Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [14]
“Well?” Gudrun was puzzled.
“I can do it, Mama. I can take over Matthew’s studies.”
For a moment Gudrun was too shocked to respond. Her daughter, her baby, the child she loved best—the only one with whom she had shared the language and the secrets of her people—she to study the sacred books of the Christian conquerors? That Joan would even consider such a thing was deeply wounding.
“What nonsense!” Gudrun said.
“I can work hard,” Joan persisted. “I like to study and learn about things. I can do it, and then John won’t have to. He isn’t good at it.” There was a muffled sob from John, whose head was still buried in his mother’s chest.
“You are a girl; such things are not for you,” Gudrun said dismissively. “Besides, your father would never approve.”
“But, Mama, that was before. Things have changed. Don’t you see? Now Father may feel differently.”
“I forbid you to speak of this to your father. You must be lightheaded from lack of food and rest, like your brother. Otherwise you would never speak so wildly.”
“But, Mama, if I could only show him—”
“No more, I say!” Gudrun’s tone left no room for further discussion.
Joan fell silent. Reaching inside her tunic, she clasped the medallion of St. Catherine that Matthew had carved for her. I can read Latin, and John cannot, she thought stubbornly. Why should it matter that I am a girl?
She went to the Bible on the little wooden desk. She lifted it, felt its weight, the familiar grooves of the gilt-edged tracings on the cover. The smell of wood and parchment, so strongly associated with Matthew, made her think of their work together, of all he had taught her, all she still wanted to learn. Perhaps if I show Father what I have learned … perhaps then he will see I can do it. Once again, she felt a rise of excitement. But there could be trouble. Father might be very angry. Her father’s anger frightened her; she had been struck by him often enough to know and fear the force of his rage.
She stood uncertainly, fingering the smooth surface of the Bible’s wooden binding. On an impulse, she opened it; the pages fell open to the Gospel of St. John, the text Matthew had used when he first taught her to read. It is a sign, she thought.
Her mother was sitting with her back to Joan, cradling John, whose sobs had subsided into forlorn hiccuping. Now is my chance. Joan held the book open and carried it into the next room.
Her father was hunched in a chair, head bowed, hands covering his face. He did not stir as Joan approached. She halted, suddenly afraid. The idea was impossible, ridiculous; Father would never approve. She was about to retreat when he took his hands from his face and looked up. She stood before him with the open book in her hands.
Her voice was nervously unsteady as she began to read, “In principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud Deum et verbum erat Deus …”
There was no interruption; she kept on, gaining confidence as she read. “All things were made by Him; and without Him was not any thing made that was made. In Him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shone in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.” The beauty and power of the words filled her, leading her onward, giving her strength.
She came to the end, flushed with success, knowing she had read well. She looked up and saw her father staring at her.
“I can read. Matthew taught me. We kept it a secret so no one would know.” The words spilled out in a breathless jumble. “I can make you proud, Father, I know I can. Let me take over Matthew’s studies and I—”
“You!” Her father’s voice rumbled with anger. “It was you!” He pointed at her accusingly. “You are the one! You brought God’s wrath down upon us. Unnatural child! Changeling! You murdered your brother!”
Joan gasped. The canon came toward her with arm raised. Joan dropped the book and tried to run, but he caught her and spun her round, bringing his fist down on her cheek with a force that sent her reeling. She landed against