Pope Joan (48 page)

B
Y THE
time they reached his bedroom, Sergius was conscious. Joan gave him black mustard mixed with gentian to make him vomit. Afterward he was dramatically improved. She gave him a strong dose of colchicum, just to be safe, mixing in some poppy juice to help him rest soundly.

“He’ll sleep till morning,” she told Arighis.

Arighis nodded. “You look exhausted.”

“I
am
rather tired,” Joan admitted. It had been a long day, and she had not yet recovered fully from her weeks of confinement in the dungeon.

“Ennodius and others from the physicians’ society are waiting outside. They mean to interrogate you about His Holiness’s relapse.”

Joan sighed. She did not feel up to fending off a barrage of hostile questions, but apparently there was no help for it. Wearily she started for the door.

“Just a moment.” Arighis beckoned her to follow him. At the far side of the room, he moved aside one of the tapestries and pushed on the wall beneath. The wall slid sideways, leaving an opening some two and a half feet wide.

“What on earth?” Joan was astonished.

“A secret passage,” Arighis explained. “Built in the days of the pagan Emperors—in case they needed to make a quick escape from their enemies. Now it connects the papal bedroom to the private chapel, so the Apostolic One can enter and pray undisturbed any time of day or night. Come.” He took a candle and entered the passage. “This way you can avoid that pack of jackals, at least for tonight.”

Joan was touched that Arighis would share his knowledge of the secret passageway; it was a sign of the growing trust and respect between them. They descended a steep circular flight of stairs that leveled out before a wall into which was set a wooden lever. Arighis pulled it, and the wall moved aside, opening a passage. Joan slipped through, and the vicedominus pulled the lever again. The opening disappeared, leaving no trace of its existence.

She was behind one of the marble pillars in the rear of the Pope’s private chapel, the Sanctum Sanctorum. Voices sounded near the altar. This was unexpected; no one should be here at this hour of night.

“It’s been a long time, Anastasius,” one voice said in gruff, heavily accented tones she recognized as Lothar’s. He had called the other one Anastasius; that must be the Bishop of Castellum. The two men had obviously withdrawn to the chapel to speak privately. They would not look kindly upon an intruder.

What should I do?
Joan wondered. If she tried to slip quietly through the door of the chapel, they might see her. Nor could she retrace her steps to the papal chamber; the lever that controlled the secret passage was on the other side of the wall. She would have to stay hidden until the meeting concluded and both men left. Then she could slip out of the chapel unnoticed.

“Most distressing, His Holiness’s attack this evening,” Lothar said.

Anastasius replied, “The Apostolic One is very ill. He may not live out the year.”

“A great tragedy for the Church.”

“Very great,” Anastasius agreed smoothly.

“His successor must be a man of strength and vision,” Lothar said, “a man who can better appreciate the historic … understanding between our two peoples.”

“You must use all your influence, my liege, to ensure that the next Pontiff is such a man.”

“Don’t you mean—a man like you?”

“Have you reason to doubt me, Sire? Surely the service I did you at Colmar proved my loyalty beyond all question.”

“Perhaps.” Lothar was noncommittal. “But times change, and so do men. Now, my lord Bishop, your loyalty is to be put to the test again. Will you support the oath taking, or no?”

“The people will be reluctant to swear loyalty to you, my liege, after the damage your army has visited upon the countryside.”

“Your family has the power to change that,” Lothar responded. “If you and your father, Arsenius, take the oath, others will follow.”

“What you ask is very great. It would require something great in return.”

“I know that.”

“An oath is only words. The people need a Pope who can lead them back to the old ways—to the Frankish Empire, and to you, my liege.”

“I can think of no one better able to do that than you, Anastasius. I shall do everything in my power to see that you are the next Pope.”

There was a pause. Then Anastasius said, “The people will take the oath, Sire. I will make certain of it.”

Joan felt a surge of anger. Lothar and Anastasius had just bartered for the papacy like a pair of merchants at a bazaar. In return for the privileges of power, Anastasius had agreed to hand the Romans over to the Frankish Emperor’s control.

There was a knock on the door, and Lothar’s servant entered.

“The count has arrived, my liege.”

“Show him in. The bishop and I have concluded our business.”

A man entered, dressed in a soldier’s brunia. He was tall and striking, with long, red hair and indigo eyes.

Gerold.

   23   

A
STARTLED cry burst from Joan’s lips.

“Who’s there?” Lothar asked sharply.

Slowly Joan came out from behind the pillar. Lothar and Anastasius looked at her with astonishment.

“Who are you?” Lothar demanded.

“John Anglicus, my liege. Priest and physician to His Holiness Pope Sergius.”

Lothar asked suspiciously, “How long have you been here?”

Joan thought quickly. “Some hours, Sire. I came to pray for His Holiness’s recovery. I must have been more tired than I realized, for I fell asleep and only just awoke.”

Lothar looked down his long nose disapprovingly. More likely the little priest had been trapped in the chapel when Anastasius and he had entered. There was no place to run and no place to hide. But it scarcely mattered. How much could he have overheard, and, more important, how much understood? Little enough. There could be no danger in the man; he was obviously no one of importance. The best course was to ignore him.

Anastasius had arrived at a different conclusion. Obviously John Anglicus had been eavesdropping, but why? Was he a spy? Not for Sergius, surely, for the Pope lacked the ingenuity to use spies. But if not, then for whom? And why? From now on, Anastasius decided, the little foreign priest would bear close watching.

Gerold was also studying Joan curiously. “You look familiar, Father,” he said. “Have we met before?” He peered at her frowningly through the dim light. Suddenly his expression changed; he stared like a man who had just seen a ghost. “My God,” he said chokingly. “It can’t be …”

“You know each other?” Anastasius asked.

“We met in Dorstadt,” Joan said quickly. “I studied some years at the cathedral school there; my
sister”
—she emphasized the word
ever so slightly—“stayed with the count and his family during that time.”

Her eyes flashed Gerold an urgent warning:
Say nothing.

Gerold recovered his composure. “Of course,” he said. “I remember your sister well.”

Lothar broke in impatiently. “Enough of this. What have you come to tell me, Count?”

“My message is for your ears alone, my liege.”

Lothar nodded. “Very well. The others may leave. We will speak again, Anastasius.”

As Joan turned to go, Gerold touched her arm. “Wait for me. I would like to hear more … about your sister.”

Outside the chapel, Anastasius went his way. Joan waited nervously under the baleful eye of Lothar’s steward. The situation was extremely dangerous; one ill-considered word, and her true identity could be revealed.
I should leave now, before Gerold comes out
, she told herself. But she yearned to see him. She stood rooted there by a complex mix of fear and anticipation.

The chapel door opened, and Gerold emerged. “It
is
you, then?” he said wonderingly. “But how—?”

The servant was eyeing them curiously.

“Not here,” Joan said. She led him to the little room where she kept her herbs and medicines. Inside, she lit the poppy oil lamps; they flared into life, enclosing the two in an intimate circle of light.

They stared at each other with the wonder of rediscovery. Gerold had changed in the fifteen years since Joan had last seen him; the thick, red hair was traced with gray, and there were new lines around the indigo eyes and wide, sensual mouth—but he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen. The sight of him set her heart hammering.

Gerold took a step toward her. All at once they were in each other’s arms, holding on so tightly that Joan could feel the metal rings of Gerold’s mail through her thick priest’s robe.

“Joan,” Gerold murmured. “My dearest, my pearl. I never thought to see you again.”

“Gerold.” The word blotted out all reasonable thought.

Gently his finger traced the faint scar on her left cheek. “The Norsemen?”

“Yes.”

He bent and kissed it gently, his lips warm against her cheek. “They did take you, then—you and Gisla?”

Gisla.
Gerold must never know, she must never tell him, the horror that had befallen his elder daughter.

“They took Gisla. I—I managed to escape.”

He was astonished. “How? And to where? My men and I scoured the countryside looking for you but found no trace.”

Briefly she told him what had happened—as much as she could tell in so hurried and constrained a circumstance: her escape to Fulda and acceptance as John Anglicus, the near-discovery of her identity and flight from the abbey, her pilgrimage to Rome and subsequent rise to the position of Pope’s physician.

“And in all this time,” Gerold said slowly when she had finished, “you never thought to send word to me?”

Joan heard the pain and bewilderment in his voice. “I—I did not think you wanted me. Richild said the idea of marrying me to the farrier’s son was yours, that you had asked her to arrange it.”

“And you believed her?” Abruptly he released her. “Great God, Joan, had we no better understanding between us?”

“I—I didn’t know what to think. You had gone; I could not be certain why. And Richild knew—about us, about what happened at the riverbank. How could she have known, unless you told her?”

“I don’t know. I only know that I loved you as I have never loved anyone before—or since.” His voice tightened. “I drove Pistis almost beyond endurance on the road home, straining to catch sight of Villaris, for
you
were there, and I was wild with impatience to see you … to ask you to be my wife.”

“Your wife?” Joan was dumbfounded. “But … Richild …?”

“Something happened while I was gone—something that helped me see how empty my marriage was, how vital you were to my happiness. I was returning to tell you that I meant to divorce Richild, and marry you, if you would have me.”

Joan shook her head. “So much misunderstanding,” she said sorrowfully. “So much gone wrong.”

“So much,” he replied, “to make up for.” He pulled her close and kissed her. The effect was like holding a candle to a wax tablet, dissolving what the years had written. Once again they were standing together in the river behind Villaris in the spring sunshine, young and giddy with new-discovered love.

After a long while he released her. “Listen, my heart,” he said huskily. “I’m leaving Lothar’s service. I told him so just now, in the chapel.”

“And he agreed to let you go?” Lothar did not seem the kind of man to set aside willingly any man’s obligation to him.

“At first he was difficult, but I got him to come round in the end. My freedom comes at a price; I’ve had to surrender Villaris with all its estates. I’m no longer a rich man, Joan. But I have the strength of my two arms, and friends who will stand by me. One of them is Siconulf, Prince of Benevento, whom I befriended when we served together on the Emperor’s campaign against the Obodrites. He needs good men around him now, for he’s being hard-pressed by his rival Radelchis. Will you come with me, Joan? Will you be my wife?”

Brisk footsteps outside the door jolted them apart. A moment later the door opened and a head peeked in. It was Florintinus, one of the palace notaries.

“Ah!” he said. “There you are, John Anglicus! I’ve been looking all over for you.” He looked sharply from Joan to Gerold and back again. “Am I … interrupting anything?”