Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [124]
With a surge of excitement, Joan studied the map. There was a good, wide road from here to Langres. There, the road turned south through Besançon and Orbe, descending along Lake St.-Maurice to LeValais. At the foot of the Alps, there was a monastic hostelry where pilgrims could rest and provision themselves for the hard trek across the mountains through the Great St. Bernard—the best and most frequently traveled of the Alpine passes. Once over the Alps, the wide, straight line of the Via Francigena led down through Aosta, Pavia, and Bologna into Tuscany, and beyond it to Rome.
Rome. The world’s greatest minds gathered in that ancient city; its churches held untold treasures, its libraries the accumulated wisdom of centuries. Surely there, amidst the sacred tombs of the apostles, Joan would find what she was seeking. In Rome she would discover her destiny.
SHE was settling her saddlebag on the mule—Arn had insisted she take one for the journey—when little Arnalda came running out of the cottage, her blond hair still tousled from her night’s sleep.
“Where are you going?” the cherubic little face demanded anxiously.
Joan knelt so her face was level with the child’s. “To Rome,” she replied, “the City of Marvels, where the Pope dwells.”
“Do you like the Pope better than me?”
Joan laughed. “I’ve never met him. And there is no one I like better than you, little quail.” She stroked the child’s soft hair.
“Then don’t go.” Arnalda threw her arms around Joan. “I don’t want you to go.”
Joan hugged her. The small child-body cuddled warmly against her, filling her arms and her heart. I could have had a little girl like this, if I had chosen a different path. A little girl to hold and to cuddle—and to teach. She remembered the desolation she had felt when Aesculapius had gone away. He had left her a book, so she could continue to learn. But she, who had fled from the monastery with only the clothes on her back, had nothing to give the child.
Except …
Joan reached inside her tunic and pulled out the medallion she had worn ever since the day Matthew had first placed it about her neck. “This is St. Catherine. She was very smart and very strong, just like you.” She related the story of St. Catherine.
Arnalda’s eyes grew round with wonder. “She was a girl, and she did that?”
“Yes. And so may you, if you keep working at your letters.” Joan took the medallion from her neck and hung it around Arnalda’s. “She is yours now. Look after her for me.”
Arnalda clutched the medallion, her little face contorted in a determined effort not to cry.
Joan said good-bye to Arn and Bona, who had come outside to see her off. Bona handed her a parcel of food and an oiled goatskin filled with ale. “There’s bread and cheese, and some dried meat—enough to see you through for a fortnight, by which time you will have reached the hostel.”
“Thank you,” Joan said. “I will never forget your kindness.”
Arn said, “Remember, Joan. You are welcome here at any time. This is your home.”
Joan embraced him. “Teach the girl,” she said. “She is intelligent, and as hungry to learn as you were.”
She mounted the mule. The little family stood around her, looking sad. It was her constant fate, it seemed, to leave behind those she loved. This was the price for the strange life she had chosen, but she had gone into it with eyes open, and there was no profit in regret.
Joan kicked the mule into a trot. With a last wave over her shoulder, she turned her face toward the southern road—and Rome.
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Rome | 844
ANASTASIUS put down his quill, stretching his fingers to rid them of cramp. With pride, he studied the page he had just written— the latest entry in his masterpiece, the Liber pontificalis, or Book of the Popes, a detailed record of the papacies of his time.
Lovingly Anastasius ran his hand over the clean white vellum that lay ahead. On these blank pages the accomplishments, the triumphs, the glory of his own papacy would one day be recorded.
How proud