Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [53]
WINTARMANOTH brought an iron frost that gripped the land like an oppressive fist. The cold was enough to make one’s teeth ache. Wolves and other forest predators prowled nearer the town than ever before; few villagers ventured abroad without a pressing reason.
Gerold urged Joan not to go to the schola, but she would not be dissuaded. Every morning, excepting the Sabbath, she donned her thick wool cloak and belted it tightly around her waist to keep out the wind; then, hunching her body against the cold, she walked the two miles to the cathedral. When the high, frigid winds of Hornung came, driving the cold across the roads in bitter gusts, Gerold had a horse saddled every day and rode Joan to and from the schola himself.
Though Joan saw her brother every day at the schola, John never spoke to her now. He was still dismally slow at his studies, but his skill in the use of sword and lance had won the respect of the other boys, and he visibly flourished in their companionship. He had no wish to jeopardize his newfound sense of belonging by acknowledging a sister who was an embarrassment. He turned away whenever she approached.
The girls of the town kept their distance as well. They regarded Joan with suspicion, excluding her from their games and gossip. She was a freak of nature—male in intellect, female in body, she fit in nowhere; it was as if she belonged to a third, amorphous sex.
She was alone. Except, of course, for Gerold. But Gerold was enough. Joan was happy just to be near him, to talk and laugh and speak of things she could discuss with no one else in the world.
One cold day after she and Gerold had returned from the schola, he beckoned to her. “Come,” he said, “I have something to show you.”
He led her through the winding hall of the manor to the solar and the small cabinet in which he kept his papers. From it he withdrew a long, rectangular object and handed it to her.
A book! Somewhat old and frayed at the edges, but intact. In fine gold letters on the wooden cover was written the title: De rerum natura.
De rerum natura. The great work of Lucretius! Aesculapius had frequently spoken of its importance. There was only one copy extant, it was said, and that one kept close and carefully in the great library of Lorsch. Yet here was Gerold offering it to her as casually as if it were a choice piece of meat.
“But how …?” She lifted wondering eyes to his.
“What is written may be copied,” he answered with a conspiratorial smile. “For a price. A considerable price, in this case. The abbot bargained hard, saying he was short of scribes. And, indeed, it has taken more than ten months to complete the work. But here it is. And not one denarius more than it’s worth.”
Joan’s eyes glowed as she fingered the cover of the book. In all her months at the schola, she had never been allowed to work with texts such as this. Odo absolutely forbade her to read the great classical works in the cathedral library, restricting her to the study of sacred texts, which were, he said, the only ones suitable for her weak and impressionable female mind. Proudly she had not let him see how deeply this grieved her. Go ahead, bar your library, she thought defiantly. You cannot put bars on my mind. Nevertheless, it had been infuriating, knowing what treasures of knowledge were locked away from her. Gerold had seen that; he always seemed to know what she was thinking and feeling. How could she help but love him?
“Go on,” Gerold said. “And when you have done, come to me and we will talk over what you have read. You will be most interested in what he has to say.”
Joan’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Then you—”
“Yes. I have read it. Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. I mean no—but—” Joan’s cheeks pinkened as she stumbled for a reply. She had not known he could read Latin. It was rare for nobles and men of property to read and write at all. It was the job of the manor steward, a man of letters, to keep accounts and carry out any necessary correspondence. Naturally Joan