Pope Joan (9 page)

Joan and Aesculapius were jostled as people strained forward, trying to see. If Hrotrud rose to the surface of the pond and floated, that meant the priest-blessed waters had rejected her; she would be revealed as a sorceress and a witch and burned at the stake. If she sank, her innocence was proved and she was saved.

In tense silence, all eyes remained fixed on the surface of the pond. Ripples circled slowly outward from the spot where Hrotrud had entered the water; otherwise the surface was still.

The canon grunted and signaled the men, who immediately dashed into the water and dived down to search for Hrotrud.

“She is innocent of the charges against her,” the canon pronounced. “God be praised.”

Was it only Joan’s imagination, or did he look disappointed?

The men kept diving and surfacing with no result. At last one of them broke the surface holding Hrotrud. She lay limp in his arms, her face swollen and discolored. He carried her to the edge of the pond and put her down. She did not stir. He bent over her, listening for a heartbeat.

After a moment he sat up. “She is dead,” he announced.

A murmur went up from the crowd.

“Most unfortunate,” the canon said. “But she died innocent of the crime of which she was accused. God knows His own; He will give recompense and rest to her soul.”

The villagers dispersed, some making their way over to where Hrotrud’s body lay, examining it curiously, some breaking into little groups that murmured and chattered in low tones.

Joan and Aesculapius walked back to the grubenhaus in silence. Joan was deeply disturbed by Hrotrud’s death. She was ashamed of the excitement she had felt beforehand about witnessing the trial. But then she had not expected Hrotrud to die. Surely Hrotrud was not a witch; therefore Joan had believed God would prove her innocence.

And He had.

But then why did He let her die?

S
HE
didn’t speak about it until later, after she had resumed her lesson back at the grubenhaus. She lowered her stylus in the middle of writing and asked suddenly, “Why would God do it?”

“Perhaps He didn’t,” Aesculapius responded, taking her meaning at once.

Joan stared at him. “Are you saying that such a thing could have happened in spite of His will?”

“Perhaps not. But the fault may lie in the nature of the trial rather than in the nature of God’s will.”

Joan considered that. “My father would say that this is how witches have been tried for hundreds of years.”

“True enough.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily make it right.” Joan looked at Aesculapius. “What would be a better way?”

“That,” he said, “is for you to tell me.”

Joan sighed. Aesculapius was so different from her father, or even Matthew. He refused to tell her things, insisting instead that she reason her own way to the answer. Joan tugged gently on the tip of her nose as she often did when thinking out a problem.

Of course. She had been blind not to see it at once. Cicero and the
De inventione
—until now, it had been merely an abstraction, a rhetorical ornament, an exercise for the mind.

“The evidentiary questions,” Joan said. “Why couldn’t they be brought to apply in this case?”

“Explain,” Aesculapius said.

“Quid:
there is the fact of the knotted belt—that is indisputable. But surely there is an argument about what it means.
Quis:
Who put the knots in the belt and placed it in the woods?
Quomodo:
How was it taken from Ebo?
Quando, Ubi:
When and where was it taken? Did anyone actually see Hrotrud with it?
Cur:
Why should Hrotrud wish harm to Ebo?” Joan spoke rapidly, excited by the possibilities of the idea. “Witnesses could be brought forward and questioned. And Hrotrud and Ebo too—they could be questioned. Their answers might have determined Hrotrud’s innocence. And”—Joan concluded ruefully—“she would not have had to die to prove it!”

They were on dangerous ground, and they knew it. They sat together in silence. Joan was overwhelmed by the enormity of the concept that had burst upon her: the application of logic to divine revelation, the possibility of an earthly justice in which the assumptions
of faith were governed by rational inquiry, and belief was supported by the powers of reason.

Aesculapius said, “It would probably be wise not to mention this conversation to your father.”

T
HE
Feast of St. Bertin was just past, the days were growing shorter, and so, of necessity, were the children’s lessons. The sun was low in the sky when Aesculapius finally stood up.

“That, children, is enough for today.”

“May I go now?” John asked. Aesculapius waved in dismissal, and John bounded from his seat and hurried outdoors.

Joan smiled ruefully at Aesculapius. John’s obvious dislike for their studies embarrassed her. Aesculapius was frequently impatient, even sharp, with John. But her brother was a slow and unwilling student. “I can’t do it!” he would wail the moment he met some new difficulty. There were times when Joan would have liked to shake him and shout, “Try! Try! How do you know you can’t do it unless you try!”

Afterward, Joan reproached herself for such thoughts. John could not help being slow. Without John there would have been no lessons at all these past two years—and life without lessons had become unthinkable.

As soon as John had gone, Aesculapius said seriously, “I have something to tell you. I have been informed that my services are no longer needed at the schola. Another scholar, a Frankishman, has applied to be teaching master, and the bishop finds him more suitable for the position than I.”

Joan was bewildered. “How can this be? Who is the man? He cannot possibly know as much as you!”

Aesculapius smiled. “That statement shows loyalty, if not wisdom. I have met the man; he is an excellent scholar, whose interests are better suited to the teachings of the schola than mine.” Seeing that Joan did not take his meaning, he added, “There is a place for the kind of knowledge you and I have pursued together, Joan, and it is not within the walls of a cathedral. Remember what I tell you, and be careful: some ideas are dangerous.”

“I understand,” Joan said, though she didn’t, completely. “But— what will you do now? How will you live?”

“I have a friend in Athens, a countryman who has achieved success as a merchant. He wants me to tutor his children.”

“You are leaving?” Joan was unable to believe what he was telling her.

“He is prosperous; his offer is generous. I have little choice but to accept.”

“You mean to go to Athens?” It was so far away. “When will you go?”

“In a month. I would have gone by now save for the pleasure I have taken in our work together.”

“But—” Joan’s mind raced, trying to think of something, anything to prevent this awful thing from happening. “You could live here, with us. You could be our tutor, John’s and mine, and we could have lessons every day!”

“That is impossible, my dear. Your father has barely enough to sustain your family through the winter as it is. There is no room at your hearth or at your table for a stranger. Besides, I must go where I can continue my own work. The cathedral library will no longer be permitted me.”

“Don’t go.” Grief rose within her like a palpable substance, forming a hard knot at the base of her throat. “Please don’t go.”

“My dear girl, I must. Though truly I wish it were not so.” He stroked Joan’s white-gold hair fondly. “I have learned much from teaching you; I do not look to have so apt a pupil again. You have a rare intelligence; it is God-given, and you must not deny it”—he glanced meaningfully at her—“whatever the cost.”

Joan was afraid to speak lest her voice betray her emotions.

Aesculapius took her hand in his. “You must not worry. You will be able to continue your studies. I will make arrangements. I do not know exactly where, as yet, or how, but I will. Yours is too promising an intellect to lie fallow. We will find the seeds with which to sow it, I promise.” He grasped her hand tightly. “Trust me in this.”

After he had gone, Joan did not move from her little desk. She sat alone in the gathering darkness until her mother returned, carrying logs for the hearth.

“Ah, so you are finished?” said Gudrun. “Good! Now come help me build the fire.”

A
ESCULAPIUS
came to see her the day he left, dressed in his long blue traveling cloak. In his hands he carried a package wrapped in cloth.

“For you.” He placed the package in her hands.

Joan unwrapped the strips of linen, then gasped as she saw what they had concealed. It was a book, bound in the Eastern fashion with leather-covered wooden boards.

“It is my own,” said Aesculapius. “I made it myself, some years ago. It is an edition of Homer—the original Greek in the front half of the book, and a Latin translation in the back. It will help you keep your knowledge of the language fresh until the time you can begin your studies again.”

Joan was speechless. A book of her own! Such a privilege was enjoyed only by monks and scholars of the highest rank. She opened it, looking at line after line of Aesculapius’s neat uncial letters, filling the pages with words of inexpressible beauty. Aesculapius watched her, his eyes filled with tender sadness.

“Do not forget, Joan. Do not ever forget.”

He opened his arms to her. She went to him, and for the first time they embraced. For a long while they clung to each other, Aesculapius’s tall, broad form cradling Joan’s small one. When at last they parted, his blue cloak was wet with Joan’s tears.

She did not watch as he rode away. She stayed inside where he had left her, holding on to the book, grasping it so tightly that her hands ached.

J
OAN
knew her father would not permit her to keep the book. He had never approved of her studies, and now, with Aesculapius gone, there was no one to stop him from enforcing his will. So she hid the book, rewrapping it carefully in its cloth and burying it under the thick straw on her side of the bed.

She was on fire to read it, to see the words, to hear again in her mind the joyous beauty of the poetry. But it was too dangerous; someone was usually in or near the cottage, and she feared discovery. Her only opportunity was at night. After everyone was asleep, she could read without risk of sudden interruption. But she needed some light— a candle, or at least some oil. The family got only two dozen candles a year—the canon was loath to take them from the sanctuary—and
these were carefully conserved; she could not use one unnoticed. But the church storehouse had a huge stockpile of wax—the coloni of Ingelheim were required to supply the sanctuary with a hundred pounds a year. If she could get hold of some, she could fashion her own candle.

It wasn’t easy, but in the end she managed to pilfer enough wax to make a small candle, using a piece of linen cord for a wick. It was a makeshift job—the flame was scarcely more than a flicker—but it was enough to provide light for study.

The first night she was cautious. She waited until long after her parents had retired to their bed behind the partition and she could hear the canon’s snoring before daring to move. Finally she slid out of bed, silent and watchful as a fawn, careful not to disturb John, who lay beside her. He slept soundly, his head burrowed beneath the covers. Gently Joan removed the book from its hiding place in the straw and carried it to the small pine desk in the far corner of the room. She took her candle to the hearth and lit it in the glowing embers.

Returning to the desk, she held the candle close to the book. The light was faint and unsteady, but with an effort she could make out the lines of dark black ink. The neat letters danced in the flickering light, beckoning, inviting. Briefly Joan paused, savoring the moment. Then she turned the page and began.

T
HE
warm days and cool nights of Windumemanoth, the wine harvest month, passed swiftly. The harsh nordostroni winds arrived earlier than usual, blowing in from the northeast in strong, bone-chilling gusts. Once again the window of the grubenhaus was boarded up, but the frigid winds penetrated every crevice; to keep warm, they had to leave the hearth fire burning all day long, filling the place with sooty smoke.