Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [109]
“The midwife? You don’t mean …” Her mother was over fifty, well past childbearing years; she had begotten no more children after Joan was born.
“They would not let me bury her in the Christian cemetery, not with the unbaptized babe still in her womb.” He began to cry, great, choking sobs that shook his entire body.
Did he love her, then? He’d had an odd way of displaying it, with his brutal rages, his cruelty, and his lust, his selfish lust that had killed her in the end.
The canon’s sobs slowly quieted, and he began the prayer for the dead. This time Joan did not join in. Quietly, under her breath, she began to recite the Oath, invoking the sacred name of Thor the Thunderer, just as Mama had taught her so long ago.
Her father cleared his throat uncomfortably. “There is one thing, John. The mission in Saxony … do you think … that is, could the brothers use my help, in their work with the heathens?”
Joan was perplexed. “What about your work in Ingelheim?”
“The fact is, my position in Ingelheim has become difficult. The recent … misfortune … with your mother …”
At once Joan understood. The strictures against married clergy, only feebly enforced during the reign of Emperor Karolus, had tightened under the reign of his son, whose religious zeal had earned him the title Louis the Pious. The recent synod in Paris had strongly reinforced both the theory and practice of clerical celibacy. Gudrun’s pregnancy, visible evidence of the canon’s lack of chastity, could not have come at a worse time.
“You have lost your position?”
Reluctantly, her father nodded. “But Deo volente, I have the strength and skill to do God’s work yet. If you could intercede for me with Abbot Raban …?”
Joan did not reply. She was overfull with grief, anger, and pain; there was no room left in her heart for compassion toward her father.
“You do not answer me. You have grown proud, my son.” He stood, his voice taking on something of its old commanding tone. “Remember, it was I who brought you to this place, and to your current position in life. Contritionem praecedit superbia, et ante ruinam exaltatio spiritus,” he remonstrated sternly. “Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall. Proverbs, chapter sixteen.”
“Bonum est homini mulierem non tangere,” Joan retorted. “It is well for a man not to touch a woman, First Corinthians, chapter seven.”
Her father raised his cane to strike her, but the movement caused him to lose his balance, and he fell. She put out her hand to help him, and he pulled her down to him, holding her fast.
“My son,” his voice pleaded tearfully in her ear, “my son. Do not desert me. You are all I have.”
Repelled, she pulled back so violently that her cowl slipped off her head. Hastily she pulled it on again, but it was too late.
Her father’s face held an expression of horrified recognition. “No,” he said, aghast. “No, it cannot be.”
“Father—”
“Daughter of Eve, what have you done? Where is your brother, John?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Killed by Norsemen, in the church at Dorstadt. I tried to save him, but—”
“Witch! Mooncalf! Demon from Hell!” He traced the sign of the cross in the air before him.
“Father, please, let me explain—” Joan pleaded desperately. She had to calm him before his raised voice drew the others.
He retrieved his stick and struggled awkwardly to his feet, his whole body trembling. Joan moved to assist him, but he warded her off and said accusingly, “You killed your elder brother. Could you not have spared the younger?”
“I loved John, Father. I would never have harmed him. It was the Norsemen, they came without warning, with swords and axes.” She tightened her throat against mounting sobs; she had to keep talking, make him understand. “John tried to fight, but they killed everyone, everyone. They—”
He turned toward the door. “I must put a stop to this, to you, before you do any further harm.”
She grabbed hold of his arm. “Father, don’t, please, they will kill me if—”
He rounded on her