Pope Joan (5 page)

It was no use. The discomforts of her present situation kept intruding. She was tired and hungry, and she missed Matthew. She wondered why she did not cry. There was a sensation of pressure in her throat and chest, but the tears would not come.

She stared at the small wooden crucifix that hung on the wall before the altar. The canon had brought it with him from his native England when he had arrived to carry out his missionary work among the heathen Saxons. Fashioned by a Northumbrian artist, the
Christ figure had more power and precision than most Frankish work. His body stretched on the cross, all elongated limbs and emaciated ribs, the lower half twisted to emphasize His mortal agony. His head was fallen back, so that the Adam’s apple bulged—a strangely disconcerting reminder of His human maleness. The wood was deeply etched to reveal the tracks of blood from His many wounds.

The figure, for all its power, was grotesque. Joan knew she should be filled with love and awe at Christ’s sacrifice, but instead she felt revulsion. Compared with the beautiful, strong gods of her mother, this figure seemed ugly, broken, and defeated.

Beside her, John started to whimper. Joan reached out and took his hand. John took punishment hard. She was stronger than he was, and she knew it. Though he was ten years old, and she only seven, she found it entirely natural that she should nurture and protect him, rather than the other way around.

Tears started to form in his eyes. “It’s not fair,” he said.

“Don’t cry.” Joan was worried that the noise might bring Mama—or worse yet, Father. “Soon the penance will be over.”

“That’s not it!” he responded with wounded dignity.

“What’s the matter, then?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Tell me.”

“Father will want me to take over Matthew’s studies. I know he will. And I can’t do it; I can’t.”

“Perhaps you can,” said Joan, though she understood why her brother was worried. Father accused him of laziness and beat him when he did not progress in his studies, but it was not John’s fault. He tried to do well, but he was slow; he always had been.

“No,” John insisted. “I’m not like Matthew. Did you know that Father planned to take him to Aachen, to petition for his acceptance in the Schola Palatina?”

“Truly?” Joan was astonished. The Palace School! She had no idea that her father’s ambitions for Matthew had reached so high.

“And I can’t even read Donatus yet. Father says that Matthew had mastered Donatus when he was only nine, and I am almost ten. What will I do, Joan? What will I do?”

“Well …” Joan tried to think of something comforting to quiet him, but the strain of the last two days had driven John into a state past all caring.

“He will beat me. I know he will beat me.” Now John started to wail in earnest.
“I don’t want to be beaten!”

Gudrun appeared in the doorway. Nervously casting a glance into the room behind her, she hurried over to John. “Stop it. Do you want your father to hear you? Stop it, I tell you!”

John rocked clumsily off the altar, threw his head back, and bawled. Oblivious to his mother’s words, he continued to wail, tears streaming down red-blotched cheeks.

Gudrun gripped John’s shoulders and shook him. His head flopped wildly, back to front; his eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. Joan heard the sharp click of teeth as his mouth snapped shut. Startled, John opened his eyes and saw his mother.

Gudrun hugged him to her. “You will not cry anymore. For your sister’s sake, and mine, you must not cry. All will be well, John. But now you will be quiet.” She rocked him, soothing and remonstrating at the same time.

Joan watched thoughtfully. She recognized the truth in what her brother said. John was not smart. He could not follow in Matthew’s footsteps. But— Her face flushed with excitement as a thought struck with the force of revelation.

“What is it, Joan?” Gudrun had seen the odd expression on her daughter’s face. “Are you unwell?” She was concerned, for the demons that carried the flux were known to linger in a house.

“No, Mama. But I have an idea, a wonderful idea!”

Gudrun groaned inwardly. The child was full of ideas that only got her into trouble.

“Yes?”

“Father wanted Matthew to go to the Schola Palatina.”

“I know.”

“And now he will want John to go in Matthew’s place. That is why John is crying, Mama. He knows he cannot do it, and he’s afraid that Father will be angry.”

“Well?” Gudrun was puzzled.

“
I
can do it, Mama. I can take over Matthew’s studies.”

For a moment Gudrun was too shocked to respond.
Her
daughter, her baby, the child she loved best—the only one with whom she had shared the language and the secrets of her people—
she
to study the sacred books of the Christian conquerors? That Joan would even consider such a thing was deeply wounding.

“What nonsense!” Gudrun said.

“I can work hard,” Joan persisted. “I like to study and learn about things. I can do it, and then John won’t have to. He isn’t good at it.” There was a muffled sob from John, whose head was still buried in his mother’s chest.

“You are a girl; such things are not for you,” Gudrun said dismissively. “Besides, your father would never approve.”

“But, Mama, that was before. Things have changed. Don’t you see? Now Father may feel differently.”

“I forbid you to speak of this to your father. You must be lightheaded from lack of food and rest, like your brother. Otherwise you would never speak so wildly.”

“But, Mama, if I could only show him—”

“No more, I say!” Gudrun’s tone left no room for further discussion.

Joan fell silent. Reaching inside her tunic, she clasped the medallion of St. Catherine that Matthew had carved for her.
I can read Latin, and John cannot
, she thought stubbornly.
Why should it matter that I am a girl?

She went to the Bible on the little wooden desk. She lifted it, felt its weight, the familiar grooves of the gilt-edged tracings on the cover. The smell of wood and parchment, so strongly associated with Matthew, made her think of their work together, of all he had taught her, all she still wanted to learn.
Perhaps if I show Father what I have learned … perhaps then he will see I can do it.
Once again, she felt a rise of excitement.
But there could be trouble. Father might be very angry.
Her father’s anger frightened her; she had been struck by him often enough to know and fear the force of his rage.

She stood uncertainly, fingering the smooth surface of the Bible’s wooden binding. On an impulse, she opened it; the pages fell open to the Gospel of St. John, the text Matthew had used when he first taught her to read.
It is a sign
, she thought.

Her mother was sitting with her back to Joan, cradling John, whose sobs had subsided into forlorn hiccuping.
Now is my chance.
Joan held the book open and carried it into the next room.

Her father was hunched in a chair, head bowed, hands covering his face. He did not stir as Joan approached. She halted, suddenly afraid. The idea was impossible, ridiculous; Father would never approve. She was about to retreat when he took his hands from his face and looked up. She stood before him with the open book in her hands.

Her voice was nervously unsteady as she began to read,
“In principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud Deum et verbum erat Deus …”

There was no interruption; she kept on, gaining confidence as she read. “All things were made by Him; and without Him was not any thing made that was made. In Him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shone in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.” The beauty and power of the words filled her, leading her onward, giving her strength.

She came to the end, flushed with success, knowing she had read well. She looked up and saw her father staring at her.

“I can read. Matthew taught me. We kept it a secret so no one would know.” The words spilled out in a breathless jumble. “I can make you proud, Father, I know I can. Let me take over Matthew’s studies and I—”

“You!”
Her father’s voice rumbled with anger. “It was you!” He pointed at her accusingly. “You are the one! You brought God’s wrath down upon us. Unnatural child! Changeling!
You murdered your brother!”

Joan gasped. The canon came toward her with arm raised. Joan dropped the book and tried to run, but he caught her and spun her round, bringing his fist down on her cheek with a force that sent her reeling. She landed against the far wall, striking her head.

Her father stood over her. Joan braced herself for another blow. None came. Moments passed, and then he began to make hoarse, guttural noises in his throat. She realized he was crying. She had never seen her father cry.

“Joan!” Gudrun hurried into the room. “What have you done, child?” She knelt beside Joan, taking note of the swelling bruise under her right eye. Keeping her body between her husband and Joan, she whispered, “What did I tell you? Foolish girl, look what you’ve done!” In a louder voice, she said, “Go to your brother. He needs you.” She helped Joan up and propelled her quickly toward the other room.

The canon watched Joan darkly as she went to the door.

“Forget the girl, Husband,” Gudrun said to distract him. “She’s of no importance. Do not despair; remember, you have yet another son.”

   3   

I
T WAS Aranmanoth, the wheat-blade month, in the autumn of her ninth year, when Joan first met Aesculapius. He had stopped at the canon’s grubenhaus on his way to Mainz, where he was to be teaching master at the cathedral
schola.

“Be welcome, sir, be welcome!” Joan’s father greeted Aesculapius delightedly. “We rejoice in your safe arrival. I trust the journey was not too arduous?” He bowed his guest solicitously through the door. “Come refresh yourself. Gudrun! Bring wine! You do my humble home great honor, sir, with your presence.” From her father’s behavior, Joan understood that Aesculapius was a scholar of some standing and importance.

He was Greek, dressed in the Byzantine manner. His fine white linen chlamys was clasped with a simple metal brooch and covered with a long blue cloak, bordered with silver thread. He wore his hair short, like a peasant, and kept it smoothly oiled back from his face. Unlike her father, who shaved in the manner of the Frankish clergy, Aesculapius had a long, full beard—white, like his hair.

When her father called her over to be presented, she suffered a fit of shyness and stood awkwardly before the stranger, her eyes fixed on the intricate braid work of his sandals. At last the canon intervened and sent her off to help her mother prepare the evening meal.

When they sat down at the table, the canon said, “It is our custom to read from the Holy Book before we partake of food. Would you do us the honor of reading this night?”

“Very well,” said Aesculapius, smiling. Carefully he opened the wooden binding and turned the fragile parchment pages. “The text is Ecclesiastes.
Omnia tempus habent, et momentum suum cuique negotio sub caelo …
”

Joan had never heard Latin spoken so beautifully. His pronunciation was unusual: the words were not all run together, Gallic style; each was round and distinct, like drops of clear rainwater. “For everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under
Heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted …” Joan had heard her father read the same passage many times before, but in Aesculapius’s reading, she heard a beauty she had not previously imagined.

When he was finished, Aesculapius closed the book. “An excellent volume,” he said appreciatively to the canon. “Written in a fair hand. You must have brought it with you from England; I have heard that the art still flourishes there. It is rare these days to find a manuscript so free from grammatical barbarisms.”

The canon flushed with pleasure. “There were many such in the library at Lindisfarne. This one was entrusted to me by the bishop when he ordained me for the mission in Saxony.”