Pope Joan
by Donna Woolfolk Cross
List Price: $15.00
Pages: 432
Format: Paperback
ISBN: 9780307452368
Publisher: Three Rivers Press
Chapter 1
Thunder sounded, very near, and
the child woke. She moved in the bed, seeking the warmth and comfort of
her older brothers' sleeping forms. Then she remembered. Her brothers were
gone.
It was raining, a hard spring
downpour that filled the night air with the sweet-sour smell of newly
plowed earth. Rain thudded on the roof of the canon's cottage, but the
thickly woven thatching kept the room dry, except for one or two small
places in the corners where water first pooled and then trickled in slow
fat drops to the beaten earth floor.
The wind rose, and a nearby
oak began to tap an uneven rhythm on the cottage walls. The shadow of
its branches spilled into the room. The child watched, transfixed, as
the monstrous dark fingers wriggled at the edges of the bed. They reached
out for her, beckoning, and she shrank back.
Mama, she thought. She opened
her mouth to call out, then stopped. If she made a sound, the menacing
hand would pounce. She lay frozen, watching, unable to will herself to
move. Then she set her small chin resolutely. It had to be done, so she
would do it. Moving with exquisite slowness, never taking her eyes off
the enemy, she eased herself off the bed. Her feet felt the cool surface
of the earthen floor; the familiar sensation was reassuring. Scarcely
daring to breathe, she backed toward the partition behind which her mother
lay sleeping. Lightning flashed; the fingers moved and lengthened, following
her. She swallowed a scream, her throat tightening with the effort. She
forced herself to move slowly, not to break into a run.
She was almost there. Suddenly,
a salvo of thunder crashed overhead. At the same moment something touched
her from behind. She yelped, then turned and fled around the partition,
stumbling over the chair she had backed into.
This part of the house was
dark and still, save for her mother's rhythmic breathing. From the sound,
the child could tell she was deeply asleep; the noise had not wakened
her. She went quickly to the bed, lifted the woolen blanket and slid under
it. Her mother lay on her side, lips slightly parted; her warm breath
caressed the child's cheek. She snuggled close, feeling the softness of
her mother's body through her thin linen shift.
Gudrun yawned and shifted
position, roused by the movement. Her eyes opened, and she regarded the
child sleepily. Then, waking fully, she reached out and put her arms around
her daughter.
"Joan," she chastised gently,
her lips against the child's soft hair. "Little one, you should be asleep."
Speaking quickly, her voice
high and strained from fear, Joan told her mother about the monster hand.
Gudrun listened, petting and
stroking her daughter and murmuring reassurances. Gently she ran her fingers
over the the child's face, half-seen in the darkness. She was not pretty,
Gudrun reflected ruefully. She looked too much like him, with his thick
English neck and wide jaw. Her small body was already stocky and heavyset,
not long and graceful like Gudrun's people. But the child's eyes were
good, large and expressive and rich-hued, green with dark grey smoke-rings
at the center. Gudrun lifted a strand of Joan's baby hair and caressed
it, enjoying the way it shone, white-gold, even in the darkness. My hair,
she thought gloatingly. Not the coarse black hair of her husband or his
cruel dark people. My child. She wrapped the strand gently around her
forefinger and smiled. This one, at least, is mine.
Soothed by her mother's attentions,
Joan relaxed. In playful imitation, she began to tug at Gudrun's long
braid, loosening it till her hair lay tumbled about her head. Joan marvelled
at it, spilling over the dark woolen coverlet like rich cream. She had
never seen her mother's hair unbound. At the canon's insistence, Gudrun
wore it always neatly braided, hidden under a rough linen cap. A woman's
hair, her husband said, was the net wherein Satan catches a man's soul.
And Gudrun's hair was extraordinarily beautiful, long and soft and pure
white-gold, without a trace of gray, though she was now an old woman of
thirty-six winters.
"Why did Matthew and John
go away?" Joan asked suddenly. Her mother had explained this to her several
times, but Joan wanted to hear it again.
"You know why. Your father
took them with him on his missionary journey."
"Why couldn't I go too?"
Gudrun sighed patiently. The
child was always so full of questions. "Matthew and John are boys; one
day they will be priests like your father. You are a girl, and therefore
such matters do not concern you." Seeing that Joan was not content with
that, she added, "Besides, you are much too young."
Joan was indignant. "I was
four in Wintarmanoth!"
Gudrun's eyes lit with amusement
as she looked at the pudgy baby face. "Ah, yes, I forgot, you are a big
girl now, aren't you? Four years old! That does sound very grown up."
Joan lay quietly while her
mother stroked her hair. Then she asked, "What are heathens?" Her father
and brothers had spoken a good deal about heathens before they left. Joan
did not understand what heathens were, exactly, though she gathered it
was something very bad.
Gudrun stiffened. The word
had conjuring powers. It had been on the lips of the invading soldiers
as they pillaged her home and slaughtered her friends and family. The
dark, cruel soldiers of the Frankish Emperor Karolus. "Magnus," people
called him now that he was dead. "Karolus Magnus." Charles the Great.
Would they name him so, Gudrun wondered, if they had seen his army tear
Saxon babes from their mother's arms, swinging them round before they
dashed their heads against the reddened stones? Gudrun withdrew her hand
from Joan's hair and rolled onto her back.
"That is a question you must
ask your father," she said.
Joan did not understand what
she had done wrong, but she heard the strange hardness in her mother's
voice and knew that she would be sent back to her own bed if she didn't
think of some way to repair the damage. Quickly she said, "Tell me again
about the Old Ones."
"I cannot. Your father disapproves
of the telling of such tales." The words were half statement, half question.
Joan knew what to do. Placing
both hands solemnly over her heart, she recited The Oath exactly as her
mother had taught it to her, promising eternal secrecy on the sacred name
of Thor the Thunderer.
Gudrun laughed and drew Joan
close again. "Very well, little quail. I will tell you the story, since
you know so well how to ask."
Her voice was warm again,
wistful and melodic as she began to tell of Woden and Thunor and Freya
and the other gods who had peopled her Saxon childhood before the armies
of Karolus brought the Word of Christ with blood and fire. She spoke liltingly
of Asgard, the radiant home of the gods, a place of golden and silver
palaces, which could only be reached by crossing Bifrost, the mysterious
bridge of the rainbow. Guarding the bridge was Heimdall the Watchman,
who never slept, whose ears were so keen he could even hear the grass
grow. In Valhalla, the most beautiful palace of all, lived Woden, the
father-god, on whose shoulders sat the two ravens Hugin, Thought, and
Munin, Memory. On his throne, while the other gods feasted, Woden contemplated
what Thought and Memory told him.
Joan nodded happily. This
was her favorite part of the story. "Tell about the Well of Wisdom," she
begged.
"Although he was already very
wise," explained her mother, "Woden always sought greater wisdom. One
day he went to the Well of Wisdom, guarded by Mimir the Wise, and asked
for a draught from it. 'What price will you pay?' asked Mimir. Woden replied
that Mimir could ask what he wished. 'Wisdom must always be bought with
pain,' replied Mimir. 'If you wish a drink of this water you must pay
for it with one of your eyes.'"
Eyes bright with excitement,
Joan exclaimed, "And Woden did it, Mama, didn't he? He did it!"
Her mother nodded. "Though
it was a hard choice, Woden consented to lose the eye. He drank the water.
Afterward, he passed on to mankind the wisdom he had gained."
Joan looked up at her mother,
her eyes wide and serious. "Would you have done it, Mama--to be wise,
to know about all things?"
"Only gods make such choices."
Seeing the child's persistent look of question, Gudrun confessed, "No.
I would have been too afraid."
"So would I," Joan said thoughtfully.
"But I would want to do it. I would want to know what the well could tell
me."
Gudrun smiled down at the
intent little face. "Perhaps you would not like what you would learn there.
There is a saying among our people. 'A wise man's heart is seldom glad.'"
Joan nodded, though she did
not really understand. "Now tell about the Tree," she said, snuggling
close to her mother again.
Gudrun began to describe Irminsul,
the wondrous universe tree. It had stood in the holiest of the Saxon groves
at the source of the Lippe river. Her people had worshipped at it until
it was cut down by the armies of Karolus.
"It was very beautiful," her
mother said, "and so tall that no one could see the top. It--"
She stopped. Suddenly aware
of another presence, Joan looked up. Her father was standing in the doorway.
Her mother sat up in bed.
"Husband," she said. "I did not look for your return for another fortnight."
The canon did not respond.
He took a wax taper from the table near the door and crossed to the hearthfire,
where he plunged it into the glowing embers until it flared.
Gudrun said nervously, "The
child was frightened by the thunder. I thought to comfort her with a harmless
story."
"Harmless!" The canon's voice
shook with the effort to control his rage. "You call such blasphemy harmless?"
He covered the distance to the bed in two long strides, set down the taper,
and pulled the blanket off, exposing them. Joan lay with her arms around
her mother, half-hidden under a curtain of white-gold hair.
For a moment the canon stood
stupefied with disbelief, looking at Gudrun's unbound hair. Then his fury
overtook him. "How dare you! When I have expressly forbidden it!" Taking
hold of Gudrun, he started to drag her from the bed. "Heathen witch!"
Joan clung to her mother.
The canon's face darkened. "Child, begone!" he bellowed. Joan hesitated,
torn between fear and the desire to somehow protect her mother.
Gudrun pushed her urgently.
"Yes, go. Go quickly."
Releasing her hold, Joan dropped
to the floor and ran. At the door, she turned and saw her father grab
her mother roughly by the hair, wrenching her head back, forcing her to
her knees. Joan started back into the room. Terror stopped her short as
she saw her father withdraw his long, bonehandled hunting knife from his
corded belt.
"Forsachistu diabolae?" he
asked Gudrun in Saxon, his voice scarcely more than whisper. When she
did not respond, he placed the point of the knife against her throat.
"Say the words," he growled menacingly. "Say them!"
"Ec forsacho allum diaboles,"
Gudrun responded tearfully, her eyes blazing defiance, "wuercum and wuordum,
thunaer ende woden ende saxnotes ende allum..."
Rooted with fear, Joan watched
her father pull up a heavy tress of her mother's hair and draw the knife
across it. There was a ripping sound as the silken strands parted; a long
band of white gold floated to the floor.
Clapping her hand over her
mouth to stifle a sob, Joan turned and ran.
In the darkness, she bumped
into a shape that reached out for her. She squealed in fear as it grabbed
her. The monster hand! She had forgotten about it! She struggled, pummelling
at it with her tiny fists, resisting with all her strength, but it was
huge, and held her fast.
"Joan! Joan, it's all right.
It's me!"
The words penetrated her fear.
It was her ten-year-old brother Matthew, who had returned with her father.
"We've come back. Joan, stop
struggling! It's all right. It's me." Joan reached up, felt the smooth
surface of the pectoral cross that Matthew always wore, then slumped against
him in relief.
Together they sat in the dark,
listening to the soft splitting sounds of the knife ripping through their
mother's hair. Once they heard Mama cry out in pain. Matthew cursed aloud.
An answering sob came from the bed where Joan's seven-year-old brother
John was hiding under the covers.
At last the ripping sounds
stopped. After a brief pause the canon's voice began to rumble in prayer.
Joan felt Matthew relax; it was over. She threw her arms around his neck
and wept. He held her and rocked her gently.
After a time, she looked up
at him.
"Father called Mama a heathen."
"Yes."
"She isn't," Joan said hesitantly,
"is she?"
"She was." Seeing her look
of horrified disbelief, he added, "a long time ago. Not any more. But
those were heathen stories she was telling you."
Joan stopped crying; this
was interesting information.
"You know the first of the
Commandments, don't you?"
Joan nodded and recited dutifully,
"Thou shalt have no other gods before me."
"Yes. That means that the
gods Mama was telling you about are false; it is sinful to speak of them."
"Is that why Father...?"
"Yes, " Matthew broke in.
"Mama had to be punished for the good of her soul. She was disobedient
to her husband, and that also is against the law of God."
"Why?"
"Because it says so in the
Holy Book." He began to recite, "'For the husband is the head of the wife;
therefore, let the wives submit themselves unto their husbands in everything.'"
"Why?"
"Why?" Matthew was taken aback.
No one had ever asked him that before. "Well, I guess because...because
women are by nature inferior to men. Men are bigger, stronger and smarter."
"But--" Joan started to respond
but Matthew cut her off.
"Enough questions, little
sister. You should be in bed. Come now." He carried her to the bed and
placed her beside John, who was already sleeping.
Matthew had been kind to her;
to return the favor, Joan closed her eyes and burrowed under the covers
as if to sleep.
But she was far too troubled
for sleep. She lay in the dark, peering at John as he slept, his mouth
hanging slackly open.
He can't recite from the Psalter
and he's seven years old. Joan was only four but already she knew the
first ten psalms by heart.
John wasn't smart. But he
was a boy. Yet how could Matthew be wrong? He knew everything; he was
going to be a priest, like father.
She lay awake in the dark,
turning the problem over in her mind.
Towards dawn she slept, restlessly,
troubled by dreams of mighty wars between jealous and angry gods. The
angel Gabriel himself came from heaven with a flaming sword to do battle
with Thor and Freya. The battle was terrible and fierce, but in the end
the false gods were driven back, and Gabriel stood triumphant before the
gates of paradise. His sword had disappeared; in his hand gleamed a short,
bone-handled knife.
Use of this excerpt
from Pope Joan by Donna Woolfolk Cross may be made only for purposes
of promoting the book, with no changes, editing or additions whatsoever,
and must be accompanied by the following copyright notice: copyright ©1996
by Donna Woolfolk Cross. All Rights Reserved.
Excerpted from Pope Joan © Copyright 2009 by Donna Woolfolk Cross. Reprinted with permission by Three Rivers Press. All rights reserved.
• Click here now to buy this book from Amazon.
top of the page
