Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [26]
“The evidentiary questions,” Joan said. “Why couldn’t they be brought to apply in this case?”
“Explain,” Aesculapius said.
“Quid: there is the fact of the knotted belt—that is indisputable. But surely there is an argument about what it means. Quis: Who put the knots in the belt and placed it in the woods? Quomodo: How was it taken from Ebo? Quando, Ubi: When and where was it taken? Did anyone actually see Hrotrud with it? Cur: Why should Hrotrud wish harm to Ebo?” Joan spoke rapidly, excited by the possibilities of the idea. “Witnesses could be brought forward and questioned. And Hrotrud and Ebo too—they could be questioned. Their answers might have determined Hrotrud’s innocence. And”—Joan concluded ruefully—“she would not have had to die to prove it!”
They were on dangerous ground, and they knew it. They sat together in silence. Joan was overwhelmed by the enormity of the concept that had burst upon her: the application of logic to divine revelation, the possibility of an earthly justice in which the assumptions of faith were governed by rational inquiry, and belief was supported by the powers of reason.
Aesculapius said, “It would probably be wise not to mention this conversation to your father.”
THE Feast of St. Bertin was just past, the days were growing shorter, and so, of necessity, were the children’s lessons. The sun was low in the sky when Aesculapius finally stood up.
“That, children, is enough for today.”
“May I go now?” John asked. Aesculapius waved in dismissal, and John bounded from his seat and hurried outdoors.
Joan smiled ruefully at Aesculapius. John’s obvious dislike for their studies embarrassed her. Aesculapius was frequently impatient, even sharp, with John. But her brother was a slow and unwilling student. “I can’t do it!” he would wail the moment he met some new difficulty. There were times when Joan would have liked to shake him and shout, “Try! Try! How do you know you can’t do it unless you try!”
Afterward, Joan reproached herself for such thoughts. John could not help being slow. Without John there would have been no lessons at all these past two years—and life without lessons had become unthinkable.
As soon as John had gone, Aesculapius said seriously, “I have something to tell you. I have been informed that my services are no longer needed at the schola. Another scholar, a Frankishman, has applied to be teaching master, and the bishop finds him more suitable for the position than I.”
Joan was bewildered. “How can this be? Who is the man? He cannot possibly know as much as you!”
Aesculapius smiled. “That statement shows loyalty, if not wisdom. I have met the man; he is an excellent scholar, whose interests are better suited to the teachings of the schola than mine.” Seeing that Joan did not take his meaning, he added, “There is a place for the kind of knowledge you and I have pursued together, Joan, and it is not within the walls of a cathedral. Remember what I tell you, and be careful: some ideas are dangerous.”
“I understand,” Joan said, though she didn’t, completely. “But— what will you do now? How will you live?”
“I have a friend in Athens, a countryman who has achieved success as a merchant. He wants me to tutor his children.”
“You are leaving?” Joan was unable to believe what he was telling her.
“He is prosperous; his offer is generous. I have little choice but to accept.”
“You mean to go to Athens?” It was so far away. “When will you go?”
“In a month. I would have gone by now save for the pleasure I have taken in our work together.”
“But—” Joan’s mind raced, trying to think of something, anything to prevent this awful thing from happening. “You could live here, with us. You could be our tutor, John’s and mine, and we could have lessons every day!”
“That is impossible, my dear. Your father has barely enough to sustain your family through the winter as it is. There is no room at your hearth or at your table for a stranger. Besides, I must go where