Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [152]
Her eyes flashed Gerold an urgent warning: Say nothing.
Gerold recovered his composure. “Of course,” he said. “I remember your sister well.”
Lothar broke in impatiently. “Enough of this. What have you come to tell me, Count?”
“My message is for your ears alone, my liege.”
Lothar nodded. “Very well. The others may leave. We will speak again, Anastasius.”
As Joan turned to go, Gerold touched her arm. “Wait for me. I would like to hear more … about your sister.”
Outside the chapel, Anastasius went his way. Joan waited nervously under the baleful eye of Lothar’s steward. The situation was extremely dangerous; one ill-considered word, and her true identity could be revealed. I should leave now, before Gerold comes out, she told herself. But she yearned to see him. She stood rooted there by a complex mix of fear and anticipation.
The chapel door opened, and Gerold emerged. “It is you, then?” he said wonderingly. “But how—?”
The servant was eyeing them curiously.
“Not here,” Joan said. She led him to the little room where she kept her herbs and medicines. Inside, she lit the poppy oil lamps; they flared into life, enclosing the two in an intimate circle of light.
They stared at each other with the wonder of rediscovery. Gerold had changed in the fifteen years since Joan had last seen him; the thick, red hair was traced with gray, and there were new lines around the indigo eyes and wide, sensual mouth—but he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen. The sight of him set her heart hammering.
Gerold took a step toward her. All at once they were in each other’s arms, holding on so tightly that Joan could feel the metal rings of Gerold’s mail through her thick priest’s robe.
“Joan,” Gerold murmured. “My dearest, my pearl. I never thought to see you again.”
“Gerold.” The word blotted out all reasonable thought.
Gently his finger traced the faint scar on her left cheek. “The Norsemen?”
“Yes.”
He bent and kissed it gently, his lips warm against her cheek. “They did take you, then—you and Gisla?”
Gisla. Gerold must never know, she must never tell him, the horror that had befallen his elder daughter.
“They took Gisla. I—I managed to escape.”
He was astonished. “How? And to where? My men and I scoured the countryside looking for you but found no trace.”
Briefly she told him what had happened—as much as she could tell in so hurried and constrained a circumstance: her escape to Fulda and acceptance as John Anglicus, the near-discovery of her identity and flight from the abbey, her pilgrimage to Rome and subsequent rise to the position of Pope’s physician.
“And in all this time,” Gerold said slowly when she had finished, “you never thought to send word to me?”
Joan heard the pain and bewilderment in his voice. “I—I did not think you wanted me. Richild said the idea of marrying me to the farrier’s son was yours, that you had asked her to arrange it.”
“And you believed her?” Abruptly he released her. “Great God, Joan, had we no better understanding between us?”
“I—I didn’t know what to think. You had gone; I could not be certain why. And Richild knew—about us, about what happened at the riverbank. How could she have known, unless you told her?”
“I don’t know. I only know that I loved you as I have never loved anyone before—or since.” His voice tightened. “I drove Pistis almost beyond endurance on the road home, straining to catch sight of Villaris, for you were there, and I was wild with impatience to see you … to ask you to be my wife.”
“Your wife?” Joan was dumbfounded. “But … Richild …?”
“Something happened while I was gone—something that helped me see how empty my marriage was, how vital you were to my happiness. I was returning to tell you that I meant to divorce Richild, and marry you, if you would have me.”
Joan shook her head. “So much misunderstanding,” she said sorrowfully. “So much gone wrong.”
“So much,” he replied, “to make up for.” He pulled her close and kissed her. The effect was like holding a candle to a wax