Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [29]
Joan got up from the floor. She was dizzy, and there was a painful ringing in one ear. Slowly she walked over to her father.
“This is not the language of Holy Mother Church.” He pointed to the open page before him. “What is the meaning of these marks? Answer me truly, child, as you value your immortal soul!”
“It is poetry, Father.” Despite her fear, Joan felt a swell of pride in the knowledge. She did not dare add that the poetry was by Homer, whom her father regarded as a godless heathen. The canon knew no Greek. If he did not look at the Latin translation in the back, perhaps he would not realize what she had done.
Her father placed both hands on Joan’s head, his broad peasant’s fingers encircling her head just above the brow. “Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursio adversarii, omne phantasma …” His hands tightened, squeezing so hard that Joan cried out in fear and pain.
Gudrun appeared in the doorway. “By all that’s holy, Husband, what is the matter? Be careful with the child!”
“Silence!” the canon barked. “The child is possessed! Her demon must be exorcised.” The pressure of his hands increased until Joan thought her eyes would burst.
Gudrun seized his arm. “Stop! She is just a child! Husband, stop! Would you kill her in your madness?”
The excruciating pressure ceased abruptly as the canon released his grip. He wheeled and with a single blow propelled Gudrun to the other side of the room. “Begone!” he roared. “This is no time for woman’s weakness! I found the girl practicing magic in the night! With a witch’s book! She is possessed!”
“No, Father, no!” Joan shrieked. “It is not witchcraft! It is poetry! Poetry written in Greek, that is all! I swear it!” He reached for her, but she ducked under his arm and circled behind him. He turned and advanced on her, eyes dark with menace.
He was going to kill her.
“Father! Turn to the back! The back of the book! It is written in Latin! You will see it! It is in Latin!”
The canon hesitated. Hurriedly Gudrun brought him the book. He did not look at it. He stared at Joan, considering.
“Please, Father. Only look at the back of the book. You can read it for yourself. It is not witchcraft!”
He took the book from Gudrun. She ran to get the candle and held it close to the page so he could see. He bent to examine the book, his thick, dark brows knitted in concentration.
Joan could not stop talking. “I was studying. I read by night so no one would know. I knew you would not approve.” She would say anything, confess anything to make him believe. “It is Homer. The book of the Iliad. Homer’s poem. It is not witchcraft, Father.” She started to sob. “Not witchcraft.”
The canon paid no attention. He read intently, his eyes close to the page, his mouth silently forming the words. After a moment he looked up.
“God be praised. It is not witchcraft. But it is the work of a godless heathen, and therefore an offense against the Lord.” He turned to Gudrun. “Build up the fire. This abomination must be destroyed.”
Joan gasped. Burn the book! Aesculapius’s beautiful book, which he had given to her in trust!
“Father, the book is valuable! It is worth money; we could fetch a good price for it or”—her mind raced—“you could present it to the bishop as a gift for the cathedral library.”
“Wicked child, you are so far sunk in sin it is a wonder you have not drowned in it. This is no fit gift for the bishop, nor for any Godfearing soul.”
Gudrun went to the corner where the wood was stored and selected a few small logs. Joan watched numbly. She had to find some way to keep this from happening. If only the pain in her head would stop, she could think.
Gudrun stoked the embers, preparing the hearth for the fresh wood.
“Hold a moment.” Abruptly, the canon addressed Gudrun. “Leave the fire be.” He fingered the pages of the book appraisingly. “It is true that the parchment is valuable and might be put to good use.” He placed the book on the desk and vanished into the next room.
What did it mean? Joan