Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [102]
“If she is not a leper, then what has caused these ulcers?” Raban demanded.
“There could be several causes. It is difficult to say without further examination. But whatever the reason, one thing is certain: it is not leprosy.”
“God has marked this woman with the visible manifestation of sin. We must not defy His will!”
“She is marked, but not by leprosy,” Joan responded sturdily. “God has provided us with the knowledge to discern between those whom He has chosen to bear this burden, and those whom He has not. Will He be pleased if we consign to a living death one whom He Himself has not elected?”
It was a clever argument. With dismay, Raban saw the others were moved by it. “How do we know whether you have correctly interpreted the signs of God’s will?” he countered. “Is your pride so great you would sacrifice your brethren to it—for in order to minister to this woman you must put all in jeopardy.”
This elicited a buzz of concern. Nothing, save the unimaginable torments of Hell, inspired more horror, revulsion, and fear than the disease of leprosy.
With a howl, Madalgis threw herself at Joan’s feet. She had been following the discussion without understanding, for Joan and Raban had been speaking in Latin, but she had managed to discern that Joan had interceded on her behalf, and that the argument was not going well.
Joan patted her shoulder, as much to quiet as to comfort her. “None of the brethren needs be put at risk, saving myself. With your leave, Father, I will go with her to her home, bringing such medications as may be necessary.”
“Alone? With a woman?” Raban’s brows rose in pious horror. “John Anglicus, your purpose is perhaps innocent, but you are as yet a young man, subject to the baser passions of the flesh, from which it is my duty, as your spiritual father, to protect you.”
Joan opened her mouth to respond, then closed it with frustration. No one could be safer from temptation by a woman than she, but there was no way she could explain that to Raban.
Brother Benjamin’s rasping voice sounded behind her. “I will accompany Brother John. I am old, long past the time for such temptation. Father, you may trust in Brother John when he says the woman is no leper, for when he speaks with such certainty, he will not be wrong. His skill in such matters is very great.”
Joan shot him a grateful glance. Madalgis clung to her, her wails tempered into muted whimpering by Joan’s reassuring touch.
Abbot Raban hesitated. What he really wanted was to give John Anglicus a sound caning for his presumptuous disobedience. But Bishop Otgar was watching; Raban could not appear to be unbending or unmerciful. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “Brother John, after vespers you and Brother Benjamin may go from here with this sinner, and do what may be done in God’s name to cure her of her affliction.”
“Thank you, Father,” Joan said.
Raban made the sign of the cross over them. “May God in His merciful goodness shield you from harm.”
THE mule carrying bags of medical supplies plodded along placidly, indifferent to the westering sun. Madalgis’s cottage lay some five miles on; at this languid pace, they would be hard-pressed to arrive before dark. Joan prodded the mule impatiently. To humor her, the beast took five or six quick steps in succession, then settled back comfortably into its original gait.
As they walked, Madalgis chattered on with the nervous energy that often follows a great fright. Joan and Benjamin learned her whole sad story. Despite her destitute appearance, she was no colona but a free-woman whose husband had held independent title to a manse encompassing some twelve hectares. After his death, she had tried to support her family by working the land herself, but this heroic endeavor was abruptly curtailed by her neighbor, Lord Rathold, who coveted the prosperous manse. Lord Rathold had brought Madalgis’s labors to the attention of Abbot Raban, who forbade her, upon threat of excommunication, ever to take up tiller or hoe again. “It is ungodly for