Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [108]
It was a pretty apology. Brother Samuel’s stern look dissolved into a smile; he was not a man to hold a grudge.
“You have it, Brother, most freely. Come. We will walk together to the garden.”
AS THEY made their way from the cloister past the livestock barns, the mill, and the drying kilns, Joan quickly calculated her chances. The last time her father had seen her, she had been a child of twelve. She had changed greatly in the ensuing ten years. Perhaps he would not recognize her. Perhaps …
They reached the garden with its neat rows of raised planting beds—thirteen in all, the number carefully selected to symbolize the holy congregation of Christ and the Twelve Apostles at the Last Supper. Each bed was exactly seven feet wide; this was also significant, for seven was the number of gifts of the Holy Ghost, signifying the wholeness of all created things.
In the rear of the garden, between beds of pepperwort and chervil, her father stood with his back to them. His short, squat body, thick neck, and resolute stance were immediately familiar. Joan pulled her head deep inside her voluminous cowl so the heavy material hung down in front, covering her hair and face.
Hearing their approach, the canon turned. His dark hair and beetling brows, which had once struck such terror in Joan, had gone completely gray.
“Deus tecum.” Brother Samuel gave Joan an encouraging pat. “God be with you.” Then he left them.
HER father crossed the garden haltingly. He was smaller than she remembered; she saw with surprise that he used a stick to walk. As he drew near, Joan turned away and, without speaking, gestured him to follow. She led him out of the sharp glare of the midday sun into the windowless chapel adjoining the garden, where darkness would provide better concealment. Inside, she waited for him to take a seat on one of the benches. Then she seated herself at the far end, keeping her head low so the cowl hid her profile.
“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctficetur nomen tuum …” Her father began the Lord’s Prayer. His folded hands shook with palsy; he spoke in the quavering, brittle tones of an old man. Joan joined her voice to his, their mingled words echoing through the tiny, stonewalled chamber.
The prayer completed, they sat for a while in silence.
“My son,” the canon said at last, “you have done well. Brother Hospitaler tells me you are to be a priest. You have brought honor to our family, as I once hoped your brother would.”
Matthew. Joan fingered the medallion of St. Catherine that hung around her neck, the one Matthew had given her so long ago.
Her father caught the gesture. “My eyesight has grown thick. Is that your sister Joan’s medallion?”
Joan let go of it, cursing her stupidity; she had not thought to hide it.
“I took it as a remembrance … afterwards.” She could not bring herself to speak of the horror of the Norsemen’s attack.
“Did your sister die without … dishonor?”
Joan had a sudden image of Gisla, screaming in pain and fear while the Norsemen took turns with her.
“She died inviolate.”
“Deo gratias.” The canon crossed himself. “It was God’s will, then. Headstrong and unnatural child, she could never have been at peace in this world; it is better so.”
“She would not have said so.”
If the canon caught the irony in her voice, he did not reveal it. “Her death was a very great grief to your mother.”
“How fares my mother?”
For a long moment the canon did not respond. When at last he did, his voice was shakier than before.
“She is gone.”
“Gone?”
“To Hell,” the canon said, “to burn for all eternity.”
“No.” Understanding crowded the edges of Joan’s consciousness. “No.”
Not Mama with the beautiful face, the kind eyes, the gentle hands that brought kindness and comfort—Mama, who had loved her.
“She died one month ago,” the canon said, “unshriven and unreconciled to Christ, calling upon her heathen gods. When the midwife told me she would not live, I did everything I could, but she would not