Pope Joan (19 page)

Joan lingered in the courtyard, watching the last-minute preparations, enjoying the excitement. Luke pranced around her, ears pricked and opalescent eyes alight with expectation. He was going on the journey too, for, as Gerold had declared, the six-month-old pup had become so attached to Joan there was no separating them. Joan laughed and petted Luke, his white fur soft under her hand; he licked her cheek and sat back with his mouth stretched wide, as if he were laughing too.

“If you’ve nothing better to do than stand about gaping, give the pantler a hand.” Richild gave Joan a push toward the kitchen, where the pantler waved flour-coated hands in a frenzy of activity. He had been up all night, baking rolls and pies for the journey.

By midmorning, the household was packed. The chaplain offered a brief prayer for the safe deliverance of the travelers, and the procession of wagons and horses moved out slowly onto the road. Joan rode in the first cart, behind Gerold and his men, along with Richild, Gisla, and Dhuoda, and the three villein girls who served as the ladies’ personal attendants. The women jounced against the hard wooden seats as the cartwheels bumped over the pitted, uneven road. Luke trotted alongside, keeping a watchful eye on Joan. Joan looked ahead and saw John riding with the men, seated comfortably astride a fine roan mare.

I sit a horse as well as he
, Joan thought. Gerold had spent many hours teaching her to ride, and she was now an accomplished horsewoman.

As if suddenly aware of her scrutiny, John turned around and gave her a knowing smile, at once intimate and malicious. Then he
kicked his horse into a canter and rode up next to Gerold. They spoke; Gerold threw back his head and laughed.

Jealousy rose sharply within her. What could John have to say to Gerold that would amuse him so? They had nothing in common. Gerold was a learned man, a scholar. John knew nothing of such matters. Yet now he rode beside Gerold, talked with him, laughed with him, while she lurched along behind in this miserable dogcart.

Because she was a girl. Not for the first time she cursed the stroke of fate that had made her so.

“It is impolite to stare, Joan.” Richild’s dark eyes regarded Joan disdainfully.

Joan tore her eyes away from Gerold. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

“Keep your hands folded on your lap,” Richild remonstrated, “and your eyes turned down, as befits a modest woman.”

Joan obediently followed her bidding.

“Proper deportment,” Richild continued, “is a higher virtue in a lady than an ability to read—something you would know if you had been gently raised.” She stared at Joan coolly for a few moments before returning her attention to her embroidery.

Joan watched her now out of the corner of her eye. She was certainly beautiful, in the pale, ascetic, slope-shouldered fashion of the day. Her creamy skin rose to an extremely high forehead, crowned by lustrous coils of thick black hair. Her eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes, were so deep a brown they appeared almost black. Joan felt a sharp pang of envy. Richild was everything that she was not.

“Come now, you must help us decide.” Gisla, the elder daughter, beamed at Joan. “Which of my gowns should I wear for the wedding feast?” She giggled excitedly.

Gisla was fourteen, only a few weeks older than Joan, and already betrothed to Count Hugo, a Neustrian nobleman. Gerold and Richild were pleased, as the union was an advantageous match. The wedding was some six months away.

“Oh, Gisla, you have so many lovely things.” And it was true. Joan had been astonished at the size of Gisla’s wardrobe—enough to wear a different tunic every day for a fortnight if she chose. In Ingelheim, a girl had but one tunic, of strong woolen cloth if she was lucky, and she kept it carefully, for it would have to last many years. “I am sure Count Hugo will think you beautiful in any of them.”

Gisla giggled again. A good-hearted but somewhat simple girl,
she erupted into nervous laughter every time her affianced’s name was mentioned.

“No, no,” she said breathlessly. “You cannot wriggle out of it so easily. Listen. Mother thinks I should wear the blue, but I say the yellow. Come now, give me a proper answer.”

Joan sighed. She liked Gisla, for all her giddiness and silly ways. They had shared a bed from the very first night, when Gerold had brought Joan home from the bishop’s palace, weary and frightened. Gisla had welcomed Joan, been kind to her, and Joan would always be grateful. Still, there was no denying that conversation with Gisla could be trying, for her interests were entirely confined to clothes, food, and men. For the last few weeks, she had talked incessantly about the wedding, and it was beginning to try everyone’s patience.

Joan smiled, making an effort to be obliging. “I think you should wear the blue. It matches your eyes.”

“The blue? Really?” Gisla’s brow furrowed. “But the yellow has the lovely lace trim on the front.”

“Well, the yellow then.”

“Still, the blue
does
match my eyes. Perhaps it would be better. What do you think?”

“
I
think that if I hear any more about that stupid wedding feast I shall scream,” said Dhuoda. She was nine years old and resentful of all the attention her older sister had been getting over the past few weeks. “Who cares what color tunic you wear anyway!”

“Dhuoda, that remark is unbecoming a lady.” Richild looked up from her embroidery to chastise her younger daughter.

“I’m sorry,” Dhuoda said to Gisla contritely. But as soon as her mother looked away she stuck out her tongue at Gisla, who smiled back at her good-humoredly.

Richild said, “As for you, Joan, it is not for you to offer an opinion; Gisla will wear whatever
I
think best.”

Joan flushed at the reprimand but said nothing.

“Count Hugo is such a handsome man.” Bertha, one of the serving wenches, spoke up. A red-cheeked girl of no more than sixteen winters, she was new to household service, having been brought in a month ago to replace a girl dead of typhoid. “He looks so fine on his charger, with his ermine cloak and gloves.”

Gisla giggled delightedly. Encouraged, Bertha continued. “And,
mistress, from the way he looks at you, it cannot matter what tunic you wear. Come the wedding night, he’ll have it off you quick enough!”

She laughed boisterously, pleased with her joke. Gisla tittered. The others in the wagon sat quietly, watching Richild.

Richild put down her embroidery, her eyes dark with anger. “What did you say?” she asked, in a tone ominously quiet.

“Uh—nothing, my lady,” Bertha said.

“Oh, Mother, I am sure she did not mean—” Gisla tried ineffectually to intervene.

“Coarseness and filth! I will not suffer it in my presence!”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Bertha said, chastened. But she still smiled a little, not believing Richild could be truly angry.

Richild motioned Bertha to the open back of the cart. “Out.”

“But, my lady!” Bertha wailed, at last comprehending the enormity of her error. “I did not mean—”

“Out!” Richild was adamant. “In penance for your impudence, you will walk the rest of the way.”

It was a punishing journey to St.-Denis. Bertha looked ruefully at her feet, covered with rough, hemp-soled buskins. Joan felt sorry for her. Her remark had been heedless and ill advised, but the girl was young and new to service, and obviously had not meant to give offense.

“You will recite the paternoster aloud while you walk.”

“Yes, my lady,” Bertha said resignedly. She clambered out of the cart, took up a position alongside, and after a minute slowly began to recite,
“Pater Noster qui es in caelis …”
She spoke in an odd singsong style that emphasized all the wrong words. Joan was sure she had no idea what she was saying.

Richild returned to her embroidery. Her black hair shone in the sunlight as she bent her head over her stitching. Her lips were tight, her eyes hard with anger as she drove the needle through the thick cloth.

She is an unhappy woman
, Joan thought. This was difficult to understand, for was she not married to Gerold? Yet theirs had been an arranged marriage, and although many such matches turned out to be happy ones, this one obviously had not. They slept in separate beds, and, if the servants’ gossip was correct, had not known each other as man and wife for many years.

“Would you care to ride?” Gerold smiled down at her from astride his chestnut stallion. In his right hand he held the reins of Boda, a lively bay mare he knew Joan especially favored.

Joan blushed, embarrassed by what she had just been thinking. She had been so lost in thought that she had not seen Gerold ride back to retrieve Boda from the group of spare mounts and lead her toward the wagon.

“Ride with the men?” Richild frowned. “I won’t permit it! It would not be proper!”

“Nonsense!” Gerold replied. “It does no harm, and the girl wants to ride, don’t you, Joan?”

“I … I …,” she said awkwardly, caught in the middle and reluctant to further offend Richild.

Gerold raised an eyebrow. “Of course, if you’d rather remain in the wagon …”

“No!” Joan said quickly. “Please, I’d love to ride Boda.” She stood in the cart and reached out her arms. Gerold laughed and caught her about the waist, swinging her high onto the saddle before him. Then, keeping the horses close, he hoisted her sideways onto Boda’s back.

She settled into the saddle. In the wagon Gisla and Dhuoda looked on with surprise, Richild with glaring disapproval. Gerold appeared not to notice. Joan prodded Boda into a canter and rode quickly toward the front of the line. The smooth, rhythmic strides of the horse were a joy compared with the stiff jerking of the wagon. Luke ran alongside, tail held high, his laughing mouth registering a delight almost as great as Joan’s.

She pulled up next to John, who could not conceal his dismay. Joan laughed, her spirits soaring. The road to St.-Denis would not be so long after all.

T
HEY
crossed the tributary of the Rhine with no difficulty; the bridge there was sturdy and wide, one of those built in the days of Emperor Karolus and still maintained by the lord of that county. But the Meuse, at whose banks they arrived on the eighth day, presented a problem, for the bridge there had fallen into disrepair. The planks were rotten, and there were holes where one or two had dropped out completely, making passage impossible. Someone had improvised a rough bridge by tying a string of wooden boats together in a line; a person could cross by stepping through each of the boats in turn. But the boat bridge
would not serve for so many people, horses, and wagons laden with goods. Gerold and two of his men ranged south along the riverbank, looking for a place to ford. An hour later they returned to report a likely spot two miles down where the river widened into shallows.

The party set off again, the wagons lurching wildly over the dense undergrowth along the riverbank. The women clutched the sides of their cart with both hands to keep from being thrown out. Bertha still walked alongside, her lips moving in unending recitation. The hemp on her buskins was worn through to the skin, and she had begun to limp; her toes were swollen, her soles cut and bleeding. Nevertheless, Joan noticed that she occasionally stole sidewards glances at Richild and her daughters and seemed to derive some small satisfaction from watching them pitch about in the wagon.

At last they reached the fording place. Gerold and several of the other mounted men rode down into the river first, to test the depth and levelness of the bottom. The water quickly swirled round them; it reached the bottom of their kirtles in midstream before it began to recede where the riverbed sloped upward to the opposite bank.

Gerold rode back, motioning the others forward. Without hesitation, Joan headed into the river, followed closely by Luke, who plunged in and swam with sure, confident movements. After a moment’s hesitation, John and the others came after them.

The cold waters of the Meuse circled Joan. She gasped as the chill penetrated her clothes and reached her skin. Behind her the wagons slowly bumped down into the river, drawn forward by the mules. Bertha labored to keep up, pushing her way through the chilly water, which rose nearly to her shoulders.

Looking back, Joan saw that Bertha was in trouble. She rode toward her. The mare could carry both of them across with no trouble. She was no more than five feet away when the girl vanished, slipping beneath the surface of the water as quickly as if pulled by the feet. Joan halted, unsure what to do; then she urged her mount toward the widening rings of water marking the spot where Bertha had gone under.

“Stay back!” Gerold’s hand grabbed the bridle, halting the mare. He broke a long branch off an overhanging birch, dismounted, and walked slowly back toward the bank, probing the riverbed. An arm’s length away from the place where Bertha had disappeared, he stumbled and almost fell as the branch sank deep into the water.

“A hole!” He ripped off his mantle and dove in.

Suddenly everything was confusion. Men rode back and forth through the water, shouting instructions and beating the water with sticks.

Gerold was down there. They could be trampling him, hurting him, why couldn’t they see that?

“Stop!” Joan screamed, but they paid no attention. She rode to Egbert, chief of Gerold’s retainers, and grabbed him fiercely by the arm. “Stop!” she said.

Startled, Egbert was about to shrug her off, but she stared him down. “Tell them to stop; they are making it worse.” He drew up, signaling the others. They reined in, ringing the water hole, and waited in tense concentration.

A minute passed. Behind them the first wagon gained the far bank and bumped safely onto land. Joan did not notice. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where Gerold had dived under.

Fear moistened her palms, made her hands slip on the reins. The bay mare, sensing trouble, whinnied and shifted. Luke threw back his head and howled.

Deus Misereatur
, she prayed.
Dear God, take pity. Demand what sacrifice You will, only let him rise from this.

Two minutes.

It was too long. He needed to come up for air.