Pope Joan (4 page)

T
HE
next day, she rose early and went outside. In the loose earth surrounding the livestock pen, she traced the letters over and over again until she was sure she had them right. Then she proudly called Matthew over to witness her handiwork.

“Why, that’s very good, little sister. Really very good.” He caught himself with a start and muttered guiltily, “But it will not do for Father to find out about this.” He scuffed at the dirt with his feet, erasing the marks she had made.

“No, Matthew, no!” Joan tried to pull him away. Disturbed by the noise, the pigs started a chorus of grunting.

Matthew bent to embrace her. “It’s all right, Joan. Don’t be unhappy.”

“B-but you said my letters were good!”

“They
are
good.” Matthew was surprised by how good they were; better than John could do, and he was three years older. Indeed, if Joan weren’t a girl, Matthew would have said that she would make a fine scribe one day. But it was better not to put wild ideas in the child’s head. “I could not leave the letters for Father to see; that is why I erased them.”

“Will you teach me more letters, Matthew? Will you?”

“I have already showed you more than I should have.”

She said with grave seriousness, “Father won’t find out. I won’t ever tell him, I promise. And I will erase the letters very carefully when I am done.” Her deep-set gray-green eyes held his intently, willing him to agree.

Matthew shook his head in rueful amusement. She was certainly persistent, this little sister of his. Affectionately he chucked her under the chin. “Very well,” he agreed. “But, remember, we must keep it our secret.”

A
FTER
that, it became a kind of game between them. Whenever the chance presented itself, not nearly as often as Joan would have liked, Matthew would show her how to trace letters in the earth. She was an eager student; though wary of the consequences, Matthew found
it impossible to resist her enthusiasm. He, too, loved learning; her eagerness spoke directly to his heart.

Nevertheless, even he was shocked when she came to him one day carrying the huge, wood-bound Bible that belonged to their father.

“What are you doing?” he cried. “Put that back; you should never have touched it!”

“Teach me to read.”

“What?” Her audacity was astonishing. “Now, really, little sister, that’s asking too much.”

“Why?”

“Well … for one thing, reading is a lot more difficult than merely learning the abecedarium. I doubt you could even learn to do it.”

“Why not? You did.”

He smiled indulgently. “Yes. But I am a man.” This was not quite true, as he had not yet attained thirteen winters. In a little over a year, when he turned fourteen, he would truly be a man. But it pleased him to claim the privilege now, and besides, his little sister didn’t know the difference.

“I
can
do it. I know I can.”

Matthew sighed. This was not going to be easy. “It’s not only that, Joan. It is dangerous, and unnatural, for a girl to read and write.”

“Saint Catherine did. The bishop said so in his sermon, remember? He said she was loved for her wisdom and learning.”

“That’s different. She was a saint. You are just a … girl.”

She was silent then. Matthew was pleased at having won the debate so handily; he knew how determined his little sister could be. He reached for the Bible.

She started to give it to him, then pulled it back. “Why is Catherine a saint?” she asked.

Matthew paused, his hand still extended. “She was a holy martyr who died for the Faith. The bishop said so in his sermon, remember?” He could not resist parroting her.

“Why was she martyred?”

Matthew sighed. “She defied the Emperor Maxentius and fifty of his wisest men by proving, through logical debate, the falseness of paganism. For this she was punished. Now come, little sister, give me the book.”

“How old was she when she did this?”

What odd questions the child asked! “I don’t want to discuss it any further,” Matthew said, exasperated. “Just give me the book!”

She backed away, keeping tight hold of it. “She was old when she went to Alexandria to debate the Emperor’s wise men, wasn’t she?”

Matthew wondered if he should wrest the book from her. No, better not. The fragile binding might come loose. Then they would both be in more trouble than he cared to think about. Better to keep talking, answering her questions, silly and childish as they were, until she tired of the game.

“Thirty-three, the bishop said, the same age as Christ Jesus at His crucifixion.”

“And when St. Catherine defied the Emperor, she was already admired for her learning, like the bishop said?”

“Obviously.” Matthew was condescending. “How else could she have bested the wisest men in all the land in such a debate?”

“Then”—Joan’s small face was alight with triumph—“she must have learned to read
before
she was a saint. When she was just a girl. Like me!”

For a moment Matthew was speechless, torn between irritation and surprise. Then he laughed aloud. “You little imp!” he said. “So that’s where you were headed! Well, you have a gift for disputation, that’s for certain!”

She handed him the book then, smiling expectantly.

Matthew took it from her, shaking his head. What a strange creature she was, so inquisitive, so determined, so sure of herself. She was not at all like John or any other young child he had ever met. The eyes of a wise old woman shone forth from her little girl’s face. No wonder the other girls in the village would have nothing to do with her.

“Very well, little sister,” he said at last. “Today, you begin to learn to read.” He saw the gleeful anticipation in her eyes and hastened to caution her. “You must not expect much. It is far more difficult than you think.”

Joan threw her arms around her brother’s neck. “I love you, Matthew.”

Matthew extricated himself from her grasp, opened the book, and said gruffly, “We will begin here.”

Joan bent over the book, picking up the pungent smell of parchment and wood as Matthew pointed out the passage, “The Gospel of John, chapter one, verse one.
In principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud Deum et verbum erat Deus”:
“In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”

T
HE
summer and fall that followed were mild and fruitful; the harvest was the best the village had had in years. But in Heilagmanoth, snow fell, and the wind drove in from the north in icy blasts. The window of the grubenhaus was boarded up against the cold, snow drifted high against its walls, and the family stayed indoors most of the day. It was more difficult for Joan and Matthew to find time for lessons. On good days the canon still went on his ministry, taking John with him—for Matthew he left to his all-important studies. When Gudrun went into the forest to gather wood, Joan would hurry to the desk where Matthew bent over his work and open the Bible to the place where they had left off the previous lesson. In this way Joan continued to make rapid progress, so that before Lent she had mastered almost all of the Book of John.

One day, Matthew withdrew something from his scrip and held it out to her with a smile. “For you, little sister.” It was a wooden medallion attached to a loop of rope. Matthew ringed the loop around Joan’s head; the medallion swung down onto her chest.

“What is it?” Joan asked curiously.

“Something for you to wear.”

“Oh,” she said, and then, realizing that something more was needed, “Thank you.”

Matthew laughed, seeing her puzzlement. “Look at the front of the medallion.”

Joan did as he told her. Carved into the wooden surface was the likeness of a woman. It was crudely done, for Matthew was no woodworker, but the woman’s eyes were well made, even striking, looking straight ahead with an expression of intelligence.

“Now,” Matthew directed her, “look at the back.”

Joan turned it over. In bold letters ringing the edge of the medallion, she read the words “Saint Catherine of Alexandria.”

With a cry, Joan clasped the medallion to her heart. She knew what this gift signified. It was Matthew’s way of acknowledging her
abilities and the faith he had in her. Tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said again, and this time he knew she meant it.

He smiled at her. She noticed dark circles around his eyes; he looked tired and drawn.

“Are you feeling well?” she asked with concern.

“Of course!” he said, just a shade too heartily. “Let’s begin the lesson, shall we?”

But he was restless and distracted. Uncharacteristically, he failed to catch her up when she made a careless error.

“Is there anything wrong?” Joan asked.

“No, no. I am a little tired, that is all.”

“Shall we stop, then? I don’t mind. We can go on tomorrow.”

“No, I am sorry. My mind wandered, that’s all. Let’s see, where were we? Ah yes. Read the last passage again, and this time be careful of the verb:
videat, not videt.
”

T
HE
next day Matthew woke complaining of a headache and a sore throat. Gudrun brought him a hot posset of borage and honey.

“You must stay in bed for the rest of the day,” she said. “Old Mistress Wigbod’s boy has the spring flux; it may be that you are coming down with it.”

Matthew laughed and said it was nothing of the kind. He worked several hours at his studies, then insisted on going outside to help John prune the vines.

The next morning he had a fever, and difficulty swallowing. Even the canon could see that he looked really ill.

“You are excused from your studies today,” he told Matthew. This was an unheard-of dispensation.

They sent to the monastery of Lorsch for help, and in two days’ time the infirmarian came and examined Matthew, shaking his head gravely and muttering under his breath. For the first time Joan realized that her brother’s condition might be serious. The idea was terrifying. The monk bled Matthew profusely and exhausted his entire repertoire of prayer and holy talismans, but by the Feast of St. Severinus, Matthew’s condition was critical. He lay in a feverish stupor, shaken by fits of coughing so violent that Joan covered her ears to try to shut them out.

Throughout the day and into the night the family kept vigil. Joan knelt beside her mother on the beaten earth floor. She was frightened
by the alteration in Matthew’s appearance. The skin on his face was stretched taut, distorting his familiar features into a horrible mask. Beneath his feverish flush was an ominous undertone of gray.

Above them, in the dark, the canon’s voice droned into the night, reciting prayers for his son’s deliverance.
“Domine Sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus, qui fragilitatem conditionis nostrae infusa virtutis tuae dignatione confirmas …”
Joan nodded drowsily.

“No!”

Joan wakened suddenly to her mother’s wailing cry.

“He is gone! Matthew, my son!”

Joan looked at the bed. Nothing appeared to have changed. Matthew lay motionless as before. Then she noticed his skin had lost its feverish flush; he was entirely gray, the color of stone.

She took his hand. It was flaccid, heavy, though not so hot as before. She held it tightly, pressing it to her cheek.
Please don’t be dead, Matthew.
Dead meant that he would never again sleep beside her and John in the big bed; she would never again see him hunched over the pine table, brow furrowed in concentration as he labored at his studies, never again sit beside him while his finger moved across the pages of the Bible, pointing out words for her to read.
Please don’t be dead.

A
FTER
a while, they sent her away so her mother and the village women could wash Matthew’s body and prepare it for burial. When they were done, Joan was allowed to approach to pay her final respects. But for the unnatural grayness of his skin, he looked to be merely sleeping. If she touched him, she imagined, he would wake, his eyes would open and gaze upon her again with teasing affection. She kissed his cheek, as her mother instructed her. It was cold and oddly unresistant, like the skin of the dead rabbit Joan had fetched from the cooling shed only last week. She drew back quickly.

Matthew was gone.

There would be no more lessons now.

S
HE
stood alongside the livestock pen, staring at the patches of black earth beginning to show under the melting snow, the earth in which she had traced her first letters.

“Matthew,” she whispered. She sank to her knees. The wet snow penetrated her woolen cloak, soaking through to the skin. She felt
very cold, but she could not go back in. There was something she had to do. With her forefinger, she traced the familiar letters from the Book of John in the wet snow.

Ubi sum ego vos non potestis venire.
“Where I am you cannot come.”

“W
E WILL
all do penance,” the canon announced after the burial, “to atone for the sins that have visited God’s wrath upon our family.” He made Joan and John kneel in silent prayer on the hard wooden board that served as the family altar. They stayed there all that day with nothing to eat or drink until at last, with the coming of night, they were released and permitted to sleep in the bed, big and empty now without Matthew. John whimpered with hunger. In the middle of the night, Gudrun woke them, her finger pressed warningly to her lips. The canon was asleep. Quickly, she handed them several pieces of bread and a wooden cup filled with warm goat’s milk—all the food she dared smuggle from the larder without arousing her husband’s suspicions. John gobbled down his bread and was still hungry; Joan shared her portion with him. As soon as they were done, Gudrun took away the wooden cup and left, pulling the woolen covers up under their chins. The children nestled together for comfort and were quickly asleep.

With the first light, the canon woke them, and without breaking fast, sent them to the altar to resume their penance. The morning came and went, and the dinner hour, and still they remained on their knees.

The rays of the late afternoon sun slanted onto the altar, spilling through the slit in the grubenhaus window. Joan sighed and shifted position on the makeshift altar. Her knees were sore, and her stomach growled. She struggled to concentrate on the words of her prayer,
“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum…”