Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [51]
His irritation dissipated, he said, “Don’t be offended. If you wish to get on in the world, you must have more patience with your betters.”
She peered at him sideways, assessing his words, then threw her head back and laughed. The sound was delightful, full throated and musical, wholly infectious. Gerold was charmed. The girl could be stubborn and quick to anger, but she had a warm heart and a ready wit.
He cupped her chin. “I did not mean to be harsh,” he said. “It’s just that you surprise me sometimes. You are so wise about some things, and so stupid about others.”
She started to speak, but he held a finger to her lips. “I don’t know the answer to your question. But I know the question itself is dangerous. There are many who would say such a thought is heresy. Do you understand what that means, Joan?”
She nodded gravely. “It is an offense against God.”
“Yes. It is that, and more than that. It could mean the forfeit of your hopes, Joan, of your future. Of—your very life.”
There. He had said it. The gray-green eyes regarded him unwaveringly. There was no going back now. He would have to tell her all of it.
“Four winters ago a group of travelers was stoned to death, not far from here, in the fields bordering the cathedral. Two men, a woman, and a boy, not much older than you are now.”
He was a seasoned soldier, a veteran of the Emperor’s campaigns against the barbarian Obodrites, yet his flesh crawled, remembering. Death, even horrible death, held no surprises for him. But he had recoiled from this killing. The men were unarmed, and the other two … The dying had taken a long time, the woman and the boy suffering the longest, since the men had tried to shield them with their bodies.
“Stoned?” Joan’s eyes were wide. “But why?”
“They were Armenians, members of the sect known as Paulicians. They were on their way to Aachen, and they were unfortunate enough to pass through just after a hailstorm struck the vineyards. In less than an hour, the entire crop was lost. In such times, people seek a reason for their troubles. When they looked around, there they were— strangers, and of a suspect set of mind. Tempestarii, they were called, who had used enchantments to unchain the violent storm. Fulgentius tried to defend them, but they were questioned and their ideas found to be heretical. Ideas, Joan”—he fixed her with a level gaze—“not so very different from the question you asked Odo today.”
She fell silent, staring off into the distance. Gerold said nothing, giving her time.
“Aesculapius once said something like that to me,” she said at last. “Some ideas are dangerous.”
“He was a wise man.”
“Yes.” Her eyes softened with remembrance. “I will be more careful.”
“Good.”
“Now,” she said, “tell me. How do we know that the story of the Resurrection is true?”
Gerold laughed helplessly. “You”—he rumpled the cropped white-gold hair—“are incorrigible.” Seeing that she still waited for an answer, he added, “Very well. I’ll tell you what I think.”
Her eyes lit with eager interest. He laughed again.
“But not now. Pistis needs tending. Come find me before vespers and we will talk.”
Joan’s admiration shone undisguised in her eyes. Gerold stroked her cheek. She was hardly more than a child, but there was no denying that she moved him. Well, his own marital bed was cold enough, God knew, for him to enjoy the warmth of such innocent affection without too great a burden of conscience.
The chestnut nuzzled Joan. She said, “I have an apple. May I give it to him?”
Gerold nodded. “Pistis deserves a reward. He did well today; he’ll make a first-rate hunter one day, or I’m much mistaken.”
She reached into her scrip, withdrew a small greenish red apple, and held it out to the chestnut, who lipped it gently, then took the whole fruit into his mouth. As she withdrew her hand, Gerold saw a flash of red. She realized he had seen and tried to hide the hand, but he caught