Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [31]
“On earth as it is—” The lash descended again. In the flash of a second before pain forced her eyes shut, Joan recognized the look on her brother’s face. It was exultation.
“In Heaven. Give us this day—” The lash struck heavily. How many was it? Joan’s senses reeled. She had never had to endure more than five.
Lash. Distantly, she heard someone screaming.
“Our daily bread. And forgive us … forgive—” Her mouth moved, but she could not form the words.
Lash.
With what power of thought was left her, Joan suddenly understood. This time it would not end. This time her father would not stop. This time he would continue until she was dead.
Lash.
The ringing in her ears built to a deafening crescendo. Then there was nothing but silence, and merciful darkness.
6
FOR days the village buzzed with the news of Joan’s beating. The canon had lashed his daughter to within an inch of her life, it was said, and would have killed her had his wife’s screams not attracted the attention of some villagers. It had taken three strong men to drag him away from the child.
But it wasn’t the savagery of the beating that caused people to talk. Such things were common enough. Hadn’t the blacksmith knocked his wife down and kicked her in the face until all her bones were broken, because he was tired of her nagging? The poor creature was disfigured for life, but there was nothing to do about it. A man was master in his own home, no one questioned that. The only law governing his absolute right to dispense punishment as he saw fit was one that limited the size of the club he could use. The canon had not used a club, in any case.
What was really interesting to the villagers was the fact that the canon had so far lost control of himself. Such violent emotion was unexpected, unseemly, in a man of God—so naturally everyone delighted in talking about it. Not since he had taken the Saxon woman to his bed had they had so much to gossip about. In little groups they whispered together, breaking off abruptly when the canon passed by.
Joan knew nothing of this. For an entire day after the beating, the canon forbade anyone to go near her. All that night and the following day Joan lay on the floor of the cottage unconscious. Dirt from the beaten earth floor clung to her lacerated flesh. By the time Gudrun was permitted to tend her, the wounds had corrupted and a dangerous fever set in.
Gudrun nursed her solicitously. She cleaned Joan’s wounds with fresh water and bathed them with strong wine. Then, working with utmost gentleness to avoid further damage to the raw flesh, she applied a cooling paste of mulberry leaves.
It’s all the fault of the Greek, Gudrun thought bitterly, as she made a hot posset and fed it to Joan, lifting her head and trickling the liquid into her mouth a few drops at a time. Giving the child a book, filling her head with worthless ideas. She was a girl, and therefore not meant for book study. The child was meant to be with her, to share the hidden secrets and the language of her people, to be the comfort and balm of her old age. Evil the hour the Greek entered this house. May the wrath of all the gods descend upon him.
Nevertheless, Gudrun’s pride had been sparked by the child’s display of bravery. Joan had defied her father with the fierce, heroic strength of her Saxon ancestors. Once Gudrun too had been strong and brave. But the long years of humiliation and exile in an alien land had gradually drained the will to fight out of her. At least, she thought proudly, my blood runs true. The courage of my people runs strong within my daughter.
She stopped to stroke Joan’s throat, helping her swallow the healing broth. Get well, little quail, she thought. Get well, and return to me.
THE fever broke early in the morning of the ninth day. Joan woke to find Gudrun bending over her.
“Mama?” Her voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar in her ears.
Her mother smiled. “So you have returned to me at last, little quail. For a time