Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [151]
“Most distressing, His Holiness’s attack this evening,” Lothar said.
Anastasius replied, “The Apostolic One is very ill. He may not live out the year.”
“A great tragedy for the Church.”
“Very great,” Anastasius agreed smoothly.
“His successor must be a man of strength and vision,” Lothar said, “a man who can better appreciate the historic … understanding between our two peoples.”
“You must use all your influence, my liege, to ensure that the next Pontiff is such a man.”
“Don’t you mean—a man like you?”
“Have you reason to doubt me, Sire? Surely the service I did you at Colmar proved my loyalty beyond all question.”
“Perhaps.” Lothar was noncommittal. “But times change, and so do men. Now, my lord Bishop, your loyalty is to be put to the test again. Will you support the oath taking, or no?”
“The people will be reluctant to swear loyalty to you, my liege, after the damage your army has visited upon the countryside.”
“Your family has the power to change that,” Lothar responded. “If you and your father, Arsenius, take the oath, others will follow.”
“What you ask is very great. It would require something great in return.”
“I know that.”
“An oath is only words. The people need a Pope who can lead them back to the old ways—to the Frankish Empire, and to you, my liege.”
“I can think of no one better able to do that than you, Anastasius. I shall do everything in my power to see that you are the next Pope.”
There was a pause. Then Anastasius said, “The people will take the oath, Sire. I will make certain of it.”
Joan felt a surge of anger. Lothar and Anastasius had just bartered for the papacy like a pair of merchants at a bazaar. In return for the privileges of power, Anastasius had agreed to hand the Romans over to the Frankish Emperor’s control.
There was a knock on the door, and Lothar’s servant entered.
“The count has arrived, my liege.”
“Show him in. The bishop and I have concluded our business.”
A man entered, dressed in a soldier’s brunia. He was tall and striking, with long, red hair and indigo eyes.
Gerold.
23
ASTARTLED cry burst from Joan’s lips.
“Who’s there?” Lothar asked sharply.
Slowly Joan came out from behind the pillar. Lothar and Anastasius looked at her with astonishment.
“Who are you?” Lothar demanded.
“John Anglicus, my liege. Priest and physician to His Holiness Pope Sergius.”
Lothar asked suspiciously, “How long have you been here?”
Joan thought quickly. “Some hours, Sire. I came to pray for His Holiness’s recovery. I must have been more tired than I realized, for I fell asleep and only just awoke.”
Lothar looked down his long nose disapprovingly. More likely the little priest had been trapped in the chapel when Anastasius and he had entered. There was no place to run and no place to hide. But it scarcely mattered. How much could he have overheard, and, more important, how much understood? Little enough. There could be no danger in the man; he was obviously no one of importance. The best course was to ignore him.
Anastasius had arrived at a different conclusion. Obviously John Anglicus had been eavesdropping, but why? Was he a spy? Not for Sergius, surely, for the Pope lacked the ingenuity to use spies. But if not, then for whom? And why? From now on, Anastasius decided, the little foreign priest would bear close watching.
Gerold was also studying Joan curiously. “You look familiar, Father,” he said. “Have we met before?” He peered at her frowningly through the dim light. Suddenly his expression changed; he stared like a man who had just seen a ghost. “My God,” he said chokingly. “It can’t be …”
“You know each other?” Anastasius asked.
“We met in Dorstadt,” Joan said quickly. “I studied some years at the cathedral school there; my sister”—she emphasized