Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [52]
“Odo?” Gerold said quietly.
“Yes.” She winced as he gently fingered the edges of the wound. Odo had obviously used the rod more than once, and with considerable force; the wound was deep and needed immediate tending to prevent corruption from setting in.
“We must see to this right away. Return to the house; I will meet you there.” It was an effort to keep his voice steady. He was surprised at the intensity of his emotion. Odo had undeniably been within his rights to discipline her. Indeed, it was probably for the best that he had struck her, for, having vented his anger in this way, he was less likely to carry the matter further. Nevertheless, the sight of the wound roused in Gerold a strong, unreasoning fury. He would have liked to throttle Odo.
“It is not so bad as it looks.” Joan was watching him closely with those wise, deep eyes.
Gerold checked the wound again. It was deep, centered right in the most sensitive part of the hand. Any other child would have wept and cried out with pain. She had not said a word, even when questioned.
Yet just a few weeks ago, when they had to cut her hair to get the gum arabic out, she had screamed and fought like a Saracen. Later, when Gerold asked why she had resisted so, she could offer no clearer explanation than that the sound of the knife ripping through her hair had frightened her.
A strange girl, no doubt of it. Perhaps that was why he found her so intriguing.
“Father!” Dhuoda, Gerold’s younger daughter, burst into view, running down the hill of the motte toward where Joan and he stood among the trees. They waited till she drew up to them, flushed and panting from her run. “Father!” Dhuoda raised her arms expectantly, and Gerold grabbed her and swung her up and around while she squealed exuberantly. When he thought she had had enough, he set her down.
Flushed and excited, Dhuoda tugged on his arm. “Oh, Father, come see! Lupa has given birth to five pups. May I have one for my own, Father? Can it sleep on my bed?”
Gerold laughed. “We’ll have to see. But first”—he held her firmly, for she had already turned to race back to the house ahead of him— “first take Joan back to the house; her hand is injured and needs looking after.”
“Her hand? Show me,” she demanded of Joan, who held out her hand with a rueful smile. “Ooooooh.” Dhuoda’s eyes widened in horrified fascination as she examined it. “How did it happen?”
“She can tell you on the way back,” Gerold interrupted impatiently. He did not like the look of that wound; the sooner it was seen to, the better. “Hurry now, and do as I told you.”
“Yes, Father.” Dhuoda said to Joan sympathetically, “Does it hurt very much?”
“Not enough to keep me from reaching the gate first!” Joan replied, and broke into a run.
Dhuoda squealed with delight and took off after her. The two girls ran up the hill of the motte together, laughing.
Gerold watched, smiling, but his eyes were troubled.
WINTER came, marked indelibly in Joan’s mind by her passage into womanhood. She was thirteen and should have expected it, but still it took her by surprise—the sudden appearance of a dark brown stain on her linen tunic and the tightening pain in her abdomen. She knew immediately what it was—she had heard her mother and the women in Gerold’s household talk about it often enough, and seen them washing out their rags each month. Joan spoke to a maidservant, who ran to bring her a tall pile of clean rags, winking knowingly as she handed them over.
Joan hated it. Not just the pain and the bother, but the very idea of what was happening. She felt betrayed by her own body, which appeared to be rearranging itself almost daily into new and unfamiliar contours. When the boys at the schola began to take mocking notice of her budding breasts, she bound them tightly with strips of cloth. It was painful, but the effect was worth it. Her gender had been a source of misery and frustration for as long as she could remember, and she meant