Pope Joan (13 page)

“Hey!” John protested, but already the man was falling, the weight of his pendulous body dragging John irresistibly from the saddle.

They dropped to the ground together. John landed on top of the bishop’s man, who lay unmoving where he fell. As John put his hand out to raise himself, his fingers closed around something long and round and smooth.

It was the shaft of an arrow, yellow feathers at the end. The tip was buried deep in the middle of the man’s chest.

John rose to his feet, all his senses alert. From the thick trees on the other side of the path, a man emerged, dressed in tattered clothes. In his hands he carried a bow, and on his back a quiverful of yellow-feathered arrows.

Does he mean to kill me too?

The man came toward him. John looked around, seeking a path of escape. The trees grew dense in this part of the woods; if he ran, he might be able to elude the attacker.

The man was almost upon him, close enough for John to read the menace in his eyes.

John tried to run, but it was too late. The man grabbed him by the arm. John struggled, but the man, taller than he by a head and powerfully built, held him fast, lifting him slightly so that his toes barely touched the ground.

John remembered the knife. With his free hand, he reached inside his tunic; frantically his fingers sought the bone handle, found it, gripped it. He pulled the knife out and plunged it home in one swift motion. With an exhilarating rush, John felt it sink deep into the man’s flesh, striking bone before John withdrew it with a wicked twist. The man swore and grabbed his wounded shoulder, letting go of John.

John ran into the woods. Sharp branches tore at his clothes and scratched his skin, but he kept running. Despite the moonlight, it was
dark under the canopy of trees. Looking behind him to see if he was being pursued, John bumped into a beech with low-hanging branches. He leapt for the bottommost branch, caught it, and started to scramble up quickly, his lithe young body snaking expertly through the branches, stopping only when the limbs became too small and pliant to support his weight. Then he waited.

There was no sound except the soft rustle of leaves. Twice a night owl called, its cry echoing eerily in the stillness. Then John heard footsteps crashing through the forest. He gripped the knife, holding his breath, grateful for his plain brown cloak, which merged so well with the blackness of the night.

The footsteps came closer and closer. John could hear the man’s ragged, uneven breathing.

The footsteps stopped directly beneath him.

J
OAN
stepped out of the silent darkness of the grubenhaus into the moonlit night. Shapes of familiar objects loomed eerily, transformed by shadows. She shivered, recalling stories of
Waldleuten
, evil sprites and trolls that haunted the night. Gathering her cloak of rough gray hemp around her, she moved into the shadows, searching the changed landscape for the entrance to the path through the forest. The light was good—it lacked only two days till full moon—and in a moment she was able to make out the old oak, split by lightning, that marked the spot. She ran quickly across the field toward it.

At the edge of the woods she paused. It was dark in there, the moon filtered by the trees into pale threads of light. She looked back at the grubenhaus. Washed by moonlight, surrounded by the fields and animal pens, it was solid, warm, familiar. She thought of her comfortable bed, the coverings probably still warm from the heat of her body. She thought of Mama, to whom she had not even said good-bye. She took a step toward home, then stopped. All that mattered, all she wanted, lay in the other direction.

She entered the woods. The trees closed over her head. The path was strewn with rocks and underbrush, but she moved ahead swiftly. It was fifteen miles to the cella, and she had to be there before dawn.

She concentrated on keeping a steady pace. It was hard going; in the darkness it was easy to stray toward the edge of the path, where branches tore at her clothes and hair. The path became more and
more uneven. Several times she tripped on rocks or broken roots; once she fell, bruising her hands and knees.

After several hours, the sky began to show light above the roof of trees. It was nearing dawn. Joan was exhausted, but she quickened her pace, half-walking, half-running down the path. She had to make it before they left. She had to.

Her left foot caught on something. She tried to regain her balance, but she was moving too quickly and she fell, breaking her fall clumsily with her arms.

She lay still, the breath knocked out of her. Her right arm hurt where a sharp twig had scraped it, but otherwise she did not seem to be injured. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

On the ground beside her, a man lay with his back to her. Sleeping? No. He would have wakened when she stumbled over him. She touched his shoulder; he rolled onto his back. The dead eyes of the bishop’s emissary glared up at her, lips frozen in a gap-toothed grimace. His rich tunic was ripped and bloody. The middle finger of his left hand was missing.

Joan leapt to her feet. “John!” she shouted. She scanned the woods and the ground nearby, afraid of what she might find.

“Here.” A patch of pale skin showed faintly in the darkness.

“John!” She ran to him, and they embraced, holding on to each other tightly.

“Why are you here?” John asked. “Is Father with you?”

“No. I’ll explain later. Are you hurt? What happened?”

“We were attacked. A brigand, I think, after the emissary’s gold ring. I was riding behind when the arrow struck him.”

Joan said nothing, but hugged him closer.

He pulled out of her arms. “But I defended myself. I did!” His eyes glittered with a strange excitement. “When he came for me, I struck him with this!” He held up the canon’s bone-handled hunting knife. “Got him in the shoulder, I think. Anyway, it stopped him long enough for me to get away!”

Joan stared at the blade, discolored with blood. “Father’s knife.”

John’s expression turned sullen. “Yes. I took it. Why not? He made me go—I didn’t want to.”

“All right,” Joan said briskly. “Put it away. We must hurry if we are to make it to the cella before dawn.”

“The cella? But I don’t have to go to Dorstadt now. After
what happened”—he thrust his head in the direction of the murdered emissary—“I can go home.”

“No, John.
Think.
Now that Father knows the bishop’s intentions, he will not permit you to stay at home. He’ll find some way to get you to the schola, even if he has to take you himself. Besides”— Joan pointed to the knife—“by the time we get back, he will have discovered that you took this.”

John looked startled. Obviously he had not thought of that.

“It will be all right. I’ll be there with you, I’ll help you.” She took his hand. “Come.”

Hand in hand, under the steadily brightening sky, the two children made their way to the cella, where the rest of the bishop’s men were waiting.

   7   

T
HEY arrived at the cella while the sun was still low in the sky, but the bishop’s men were already awake, impatiently awaiting their companion’s return. When Joan and John told them what had transpired, the men became suspicious. They took John’s bone-handled knife and examined it carefully. Joan breathed a prayer of thanks that she had thought to clean it thoroughly in the forest stream, washing off all trace of blood. The men rode back to find their companion’s body, taking Joan and John with them; the discovery of the yellow-feathered arrow confirmed the children’s story. But what should they do with the body? It was out of the question to carry it all the way to Dorstadt, a fortnight’s journey, not with the spring sun making the days so warm. In the end they buried their companion in the forest, marking the spot with a rough wooden cross. Joan said a prayer over the grave, which impressed the men, for, like their companion, they knew no Latin. Expecting to escort a girl child, the men did not, at first, want to take John.

“There’s no mount for him,” their leader said, “nor food neither.”

“We can ride tandem,” Joan offered. “And share a ration.”

The man shook his head. “The bishop sent for
you.
There’s no point bringing your brother.”

“My father made a compact with your companion,” Joan lied. “I was permitted to go only on condition that John accompany me. If he doesn’t, my father will call me home again—and you’ll be put to the trouble of escorting me back.”

The man frowned; having just endured the discomforts of a long journey, he did not relish the prospect of another.

Joan pressed her advantage. “If that happens, I’ll tell the bishop that I tried my best to explain the situation, and you wouldn’t listen. Will he be pleased to learn that the entire misunderstanding was your fault?”

The man was stunned. He had never heard a girl speak so boldly.

Now he understood why the bishop wanted to see her; she was a curiosity, that was for certain.

“Very well,” he agreed grudgingly. “The boy can come.”

I
T WAS
an exhausting journey to Dorstadt, for the men of the escort were eager to get home and rode long and hard every day. The rigors of the journey did not trouble Joan; she was fascinated by the ever-changing landscape and the new world which every day opened before her. At last she was free, free from Ingelheim and the confines of her existence there. She rode through squalid little villages and bustling towns with equal delight, full of curiosity and wonder. John, however, quickly grew irritable from lack of sufficient food and rest. Joan tried to soothe him, but his ill humor was only inflamed by his sister’s good-natured solicitude.

They reached the bishop’s palace at noontide of the tenth day. The palace steward took one disapproving look at the two children, in their stained and rumpled peasants’ garments, and gave orders for baths and clean clothing before he would permit them to be admitted to the bishop’s presence.

For Joan, accustomed to hurried washings in the stream that ran behind the grubenhaus, the bath was an extraordinary experience. The bishop’s palace had indoor baths, with heated water, a luxury she had never even heard of. She remained in the warm water for almost an hour while serving women scrubbed her till her skin glowed pink and almost raw. Her back, however, they cleansed with utmost gentleness, clucking their tongues sympathetically over the jagged scars. They washed her hair and twisted the long, white-gold mass into shining plaits that framed her face. Then they brought her a new tunic of green linen. The texture was so soft, the weaving so fine, Joan found it hard to believe it had been made by human hands. When she was dressed, the women brought her a looking glass set in gold. Joan lifted it and saw the face of a stranger. She had never viewed her own features, except in occasional distorted fragments reflected by the muddy water of the village pond. Joan was astonished by the clarity of the image in the mirror. She held the mirror up, scrutinizing herself critically.

She was not pretty, but she knew that. She did not have the high, pale forehead, delicate chin, and frail, slope-shouldered form so favored
by minstrels and lovers. She had a ruddy, healthy, boyish look. Her brow was too low, her chin too firm, her shoulders too straight for beauty. But her hair—Mama’s hair—was lovely, and her eyes were good—deep-set gray-green orbs, fringed with thick lashes. She shrugged and put the glass down. The bishop had not sent for her to discover if she was pretty.

John was brought in, equally resplendent in tunic and mantle of blue linen. The two children were taken to the palace steward.

“Better,” the steward said, examining them appraisingly. “Much better. Very well, then, follow me.”

They walked down a long corridor whose walls were covered with enormous tapestries intricately worked with gold and silver thread. Joan’s pulse leapt nervously in her throat. She was going to meet the bishop.

Will I be able to answer his questions? Will he accept me in the schola?
All at once she felt inadequate and unsure. She tried to remember a single thing she had studied, but her mind went blank. When she thought of Aesculapius, of the faith he had shown in her by arranging this interview, her stomach clenched.