Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [50]
“Oh. Just something that happened at the schola today.”
“Tell me.”
She looked at him. “Is it true that the cubs of the white wolf are born dead?”
“What?” Gerold was accustomed to her odd questions, but this one was stranger than usual.
“John and the other boys were talking. There’s going to be a hunt for the white wolf, the one in the forest of Annapes.”
Gerold nodded. “I know the one. A bitch, and a savage one—it hunts alone, apart from any pack, and knows no fear. Just last winter it attacked a band of travelers and carried off a small child before anyone could lift hand to bow to stop it. They say it now has a belly full of kits—I suppose they mean to kill it before it gives birth?”
“Yes. John and the others are excited, for Ebbo said his father promised to take him along on the hunt.”
“So?”
“Odo was adamant against it. He would personally see the hunt called off, he said, for the white wolf is a holy beast, a living manifestation of Christ’s resurrection.”
Gerold’s eyebrows lifted skeptically.
Joan continued. “‘Its cubs are born dead,’ Odo said, ‘and then in three days’ time their sire licks them into life. It is a miracle so rare and so holy that none has ever witnessed it.’”
“What did you say to that?” Gerold asked. He knew her well enough by now to know that she would have had something to say.
“I asked how this was known to be true, if it had never been witnessed.”
Gerold laughed out loud. “I’ll wager our schoolmaster did not appreciate the question!”
“No. It was irreverent, he said. And also illogical, for the moment of the Resurrection was also never witnessed, yet no one doubts its truth.”
Gerold laid a hand on Joan’s shoulder. “Never mind, child.”
There was a pause, as if she were debating whether to say anything further. Suddenly she looked up at him, her young face intent and deeply earnest. “How can we be sure of the truth of the Resurrection? If no one ever witnessed it?”
He was so startled that he jerked on the reins, and the chestnut started. Gerold placed a hand on the russet flank, gentling him.
Like most of his peers in this northern part of the Empire, landed magnates who had reached their manhood under the reign of old Emperor Karolus, who held to the old ways, Gerold was a Christian in the loosest sense. He attended mass, gave alms, and was careful to keep the feasts and outward observances. He followed those teachings of church doctrine that did not interfere with the execution of his manorial rights and duties, and ignored the rest.
But Gerold understood the way of the world, and he recognized danger when he saw it.
“You did not ask that of Odo!”
“Why not?”
“God’s teeth!” This could mean trouble. Gerold had no liking for Odo, a little man of narrow ideas and even narrower spirit. But this was exactly the kind of weapon Odo needed to embarrass Fulgentius and force Joan from the schola. Or—it did not bear thinking of— even worse.
“What did he say?”
“He did not answer. He was very angry, and he … reprimanded me.” She flushed.
Gerold let out his breath in a soft whistle. “Well, what did you expect? You are old enough now to know that there are some questions one does not ask.”
“Why?” The large, gray-green eyes, so much deeper and wiser than other children’s, fixed on him intently. Pagan eyes, Gerold thought, eyes that would never look down before man or God. It troubled him to think what must have gone into the making of those eyes.
“Why?” she asked again, insistent.
“One simply doesn’t, that’s all.” He was irritated by her prodding. Sometimes the girl’s intelligence, which so far outpaced her physical growth, was unsettling.
Something—hurt, or was it anger?—flared briefly in her eyes and then was masked. “I should return to the house. The tapestry for the hall is nearing completion, and your lady may need help with the finishing.” Chin lifted, she turned to go.
Gerold was amused. So much wounded dignity in one so young! The thought of Richild, his wife, requiring Joan’s help with the tapestry was absurd. She had frequently complained to him about