Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [37]
Why couldn’t Father understand that he didn’t want to go? I’m not Matthew; I’ll never be good at book studies. Nor did he mean to be a scholar or a cleric. He knew what he wanted: to be a warrior, a warrior in the Emperor’s army, battling to subdue the heathen hordes. He had gotten the idea from Ulfert, the saddler, who had gone with Count Hugo on the old Emperor’s campaign against the Saxons. What wonderful tales the old man told, sitting in his workshop, his tools temporarily forgotten by his side, his eyes lit with the memory of that great victory! “Like the thrushes that fly over the autumn vineyards, pecking at the grapes”—John remembered every word exactly as old Ulfert had spoken them—“we flew over the land, a holy canticle on our lips, ferreting out the heathens hiding in the woods and marshes and concealed in the ditches, men and women and children alike. There was not one of us whose bucklers and swords were not red with blood that day. By sunset, there was no soul left alive who had not renounced their godless ways and sworn eternal allegiance on their knees to the True Faith.” Then old Ulfert had brought out his sword, which he had wrested, still warm, from the dead hand of one of the heathens. Its handle shone with glassy gems; its shaft was a gleaming yellow. Unlike Frankish swords, which were fashioned of iron, it was made from gold—an inferior material, Ulfert explained, lacking the solidity and bite of Frankish weapons, but beautiful nonetheless. John’s heart had swelled at the sight of it. Old Ulfert had held it out to him, and John had grasped it, feeling its balance, its weight. His hand fit the gemmed handle as if it were made for it. He swung the sword over his head; it sliced the air with a thrumming sound that kept rhythm with the singing in his blood. He had known then he was born to be a warrior.
There were rumors, even now, of a new campaign in the spring. Perhaps Count Hugo would answer the Emperor’s call again. If so, John planned to go with him, no matter what Father said. He would be fourteen soon, a man’s age—many had gone to war at that age, even younger. He would run off, if necessary, but he would go.
Of course, that would be difficult now that he was to be imprisoned in the schola at Dorstadt. Would word of the new conscript even travel so far? he wondered. And if it did, would he be able to get away?
The thought was upsetting, and he put it out of his mind. Instead, he called up his favorite daydream. He was in the front ranks of the battle, the silver banners of the count gleaming before him, drawing him forward. They were driving the scattered and defeated heathens before them. They flew from him, desperate and frightened, the women’s long, white-gold hair waving in the wind. He ran them down, wielding his long sword with great skill, slashing and killing, offering no mercy, until finally they submitted to him, repenting their blindness and showing themselves willing to accept the Light.
The corners of John’s mouth lifted in a drowsy smile as the steady beat of the horse’s hooves signaled their progress through the darkening forest.
THERE was a whirring sound, followed by a heavy thud.
“Unnhh.” The bishop’s man jolted backward. His shoulder rammed into John, jarring him from sleep.
“Hey!” John protested, but already the man was falling, the weight of his pendulous body dragging John irresistibly from the saddle.
They dropped to the ground together. John landed on top of the bishop’s man, who lay unmoving where he fell. As John put his hand out to raise himself, his fingers closed around something long and round and smooth.
It was the shaft of an arrow, yellow feathers at the end. The tip was buried deep in the middle of the man’s chest.
John rose to his feet, all his senses alert. From the thick trees on the other side of the path, a man emerged, dressed in tattered clothes. In his hands he carried a bow, and on his back a quiverful of yellow-feathered arrows.
Does he mean to kill me too?
The man came toward him. John looked around, seeking a path of escape. The trees