Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [25]
“Two days ago”—the canon’s voice was dark with accusation— “this belt was discovered in the woods near Hrotrud’s cottage.”
There was an awed murmur from the crowd, punctuated by scattered cries: “Witch!” “Sorceress!” “Burn her!”
The canon said to Hrotrud, “You stole the belt and made the knots in it to aid your evil incantations, which have brought Ebo to the very brink of death.”
“Never!” Hrotrud shouted indignantly, struggling against the bonds that held her. “I did no such thing! I’ve never seen that belt before! I never—”
Impatiently, the canon signaled to the men, who hoisted Hrotrud like a sack of oats, swung her back and forth several times, then released her at the height of the last swing. Hrotrud cried out in fear and anger as she sailed through the air and dropped with a splash directly into the center of the pond.
Joan and Aesculapius were jostled as people strained forward, trying to see. If Hrotrud rose to the surface of the pond and floated, that meant the priest-blessed waters had rejected her; she would be revealed as a sorceress and a witch and burned at the stake. If she sank, her innocence was proved and she was saved.
In tense silence, all eyes remained fixed on the surface of the pond. Ripples circled slowly outward from the spot where Hrotrud had entered the water; otherwise the surface was still.
The canon grunted and signaled the men, who immediately dashed into the water and dived down to search for Hrotrud.
“She is innocent of the charges against her,” the canon pronounced. “God be praised.”
Was it only Joan’s imagination, or did he look disappointed?
The men kept diving and surfacing with no result. At last one of them broke the surface holding Hrotrud. She lay limp in his arms, her face swollen and discolored. He carried her to the edge of the pond and put her down. She did not stir. He bent over her, listening for a heartbeat.
After a moment he sat up. “She is dead,” he announced.
A murmur went up from the crowd.
“Most unfortunate,” the canon said. “But she died innocent of the crime of which she was accused. God knows His own; He will give recompense and rest to her soul.”
The villagers dispersed, some making their way over to where Hrotrud’s body lay, examining it curiously, some breaking into little groups that murmured and chattered in low tones.
Joan and Aesculapius walked back to the grubenhaus in silence. Joan was deeply disturbed by Hrotrud’s death. She was ashamed of the excitement she had felt beforehand about witnessing the trial. But then she had not expected Hrotrud to die. Surely Hrotrud was not a witch; therefore Joan had believed God would prove her innocence.
And He had.
But then why did He let her die?
SHE didn’t speak about it until later, after she had resumed her lesson back at the grubenhaus. She lowered her stylus in the middle of writing and asked suddenly, “Why would God do it?”
“Perhaps He didn’t,” Aesculapius responded, taking her meaning at once.
Joan stared at him. “Are you saying that such a thing could have happened in spite of His will?”
“Perhaps not. But the fault may lie in the nature of the trial rather than in the nature of God’s will.”
Joan considered that. “My father would say that this is how witches have been tried for hundreds of years.”
“True enough.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily make it right.” Joan looked at Aesculapius. “What would be a better way?”
“That,” he said, “is for you to tell me.”
Joan sighed. Aesculapius was so different from her father, or even Matthew. He refused to tell her things, insisting instead that she reason her own way to the answer. Joan tugged gently on the tip of her nose as she often did when thinking out a problem.
Of course. She had been blind not to see it at once.