Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [198]
There was an audible intake of breath from the others in the room.
Joan looked Daniel straight in the eye. “This has nothing to do with Nicephorus,” she said. “You are guided by selfish motives, Daniel, for you want your own son Peter to be bishop.”
“Well, why not?” Daniel said defensively. “Peter is well suited for the position by virtue of family and birth.”
“But not by ability,” Joan said bluntly.
Daniel’s mouth gaped in astonishment. “You dare … you dare … my son—”
“Your son,” Joan interrupted, “reads equally well from a lectionary placed right side up or upside down, for he knows no Latin. He has committed to memory the few scriptural passages he knows. The people deserve better. And in Nicephorus they shall have it!”
Daniel drew himself up, stiffly offended. “Mark my words, Holiness: you have not heard the end of this!”
And with that he turned and left.
Joan thought, He will go straight to Arsenius, who will no doubt find some way to make further trouble. About one thing Daniel was certainly right; she had not heard the end of this.
Suddenly she was inexpressibly weary. The air in the windowless room seemed to close in upon her; she felt queasy and faint. She tugged on her pallium, pulling it away from her neck.
“The lord superista,” Juvianus announced.
Gerold! Joan’s spirits rose. They had not spoken since the day of their rescue. She had hoped he would come today, though at the same time she feared their meeting. Aware of the watchful eyes of the others, Joan kept her face impassive.
Then Gerold entered, and her treacherous heart leapt at the sight of him. The flickering lamplight played across his features, illuminating the handsomely chiseled angles of his brow and cheekbone. He returned her gaze; their eyes locked in silent communication, and for a brief moment they were quite alone in the midst of that great company.
He came forward and knelt before the throne.
“Rise, Superista,” she said. Did she imagine it, or was her voice somewhat unsteady? “This day your head is crowned with honor. All Rome is indebted to you.”
“I thank you, Holiness.”
“Tonight we will celebrate your great accomplishment with a feast. You shall sit at my table in the place of honor.”
“Alas, I regret that I will not be able to attend. I leave Rome today.”
“Leave Rome?” She was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Now that the great work with which you charged me is complete, I am resigning as superista. Prince Siconulf has asked me to return to Benevento to resume command of his armies—and I have accepted the post.”
Joan kept her rigid posture on the throne, but her hands gripped the arms. “You can’t do that,” she answered brusquely. “I won’t permit it.”
The assembled prelates raised their eyebrows. True, it was unusual to resign so prestigious a post, but Gerold was a free Frank, at liberty to commit his services wherever he chose.
“In helping Siconulf,” Gerold answered reasonably, “I will be continuing to serve Rome’s interests as well, for Siconulf’s territories provide a strong Christian bulwark against the Longobards and Saracens.”
Joan set her mouth firmly. Turning to the others, she commanded, “Leave us.”
Juvianus and the rest exchanged surprised glances, then exited the room with a flurry of respectful obeisances.
“Was that wise?” Gerold asked after they had gone. “Now their suspicions may be aroused.”
“I had to talk to you alone,” she replied urgently. “Leave Rome? What on earth can you be thinking of? No matter, I won’t allow it. Let Siconulf find someone else to lead his armies. I need you here, with me.”
“Oh, my pearl.” His voice was a caress. “Look at us—we cannot so much as look at each other without betraying how we feel. A single unwary glance, a careless word, and your life could be forfeit! I must go, can’t you see?”
Joan knew what he was saying, even knew he was right in a way. But it didn’t matter. The prospect of his leaving filled her with dismay. Gerold was the one person who truly knew her, the only one upon whom she could absolutely depend.
She said,