Pope Joan (24 page)

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.

T
HE
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.

J
OAN
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.

S
HE
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!”

D
HUODA
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.

F
OR
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.