonial cadences of the liturgy. “What do you ask of me?”
“Ut mihi unctionem trados,” he responded. “Give me unction.”
Dipping her thumb in a mixture of ashes and water, Joan drew the sign of the cross on Brother Benjamin’s chest, then laid a piece of sackcloth, symbol of penance, over the smudged design.
Benjamin was shaken with another violent fit of coughing. When it ended, Joan saw that he had brought up blood. Suddenly frightened, she hurried through the recitation of the seven penitential psalms and the ritual anointing of the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hands, and feet. It seemed to take a very long time. Toward the end, Benjamin lay with his eyes closed, completely unmoving. Joan could not tell if he was still conscious.
At last the moment came to administer the viaticum. Joan held out the Sacred Host, but Benjamin did not respond. It is too late, Joan thought. I have failed him.
She touched the Host to Benjamin’s lips; he opened his eyes and took it into his mouth. Joan made the sign of blessing over him. Her voice shook as she started the sacramental prayer: “Corpus et Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi in vitam aeternam te perducat …”
HE DIED at dawn, as the sweet canticles of lauds filtered through the morning air. Joan was plunged into a profound grief. Since the moment twelve years ago when Benjamin had taken her under his wing, he had been her friend and mentor. Even when her duties as priest took her from the infirmary, he had continued to help her, encourage her, support her. He had been a true father to her.
Unable to find consolation in prayer, Joan threw herself into work. Daily mass was more crowded than ever, as the specter of death brought the faithful flocking to the church in unprecedented numbers.
One day while Joan was tipping the communal chalice for one of the communicants, an elderly man, she observed his oozing eyes and the dusky, feverish flush of his cheeks. She moved on to the next in line, a slim young mother with a small, sweet-faced girl still in arms. The woman held the child up to take the Sacrament; the tiny rosebud lips opened to drink from the same spot where the old man’s mouth had just been.
Joan pulled the chalice away. Taking a piece of the bread, she wet it in the wine and gave it to the child instead. Startled, the girl looked toward her mother, who nodded encouragement; it was a departure from custom, but the abbey priest surely knew what he was doing. Joan continued down the line, wetting the bread in the wine, until the entire congregation had received the Sacrament.
Immediately after mass, Prior Joseph summoned her. Joan was glad it was Joseph and not Raban she would have to answer to. Joseph was not a man to cling undeviatingly to tradition, not if there was good and sufficient argument for change.
“You made an alteration in the Mass today,” Joseph said.
“Yes, Father.”
“Why?” The question was not challenging, merely curious.
Joan explained.
“The sick old man and the healthy infant,” Joseph repeated thoughtfully. “A repulsive incongruity, I agree.”
“More than an incongruity,” Joan responded. “I believe it may be one way the disease is transmitted.”
Joseph was confounded. “How can that be? Surely the noxious spirits are everywhere.”
“Perhaps it’s not noxious spirits that are causing the sickness— not alone, anyway. It may be passed along by physical contact with its victims, or with objects that they touch.”
It was a new idea, but not a radical one. That some diseases were contagious was well known; this was, after all, why lepers were strictly segregated from society. It was also beyond dispute that sickness often passed through entire households, carrying off members of a family within days, even hours. But the cause for this phenomenon was unclear.
“Transmitted by physical contact? In what manner?”
“I don’t know,” Joan admitted. “But today, when I saw the sick man, and the open sores about his mouth, I felt—” She broke off, frustrated. “I cannot explain, Father, at least not yet. But until I know more, I would like to leave off passing the communal cup and dip the bread in the wine instead.”
“You would undertake this change on the basis of a mere … intuition?” Joseph asked.
“If I am wrong, no harm will derive from my error, for the faithful will still have partaken of both the Body and the Blood,” Joan argued. “But if my … intuition proves correct, then we will have saved lives.”
Joseph considered a moment. An alteration in the Mass was not to be undertaken lightly. On the other hand, John Anglicus was a learned brother, renowned for his skill at healing. Joseph had not forgotten his cure of the leper woman. Then, as now, there had been little to go on other than John Anglicus’s “intuition.” Such intuitions, Joseph thought, were not to be scorned, for they were God-given.
“You may proceed for now,” he said. “When Abbot Raban returns, he will of course render his own judgment upon the matter.”
“Thank you, Father.” Joan made her obeisance and left quickly, before Prior Joseph could change his mind.
INTINCTIO, they called the dipping of the Host, and apart from some of the elder brothers, who were set in their ways, the practice enjoyed widespread support among the brethren, for it was as satisfying to the aesthetics of the Mass as it was to the requirements of cleanliness and hygiene. A monk of Corbie, stopping by on his way home, was so impressed he carried the idea back to his own abbey, which adopted it as well.
Among the faithful, the frequency of new occurrences of the plague noticeably slowed, though it did not stop. Joan began to keep careful record of new cases of the disease, studying them in order to detect the cause of infection.
Her efforts were cut short by the return of Abbot Raban. Soon after his arrival, he summoned Joan to his quarters and confronted her with stern disapproval.
“The Canon of the Mass is sacred. How dare you tamper with it?”
“Father Abbot, the change is in form only, not in substance. And I believe it is saving lives.”
Joan started to explain what she had observed, but Raban cut her off. “Such observations are useless, for they come not from faith but from the physical senses, which are not to be trusted. They are the Devil’s tools, with which he lures men away from God and into the conceits of the intellect.”
“If God did not wish us to observe the material world,” Joan rejoined, “why then did He give us eyes to see, ears to hear, a nose to smell? Surely it is not sin to make use of the gifts He Himself has given us.”
“Remember the words of St. Augustine: ‘Faith is to believe what you do not see.’”
Joan responded without missing a beat, “Augustine also says that we could not believe at all if we did not have rational minds. He would not have us despise what sense and reason tell us must be so.”
Raban scowled. His mind was of a rigidly conventional and unimaginative cast, so he disliked the give-and-take of reasoned argument, preferring the safer ground of authority.
“Receive thy father’s counsel and obey it,” he quoted sententiously from the rule. “Return unto God by the difficult path of obedience, for thou hast forsaken Him by following thine own will.”
“But, Father—”
“No more, I say!” Raban exploded angrily. His face was livid. “John Anglicus, as of this moment, you are relieved of your duties as priest. You will study humility by returning to the infirmary, where you will assist Brother Odilo, serving him with due and proper obedience.”
Joan started to protest, then thought better of it. Raban had been pushed to his limit; any further argument could place her in gravest jeopardy.
With an effort of will, she bowed her head. “As you command, Father Abbot.”
REFLECTING later upon what had happened, Joan saw that Raban was right; she had been prideful and disobedient. But of what use was obedience, if others must suffer by it? Intinction was saving lives; she was sure of that. But how c
ould she convince the abbot? He would not tolerate further argument from her. But he might be persuaded by the weight of established authority. So now, in addition to the Opus Dei and her duties in the infirmary, Joan added hours of study in the library, searching the texts of Hippocrates, Oribasius, and Alexander of Tralles for anything that might support her theory. She worked constantly, sleeping only two or three hours a night, driving herself to exhaustion.
One day, poring over a section of Oribasius, she found what she needed. She was copying the crucial passage out in translation when she began having difficulty scribing; her head ached, and she could not hold the pen steady. She shrugged this off as the natural consequence of too little sleep and went on working. Then her quill inexplicably slipped from her grasp and rolled onto the page, scattering blobs of ink across the clean vellum, obscuring the words. Curse the luck, she thought. I will have to scrape it clean and start over. She tried to pick up the quill, but her fingers trembled so violently she could not get a grip on it.
She stood, holding on to the edge of the desk as dizziness swept over her. Stumbling to the door, she thrust herself outside just as the retching hit hard, doubling her up and thrusting her onto all fours, where she heaved up the contents of her stomach.
Somehow she managed to stagger to the infirmary. Brother Odilo made her lie down on an empty bed and put his hand to her forehead. It was cold as ice.
Joan blinked with surprise. “Have you come from the washing trough?”
Brother Odilo shook his head. “My hands are not cold, Brother John. You’re burning with fever. I fear the plague has you in its grip.”
The plague! Joan thought woozily. No, that can’t be right. I’m tired, that’s all. If I can just rest for a while …
Brother Odilo laid a cool strip of linen, steeped in rosewater, on her forehead. “Now lie quiet, while I soak some fresh linen. I won’t be a minute.”
His voice seemed to come from a long distance away. Joan closed her eyes. The cloth felt cool against her skin. It felt good to lie still with the sweet aroma around her, sinking peacefully into a welcome darkness.
Pope Joan Page 27