Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [10]
“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.”
THE summer and fall that