Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [107]
Joan recalled the opening lines of chapter four: “Omnes supervenientes hospites tamquam Christus suscipiantur,” it read. “Let all who come be received like Christ.”
Joan took Brother Adalgar’s meaning at once. A visitor had come to Fulda—someone of note, or Brother Adalgar would not have troubled to mention it. Fulda received upward of a dozen visitors a day, rich and poor, fur-robed pilgrims and ragged paupers, weary travelers who came knowing that they would not be sent away, that here they would find a few days’ rest, shelter, and food before continuing on their way.
Joan’s curiosity was piqued. “Who?” she responded by a slight lift of her eyebrows.
At that moment Abbot Raban gave the sign, and the brothers rose from the table in unison, lining up in order of seniority. As they exited the refectory, Brother Adalgar turned to her.
“Parens,” he signed, and pointed at her emphatically. “Your parent.”
WITH the calm, measured step and placid mien befitting a monk of Fulda, Joan followed the brethren out of the refectory. Nothing in her outward appearance betrayed her profound agitation.
Could Brother Adalgar be right? Had one of her parents come to Fulda? Her mother or her father? Parens, Adalgar had said, which could mean either. What if it was her father? He would not expect to see her but rather her brother, John. The idea filled Joan with alarm. If her father discovered her imposture, he would surely denounce her.
But perhaps it was her mother who had come. Gudrun would not betray her secret. She would understand that such a revelation would cost Joan her life.
Mama. It had been ten years since Joan had seen her, and they had parted badly. Suddenly, more than anything, Joan wanted to see Gudrun’s familiar, beloved face, wanted to hold and be held by her, to hear her speak the lilting rhythms of the Old Tongue.
Brother Samuel, the hospitaler, intercepted her as she was leaving the refectory.
“You are excused from your duties this afternoon; someone has come to see you.”
Torn between hope and fear, Joan said nothing.
“Don’t look so serious, Brother; it isn’t the Devil come for your immortal soul.” Brother Samuel laughed heartily. He was a good-hearted, jovial man, fond of jests and laughter. For years Abbot Raban had chastised him for these unspiritual qualities, then finally given up and appointed him hospitaler, a job whose worldly duties of greeting and caring for visitors suited Brother Samuel perfectly.
“Your father is here,” Samuel said cheerfully, glad to impart such good news, “waiting in the garden to greet you.”
Fear splintered Joan’s mask of self-control. She backed away, shaking her head. “I will not see him. I … I cannot.”
The smile disappeared from Brother Samuel’s lips. “Now, Brother, you don’t mean that. Your father’s traveled all the way from Ingelheim to speak with you.”
She would have to offer some explanation. “There is bad blood between us. We … argued … when I left home.”
Brother Samuel put his arm around her shoulders. “I understand,” he said sympathetically. “But he is your father, and he has come a long way. It will be an act of charity to talk to him, if only for a little while.”
Unable to disagree with this, Joan kept silent.
Brother Samuel took this for acquiescence. “Come. I will take you to him.”
“No!” She shook off his encircling arm.
Brother Samuel was startled. This was no way to address the hospitaler, one of the seven obedientiary officers of the abbey.
“Your soul is troubled, Brother,” he said sharply. “You need spiritual guidance. We will discuss this in chapter tomorrow.”
What can I do? Joan thought in dismay. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to keep her true identity from her father. But a discussion in chapter could also be ruinous. There was no excuse for her behavior. If she was found to be disobedient, like Gottschalk …
“Forgive me, Nonnus”—she used the address of respect due a senior brother—“for my lack of temperance