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POPE JOAN

“It is so gratifying to read about those rare heroes whose strength of vision enables them to ignore the almost overpowering messages of their own historical periods…. Pope Joan has all the elements one wants: love, sex, violence, duplicity and long-buried secrets. Cross has written an engaging book.”

—Los Angeles Times Book Review

“A fascinating and moving account of a woman’s determination to learn, despite the opposition of family and society. Highly recommended.”

—Library Journal (starred review)

“Cross makes an excellent, entertaining case that in the Dark Ages, a woman sat on the papal throne…. A colorful, richly imagined novel.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Pope Joan reveals the harsh realities of the Dark Ages. Violence is rife in the government, church and home; logic and reason are shunned as “dangerous ideas” and women are considered useful only as men’s servants and child bearers. The novel explores the extraordinary life of an independent, intelligent and courageous woman who overcomes oppression and ascends to the highest level of religious power…. Cross’ masterful use of anticipation, as well as the sweeping historical landscape of the story, keep Pope Joan intriguing…. An exciting journey through history as it’s being made.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“Eloquently written and spellbinding in its account of this legendary figure.”

—Arizona Republic

“The life of an intelligent, headstrong woman in 9th-century Europe, the kind of woman who might have dared such an adventure in an era when obedience was a woman’s most admired trait…. Cross succeeds admirably, grounding her fast-moving tale in a wealth of rich historical detail.”

—Orlando Sentinel

“A story of passion and faith—and a reminder that some things never change, only the stage and players do.”

—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

“A remarkable woman uses her considerable intellect—and more than a little luck—to rise from humble origins to become the only female Pope, in this breakneck adventure.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“A page-turner!”

—Glamour

FOR MY FATHER,

WILLIAM WOOLFOLK,

and there are no words

to add

Prologue

IT WAS the twenty-eighth day of Wintarmanoth in the year of our Lord 814, the harshest winter in living memory.

Hrotrud, the village midwife of Ingelheim, struggled through the snow toward the canon’s grubenhaus. A gust of wind swept through the trees and drove icy fingers into her body, searching the holes and patches of her thin woolen garments. The forest path was deeply drifted; with each step, she sank almost to her knees. Snow caked her eyebrows and eyelashes; she kept wiping her face to see. Her hands and feet ached with cold, despite the layers of linen rags she had wrapped around them.

A blur of black appeared on the path ahead. It was a dead crow. Even those hardy scavengers were dying this winter, starved because their beaks could not tear the flesh of the frozen carrion. Hrotrud shivered and quickened her pace.

Gudrun, the canon’s woman, had gone into labor a month sooner than expected. A fine time for the child to come, Hrotrud thought bitterly. Five children delivered in the last month alone, and not one of them lasted more than a week.

A blast of wind-driven snow blinded Hrotrud, and for a moment she lost sight of the poorly marked path. She felt a swell of panic. More than one villager had died that way, wandering in circles only a short distance from their homes. She forced herself to stand still as the snow swirled around her, surrounding her in a featureless landscape of white. When the wind let up, she could just make out the outline of the path. Again she began to move forward. She no longer felt pain in her hands and feet; they had gone completely numb. She knew what that could mean, but she could not afford to dwell on it; it was important to remain calm.

I must think of something besides the cold.

She pictured the home in which she had been raised, a casa with a prosperous manse of some six hectares. It was warm and snug, with walls of