Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [18]
“Yes?” prodded the canon. “And what?”
John’s face lit with inspiration. “And a search for death!”
The canon nodded curtly. “And what is death?”
Stricken, John stared at his father like a netted deer who sees at last the approach of the huntsman.
“What is death?” repeated the canon.
It was no use. The near miss on the last question and his father’s mounting displeasure destroyed the last of John’s composure. He could no longer remember anything. His face crumpled; Joan saw that he was going to cry. Her father glared at him. Aesculapius looked on with pitying eyes.
She could stand it no longer. Her brother’s distress, her father’s anger, the intolerable humiliation before the eyes of Aesculapius overwhelmed her. Before she knew what she was doing, she burst out: “An inevitable happening, an uncertain pilgrimage, the tears of the living, the thief of man.”
Her words struck the others like a thunderbolt. All three looked up at once, their faces registering a range of emotions. On John’s there was chagrin, on her father’s outrage, on Aesculapius’s astonishment. The canon found his voice first.
“What insolence is this?” he demanded. Then, remembering Aesculapius, he said, “Were it not for the presence of our guest, you would be given a proper thrashing right now. As it is, your punishment will have to wait. Be gone from my sight.”
Joan rose from her chair, fighting for control until she reached the door of the grubenhaus and pulled it shut behind her. Then she ran, as fast and hard as she could, all the way to the bracken at the edge of the forest, where she threw herself down on the ground.
She thought she would burst with pain. To have been disgraced before the eyes of the one person she had most wanted to impress! It isn’t fair. John didn’t know the answer, and I did. Why shouldn’t I give it?
For a long time she sat watching the lengthening shadows of the trees. A robin fluttered to the ground nearby and began to peck in the bracken, hunting for worms. It found one and, puffing out its chest, strutted in a little circle, displaying its prize. Like me, she thought with wry recognition. All puffed with pride over what I’ve done. She knew pridefulness was a sin—she had been chastised for it often enough—yet she could not help the way she felt. I am smarter than John. Why should he be able to study and learn and not me?
The robin flew off. Joan watched it become a distant flutter of color among the trees. She fingered the medal of St. Catherine that hung around her neck and thought of Matthew. He would have sat with her, talked with her, explained things so she could understand. She missed him so much.
You murdered your brother, Father had said. A sick feeling rose in her throat as she remembered. Still her spirit rebelled. She was prideful, wanting more than God intended for a woman. But why would God punish Matthew for her sin? It didn’t make sense.
What was it in her that would not let go of her impossible dreams? Everyone told her that her desire to learn was unnatural. Yet she thirsted for knowledge, yearned to explore the larger world of ideas and opportunities that was open to people of learning. The other girls in the village had no such interest. They were content to sit through mass without understanding a single word. They accepted what they were told and did not look further. They dreamed of a good husband, by which they meant a man who would treat them kindly and not beat them, and a workable piece of soil; they had no desire ever to go beyond the safe, familiar world of the village. They were as inexplicable to Joan as she was to them.
Why am I different? she wondered. What is wrong with me?
Footsteps sounded beside her, and a hand touched her shoulder. It was John.
He said sulkily, “Father sent me. He wants to see you.”
Joan took his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t have done it. You’re only a girl.”
This was hard to take, but she owed him an apology for shaming him before their guest.
“I was