Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [13]
She stared at the small wooden crucifix that hung on the wall before the altar. The canon had brought it with him from his native England when he had arrived to carry out his missionary work among the heathen Saxons. Fashioned by a Northumbrian artist, the Christ figure had more power and precision than most Frankish work. His body stretched on the cross, all elongated limbs and emaciated ribs, the lower half twisted to emphasize His mortal agony. His head was fallen back, so that the Adam’s apple bulged—a strangely disconcerting reminder of His human maleness. The wood was deeply etched to reveal the tracks of blood from His many wounds.
The figure, for all its power, was grotesque. Joan knew she should be filled with love and awe at Christ’s sacrifice, but instead she felt revulsion. Compared with the beautiful, strong gods of her mother, this figure seemed ugly, broken, and defeated.
Beside her, John started to whimper. Joan reached out and took his hand. John took punishment hard. She was stronger than he was, and she knew it. Though he was ten years old, and she only seven, she found it entirely natural that she should nurture and protect him, rather than the other way around.
Tears started to form in his eyes. “It’s not fair,” he said.
“Don’t cry.” Joan was worried that the noise might bring Mama—or worse yet, Father. “Soon the penance will be over.”
“That’s not it!” he responded with wounded dignity.
“What’s the matter, then?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Tell me.”
“Father will want me to take over Matthew’s studies. I know he will. And I can’t do it; I can’t.”
“Perhaps you can,” said Joan, though she understood why her brother was worried. Father accused him of laziness and beat him when he did not progress in his studies, but it was not John’s fault. He tried to do well, but he was slow; he always had been.
“No,” John insisted. “I’m not like Matthew. Did you know that Father planned to take him to Aachen, to petition for his acceptance in the Schola Palatina?”
“Truly?” Joan was astonished. The Palace School! She had no idea that her father’s ambitions for Matthew had reached so high.
“And I can’t even read Donatus yet. Father says that Matthew had mastered Donatus when he was only nine, and I am almost ten. What will I do, Joan? What will I do?”
“Well …” Joan tried to think of something comforting to quiet him, but the strain of the last two days had driven John into a state past all caring.
“He will beat me. I know he will beat me.” Now John started to wail in earnest. “I don’t want to be beaten!”
Gudrun appeared in the doorway. Nervously casting a glance into the room behind her, she hurried over to John. “Stop it. Do you want your father to hear you? Stop it, I tell you!”
John rocked clumsily off the altar, threw his head back, and bawled. Oblivious to his mother’s words, he continued to wail, tears streaming down red-blotched cheeks.
Gudrun gripped John’s shoulders and shook him. His head flopped wildly, back to front; his eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. Joan heard the sharp click of teeth as his mouth snapped shut. Startled, John opened his eyes and saw his mother.
Gudrun hugged him to her. “You will not cry anymore. For your sister’s sake, and mine, you must not cry. All will be well, John. But now you will be quiet.” She rocked him, soothing and remonstrating at the same time.
Joan watched thoughtfully. She recognized the truth in what her brother said. John was not smart. He could not follow in Matthew’s footsteps. But— Her face flushed with excitement as a thought struck with the force of revelation.
“What is it, Joan?” Gudrun had seen the odd expression on her daughter’s face. “Are you unwell?” She was concerned, for the demons that carried the flux were known to linger in a house.
“No, Mama. But I have an idea, a wonderful idea!”
Gudrun groaned inwardly. The child was full of ideas that only got her into trouble.
“Yes?”
“Father wanted Matthew to go to the Schola Palatina.”
“I know.”
“And now he will want John to go in Matthew’s place.