Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [201]
What other choice did she have? If she did not end this pregnancy, she would face a death far more horrible.
She lifted the cup to her lips.
The words of Hippocrates came unbidden to her mind: The medical art is a sacred trust. A physician should use his skill to help the sick according to his ability and judgment, but absolutely never to do harm.
Resolutely Joan pushed the thought aside. All her life this woman’s body of hers had been a source of grief and pain, an impediment to everything she wanted to do and to be. She would not now let it rob her of her life.
She tipped the cup and drank.
Never to do harm. Never to do harm. Never to do harm.
The words burned into her, searing her heart. With a sob, she threw the empty cup to the ground. It rolled away, the last drops streaking an erratic scarlet pattern across the floor.
SHE lay in her bed and waited for the ergot to take effect. Time passed, but she felt nothing. It’s not working, she thought. She was frightened and at the same time greatly relieved. As she sat up, she was taken by a great fit of trembling. Her whole body shook with uncontrollable spasms. Her heart pounded; when she felt at her wrist, her pulse was wildly erratic.
Pain gripped her. She was stunned by its intensity, like a hot knife plunged into her innards. She rolled her head from side to side, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She dared not risk drawing the attention of the papal household.
The next few hours passed in a kind of haze as Joan moved in and out of consciousness. At one point she must have hallucinated; it seemed to her that her mother sat with her, called her “little quail,” and sang to her in the Old Tongue as she used to, placing cool hands on her fevered brow.
Before dawn she awoke, weak and shaky. For a long while, she lay quite still. Then she slowly began to examine herself. Her pulse was regular, her heartbeat strong, her skin color good. There was no effusion of blood, no sign of any lasting harm.
She had survived the ordeal.
But so had the child within her.
THERE was only one person she could turn to now. When she told Gerold of her condition, he reacted at first with shocked disbelief.
“Great God! … is it possible?”
“Evidently,” Joan said dryly.
He stood for a moment, his gaze fixed and reflective. “Is that why you’ve been ill?”
“Yes.” She did not mention the abortifacient; even Gerold could not be expected to understand that.
He took her in his arms and held her close, cradling her head against his shoulder. For a long moment they remained quite still, silently sharing what was in their hearts.
He said quietly, “Do you remember what I said to you on the day of the flood?”
“We said many things to each other that day,” she replied, but she felt her pulse quicken, for she knew what he meant.
“I said you were my true wife on this earth, and I your true husband.” He put his hand under her chin, raising her eyes to his. “I understand you better than you think, Joan. I know how your heart’s been torn. But now fate has decided things for us. We’ll go away from here and be together as we were meant to.”
She knew he was right. There was nothing else to do. All the roads that had lain before her were narrowed now to a single path. She felt sad and anxious, and at the same time strangely excited.
“We can leave tomorrow,” Gerold said. “Dismiss your chamberlains for the night. Once everyone’s asleep, it shouldn’t be difficult for you to slip out the side door. I’ll be waiting there with women’s garments for you to change into once we’re outside the city walls.”
“Tomorrow!” She had accepted the idea of leaving but had not realized it would be so soon. “But … they’ll come looking